certified crybaby

"I'm cooking lunch, please come help at once!"

"Be right there." Kento Nanami, aged 9 years old, murmurs as his eyes scan the half-devoured page in front of him with a bit more urgency. A singular blond bang falls in front of his face until the rest follows in a golden cascade to reveal the stray freckle or two underneath, skimming the lines of ink faster than he can find a suitable place to pause.

Once lunch preparations are nearly done, a heavy hand pats his shoulder.

"Need ya in the garden after you're done helping Mormor."

Kento sighs, but in the back of his unusually precocious mind, he knows his temporary disappointment will eventually be overshadowed by the pride in learned gratitude that surfaces after an honest afternoon's hard work.

Daylight persists with the sun dipping lightly over the horizon to cast long shadows of the approaching afternoon that ripple through swaying weeping willows near the river that runs to the large pond on the far end of the small village, across the bridge where Kento approaches, mind elsewhere, soaking in the peace the countryside affords him from the persistent darkness that clung to him back home, only pausing to kick the occasional stray stone back to the side of the road where it belonged.

He would have ridden his bike but the pleasant day and the long hours of fulfilling his grandparents' bidding left him wanting to take full advantage of the time during his Mormor's afternoon nap.

The village before supper is mostly quiet, with the exception of the typical group of suspects made up of the neighborhood kids that come to stay for the summer and congregate in the roads year after year.

Kento can vaguely remember being forced to mingle with them when he was younger and his Mormor would take him to gatherings, such as the occasional book club that she would be responsible for bringing a casserole to.

Those ones he didn't mind as much, for he could opt out of the roughhousing with the other kids and eavesdrop on the adult conversations instead, which Kento happened to follow quite closely when he'd take it upon himself to read the books beforehand.

Except for that one romance novel Mormor caught him with and abruptly confiscated, reminding him that it was not suitable for children.

Books were more compelling than playing pretend anyway, never mind the calming distraction they provided from seeing things he shouldn't and keeping the wild imagination he was frequently declared to have within the boundaries of his mind.

At least that's what the sensible part of young Kento believed, that was, perhaps unusually advanced for someone of his age depending on who you'd ask.

Besides, it had been years. Families came and moved away. The current circle of neighborhood kids probably wanted nothing to do with the gangly blonde kid who always kept his nose stuck in a book.

"Whatcha in for?"

Kento yelps at the sudden voice interrupting his occupied train of thought that tuned out the outside world long enough that he didn't realize he stumbled into a small clearing in a patch of trees near an arm of the bumbling creek that deviated from the main river that fed into the central pond.

And there you are.

You blink, confused at his confusion when he was the one clearly infiltrating the maximum security prison for highly dangerous magical beings you and your friends were currently imagining the small area as.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Hey what's taking so long?!"

"I'm just catching him up!" You yell to your group of friends that are congregated at the prison's toll bridge (aka the real bridge that's a few yards away)

"You must've done something real bad, you know." You mutter to Kento as you throw the monolith of eternal beauty(a lavender and gray pebble) you smuggled past the fairy guards into your leaf and acorn soup.

"I can see the accelerated time spell of this place is already beginning to take effect on you." You tut, pointing to Kento's worried expression, shaking your head as you use your ladel(a stick) to offer Kento a sip, who's still frozen with shock, confusion, and a ton of judgement.

"Drink this, it helps."

"I-I'm sorry, you're the one who's confused, I'm not-"

"Sure you are, you're Kento Nanami, the last missing elven prince, are you not?"

"I-."

"C'mon y'all, she's not even listening to us."

The fairy prison guards(your friends) have given up waiting on you to say your lines and have resumed their hostile negotiations with the band of rebels Kento assumes are here to break you and (apparently himself) out of the invisible cage you're stuck in.

"You really should sit down. You're technically standing on the lion jellyfishes' electrical current."

"Oh." Kento stumbles, moving out of the way of the circle of stones he notices are intentionally surrounding you both in this small cove.

"I've been sentenced to five eternities for threatening the King." You inform him, strumming the pine needle strings of your miniature harp.

"I'm a former servant of the castle, turned rebel leader. I was treated poorly by the King as a servant in my youth. I watched him murder my father and so I retrieved the monolith of eternal beauty to stay alive. I've made it my life's mission to avenge his death and stop the King's oppressive rule once and for all. What's your story?" You ask in a more chipper tone, pausing the dramatic background music on your harp to stir the leaf and acorn soup that's beginning to boil over.

"Um...aside from your unnecessary trauma dump. I'm here because..." Kento pauses. "Because..."

His mind goes blank, somehow suppressing the initial imaginative thoughts that usually bubble to the forefront of his brain. "...this is ridiculous."

"Awh, I get it. You're fatigued."

"No. I was trying to read. Yanno? A book?" Kento waves the thick young adult novel in his hand, exasperated.

"Wait, is that the new dragon series? The one they're making into a movie?"

"Yeah?"

"That thing is like a behemoth!" You cross your arms, impressed. "I'm surprised you're interested in it."

Kento pauses. "Why's that?"

"You're like one of the math olympiad kids who only cares about winning the science fair."

"I do have an imagination, you know." Kento retorts, beginning to turn away, trying to find his way back to the road.

"Then how come you won't tell me how you ended up in the most dangerous prison for fairytale creatures? I told you mine."

"'Cause we're not 6 anymore." Kento huffs.

You shrug, hoping to disguise your disappointment by turning back to your stew as a beat of silence passes over you, yet Kento remains where he's standing for a reason he can't put a finger on at the moment.

"Alright, I apologize, have we met?"

"Yes. You don't remember me?"

Oh.

At that moment, somewhere, deep, deep in the fuzziest recesses of his memory, Kento remembers you. How could he forget?

You were one of the girls in his grade back home, though the most recent school year you were in one of the other classes which could explain why adding the face to your name didn't click the first time.

Perhaps it was how you refined and popularized the method for making those annoying glue bookmarks that you would make and dry in the indents in those Spacemaker pencil boxes that sticks with him.

The teachers eventually put a stop to the whole operation when an unregulated black market of those annoying things began to break loose as a result.

A devastating blow to small businesses like yours, he remembers you lamenting.

"Never understood why everyone's in such a rush to bring capitalism to the second grade." He had muttered, shoving his textbooks into his messenger bag a few days after the teachers made the announcement.

"What the-?" Kento panics, realizing his favorite bookmark is nowhere to be found.

"Need a hand?"

There you were with an outstretched hand, waving what appeared to be a blue one with polka dots, suspiciously his favorite.

Kento looks at you blankly. "Thanks, but I don't have any money."

"I'm uh, c-clearing out my inventory!" You state cheerfully, hoping the nervous smile on your face is enough cover for the warmth on your cheeks and the barely concealed truth that you did in fact make this specifically for him and were holding onto for an indiscriminate amount of time, more so than how your delivery of those words was botched beyond belief like it was your first time ever speaking a sentence on Earth.

"It's on the house."

"Sure, I suppose." Kento mumbled, taking it reluctantly. "Thanks."

And he never did see the triumphant smile break out on your face after that before he turned and walked away, leaving you with that breadcrumb of an interaction you would try to sustain your schoolgirl crush on for the rest of the year until you never spoke since.

-----

"Hey, hey, Kento." You wave three times in front of Kento's face, silent before he blinks furiously as he swiftly snaps back to the present.

"You okay? Hey look at me, We're busting out of here...The rebels are here. You're gonna wanna take that with you." You gesture to his book. "We'll need to keep those elder scrolls of wisdom on hand in case of emergency."

"My what?"

"No time, just follow my lead. Go!"

Kento looks at an invisible camera as he's suddenly yanked by the arm through the grass at lightning speed. Up ahead, the small band of fairy rebels surge past the blockade of guards, over the bridge, up the staggering hill.

"Tuck and roll!"

Kento blindly follows your lead, lobbing himself on the ground and tucking and rolling until you come into the safe distance of the pond.

"Free at last! We made it past the veil into to the fairy kingdom."

Kento stands up and immediately falls back down.

"Oof. The effects of the monolith can be brutal once you're back." You assure Kento and give him a hand up and allow him to throw his left arm over your shoulder, supporting his weight which was surprisingly light, keeping his precious book tucked underneath the right as you strode towards the trees.

"Thanks." Kento mumbles, still trying to allow his eyesight to catch up with his orientation as the world kept spinning.

"Don't mention it. Let's pray the others made it out safe too. But from now on we need to keep a low profile. We're wanted men, you know." You point to an invisible poster on the nearest tree.

"Oy, it's even worse than we thought. C'mon."

Kento raises an eyebrow as you tiptoe quietly until you reach the pond's edge gesturing him near for a closer look.

"The reflecting pond of infinite prosperity will nurse you back to health. See?"

You tap the surface of the water with your finger and Kento blinks as a ripple begins to flow away from the impact.

There's a shift there he's not familiar with. Either he hit his head harder than he thought or he's really immersing himself into this imaginary play you have going on.

He's guessing it might be the former but as he gazes at his reflection in the pale green water, something unsettling flips in his chest.

"Hey."

Yet, somehow, when you speak, it goes away.

"Sorry."

"It's okay. It's only a small one."

"What?" Kento gulps, as he feels himself turn pale once again. His hair stands on end as he feels that force of dread begin to build up in his stomach as soon as it goes silent.

"Do you see it?"

He follows where you're pointing, until it leads to a figure hovering over the middle of the pond.

"N-no... that's impossible how did—?" Kento begins to panic.

The figure looks at him, until its lips curl into a sinister smile. It has the body of a fly but it's far too ugly and abnormally large to be considered as such. Its demented eyes hone in on him as it releases a high pitched shriek.

Kento wants to scream but his vocal chords have shriveled up in his throat. His heartbeat begins to thump at an alarming cadence so fast it echoes in his eardrums until he's certain it can be heard aloud from where you're standing.

"Kento?"

Kento turns and runs at top speed, over the hill, trips on the way down, across the bridge, down the road and back to his grandparents house.

"Kento? You're late for supper, skat."

Kento's sobs break the damn of tears streaming down his face before he crosses over the threshold, slamming the front door shut.

"Kento?"

His grandparents' questions go unanswered as he ascends the staircase and slams his bedroom door behind him.

"This isn't happening. It's not happening. Not real, not real, not real..." Kento whimpers in useless mantra, rocking back and forth, hands clasping the back of his head. "It's not real, go away."

A quiet knock comes at the door.

"Kento? Please come down for dinner."

"GO AWAY!"

Mormor pauses. Her momentary anger is quickly softened by the warning she recalls given by her daughter when Kento first arrived, the cautionary tale of his wild imagination that occasionally interfered with his sleep. She tugs at the collar of her robe with a concerned look on her face before taking her leave down the hall.

Kento cries quietly in his room, not noticing the plate of food his Morfar eventually leaves on a tray outside his door.

-----

Sometime in the middle of the night, when the hum of the refrigerator and the metronome of grandfather clock ticking down the hall are the lone keepers of the hushed hour, Kento finally decides to sit up, pacing to the door.

He hears his Mormor's voice speaking hurriedly, a bit in that dialect Kento's not as familiar with but it's enough for him to piece together what his Mormor is telling his mother hours away over the phone.

"Mor? You're calling quite late, is everything alright?"

"I think Kento is seeing them again."

"Mamma, are you sure?"

"He was inconsolable this afternoon and wouldn't eat his dinner."

Kento looks down at the plate at his feet and closes his door without another word.

"He doesn't do well with changes. He gets upset when his routine is interrupted."

"He's been perfectly content up until today. Even got a smile out of him this morning when I made fresh bread."

"Is he still sleeping well at night?"

"No. I still catch him reading. His light's on right now but he won't answer."

Mrs. Nanami sighs.

"We should give him time...it could be something else entirely. "

"Thank you, Mamma, keep me posted."

"You're welcome, my dear. I certainly will."

-----

The next morning arrives and Kento's eyes flutter open to the wayward tune of mourning doves outside his window and a gentle rapping at his door.

"Kento?"

Kento's bleary vision shifts into focus and his eyes widen as he sees you sneak underneath his Mormor's arm, strolling into his room before she can stop you.

"Hey Kento!"

"Your friend is here to see you." Mormor announces late, a tad flustered at your forwardness, but smiles nevertheless.

"You dropped this when you were running away screaming your head off."

Kento's eyes widen as you hand him his book, completely intact.

"Oh, thank you."

He flips through, inspecting the pages.

"I tried to figure out what page you were on but I gave up."

"No worries. Thanks anyway."

"So, you wanna come out and play with us?"

"Huh?"

"We still need to figure out your backstory and overthrow the evil king. Oh, and I already talked to your grandma and she said you could."

"But...what about my chores?"

Kento looks at his Mormor, whose expression twists sympathetically. Of course the countryside's list of tasks never paused on any given day, but, given the circumstances, Mormor has decidedly made an exception for today.

"The chores can wait. Why don't you get dressed and cleaned up? You and your friend can have a bite to eat before you head out?"

Kento wants to agree to your proposition but the haunting memories of yesterday slowly shift back into the forefront of his mind.

"No, thank you." He throws his blanket back over his eyes, a visible tremor of fear shaking through him.

"Hey!" You reach over, pulling the blanket off until Kento snags the end of it, engaging in a short tug-of-war.

"It'll be fun!"

"I really would rather not."

"Why? The flyhead scared you?"

"Flyhead?" Kento freezes, lowering the blanket just so that curious set of light chestnut eyes are visible. "You saw it?"

You nod. "Yeah I did."

"I...how?"

Mormor manages a concerned smile, though a bit confused. For now she surmises it must be familiar lingo between kids. Whatever it is, you seem to be reaching through to Kento, so she holds back any reserved judgement.

"If you come out, I can show you how to deal with them. I already took care of the one yesterday so he shouldn't bother us anymore."

"A way to deal with them? How?"

"Well, you gotta get up first!" You tease, releasing your grip of the blanket to toss a stray pillow towards his head.

Kento stands up in a moment of seemingly spontaneous rejuvenation, nearly pulling you out of the room and down the stairs. "Let's go!"

"Ah, Ah! Not after you get something to eat!" Mormor calls after you, stopping you in your tracks.

You giggle, nudging Kento with your shoulder for what it's worth. "Bet I could beat ya to the table."

-----

After a fresh bread basket and home boiled eggs, you're out in the steady rays of early morning summer sun again, telling Kento everything there is to know about the strange being he saw.

"Curses. That's what my dad called 'em." You explain, while Kento strolled next to you in his space as your temporary pupil at your side, arms unfolded to allow him to absorb every word, a new slew of million curious questions blooming past his excitement and slow vindication from the relief of puzzle pieces reconciling at last over a lifelong issue he'd been told and subsequently believed only existed in his head.

"When I first saw them, I think I was 5? At least that I can remember. My parents said I was fussy as a newborn so it might've been earlier than that." Your voice sounds futher far off the more you recount.

"My parents taught me that if I use my imagination and just imagine that the curses are part of the games, then they can't hurt me."

"You can do that?"

"Sure, it's easy. My parents say I have to be older before they can teach me more about certain stuff. They said there's a special school that'll teach me but I'm still too young to go. So that's why we come to the countryside every year 'cause the curses don't like it out here."

Kento watches you patiently, eyes following the new pebble you've begun to kick back and forth to one another in some sort of passive game.

"Every now and then they take me to these boring meetings. A bunch of old guys just sit around and talk about random curse stuff. I hated going cause the kids there are always so rude."

"Wait, there's others? Kids our age who see the same thing?"

"Well sure there are. Hey, you know, maybe my mom can talk to your mom and you can come too!"

"Really? That would be great if she could."

"Sure thing. I don't really know any other kids besides you who can see 'em. I never made friends at those dumb meetings. I always got teased."

"Why's that?" Kento asks, perplexed, his voice lowering a bit out of concern. "You seem kind enough to me."

"'Cause I'm adopted." You shrug. "I look different than my parents and I wasn't supposed to be able to see the curses either until they taught me how, so I get called a fake."

Kento doesn't kick the pebble back to you this time. He looks at you, sensing the true weight of the unspoken hurt you carry that you're strong enough to release out loud to him, that re-offending familiar sting of misunderstanding he's been burned by as well that suppresses all those natural feelings he had learned were bad to feel.

He puts a hand on your shoulder, before giving it an awkward pat.

"You're not a fraud to me, if that makes you feel any better. I think you're real."

"Hey thanks." You smile, nudging him with your arm. "C'mon, I'll introduce you to everyone. None of 'em can see curses either but they're all really chill."

-----

"Hey y'all."

The rebel fairy council meeting is interrupted momentarily as you and Kento approach.

"What took you so long?"

"I was getting Kento. He's gonna join us today."

"The Nanami kid? The one that's really quiet?"

Kento stands there awkwardly concentrating on a grasshopper nearby as he becomes very conscious of being perceived with a reputation that apparently preceded him that he wasn't aware of, twisting his fingers repetitively in his pockets like the motion could somehow render him invisible on the spot if he focused hard enough.

"You ain't a spy, are ya?" One of the kids squints as they continue their interrogation of the suspicious newcomer.

"N-no I'm not a spy."

"You ain't some kind of freak?"

"Um...no I'm not." Kento's face blooms redder than the tomatoes in his Morfor's garden.

"Hey! Guys, he's real useful." You step in, advocating on Kento's behalf to alleviate some of the heat from the hot seat he's currently sitting in.

"He has the elder scrolls." You gesture to the book in his hand, looking more proud than a defense attorney delivering their winning argument in court.

The others gasp.

"So how come you didn't say so in the beginning? Alright, alright. Look, kid. You're in for now. Just don't slow us down, alright?"

"I won't, I mean, I'll prove myself useful. You have my word." Kento gulps, his face graduating to several shades lighter.

The hours of play pass by in a blur to everyone outside of the bubble of innocence Kento and your newly found circle of friends found themselves in.

The flyhead never did resurface again, but a different force is slowly beginning to construct itself the longer Kento is around you without you noticing while the minutes of summer prolong themselves in a way Kento just assumed he wasn't meant to ever experience.

When you laugh, he finds himself unable to remember how easy it once was to retrieve the shadows that accompanied him everywhere he went.

It overturns and digs up that feeling of childhood somewhere along that way that stopped feeling like one, and somehow every flower that crosses Kento's path in the trails by your favorite trees in the fairy kingdom resemble ones that he'd have a feeling you'd like.

Somehow, he wonders in depth for the first time if this is what his father meant every time someone made the grave mistake of bringing up the long-winded story at parties of how Mr. Nanami met his wife.

But for now, all you have is the day, the endless sun and the neverending stream of worlds yet to be in the young minds of Kento's and yours that don't want to sleep.

It lives in the warmth remaining long after the hours run out like the scattered seeds and wishes uttered quietly to himself and carried by the wind from the picked dandelion you offer to him in the waning light of the countryside's sky.

------

Throughout the day, Mormor hears the distant laughter coming from the bridge and the pond but her daughter's words echo in her memory and she supposes one afternoon can't hurt.

Kento was an especially responsible child after all, surely he wouldn't let the bowl of soup and rye bread sandwich on the table go cold.

She continues sweeping her porch, humming to herself as she can't allow the chore list to interrupt the creation of childhood memories.

-----

"Dang, your Mormor doesn't ever make you have a time you gotta be home?" You ask Kento as you trudge down the road, out of breath, and warmed by the sun.

"Um. No, no I don't." Kento lies.

A street lamp flickers, signalling the late hour that was probably well past supper.

Technically, Mormor didn't give him a time to be home. Despite his better judgement, something vague settles in his stomach like an unknown pit.

"You're lucky, I wish mine weren't so strict."

The gravel crunches under your jelly shoes and you wobble slightly to kick the rock under your heel until it lands lightly next to your feet.

"Oh my goodness!! I completely forgot!"

Without warning you bolt in the other direction.

"Huh?"

"No time! Come on! Come on!"

"But..." Kento tuts his teeth nervously as he looks in the direction of the staggering glow of distant yellow lights in the windows of his grandparents' home, consequences rattling across his brain in a broken spiral before he too takes off after you, leaving a small trail of dust in his wake while the sky shows the beginning signs of indigo.

-----

"There he is...whew!"

Kento nearly trips and falls down the hill when you arrive at the pond across the bridge, curiously craning his neck at the hole in the tree you're currently occupying yourself with.

Inside of it is a small plastic panda, sitting with his legs straight out, pudge in an endearingly adorable ratio and a black and white belly that's smaller than the palm of your hand.

"I got him at the book fair. Kawaii needs his greens every night. He watches over the fairies in the trees while I'm away. I know he looks like a regular bear on the outside but he's actually like a good luck charm." You explain to Kento.

"My parents said he's supposed to help me, and one day I won't need him anymore since I'll be able to control things better all by myself."

Kento can't explain it either but that shudder of an unseen force arises again as he stares into the little plastic panda's face. Almost as if the area around it is bending...

"He needs a proper habitat. I hate just putting him in this tree. He doesn't have a bed or a furniture!"

"Well, here, why don't you give him to me?" Kento suggests before his brain can catch up to him. "I can make him a habitat. My Morfar's always been good at that kind of stuff. I bet he could help make a home for..."

"Kawaii."

"Yes, Kawaii." Kento nods, locking down the name of this possible new friend.

You consider the alternatives, the words your parents gave you when they gave Kawaii to you. You know you have no reason not to trust Kento.

"Okay, deal. I'll give him to you tonight and you bring him tomorrow and we'll meet at the lamp post?"

"Promise." Kento reassures you. "I'll take good care of him."

You smile as you retrace your steps back together in the minimal light that has now turned dusky blue.

The presence of the sun stays behind long after it bid the sky farewell and tucked itself into its bed of gray clouds. The symphony of cicadas and croaking of frogs settles over the grass that sway with the percussion of the evening breeze like a cloak of stars.

You both pause under the lamplight, a beacon of orange borrowed from the dwindling sunset that is soon to be no longer.

"See you tomorrow?"

"See you tomorrow."

"Goodnight Kento. Goodnight Kawaii."

"He says goodnight back." Kento grins and you smile before you disappear into the house three doors down.

-----

The earful Kento received from Mormor and the cold sandwich was well worth the full night of sleep he had not gotten for an amount of time that might as well have felt like years to 9 year-old Kento.

His eyes flicker open with the whimsical dustings of the summer morning's light, pleased to discover Kawaii is right where Kento left him, perched on the nightstand next to his book.

"Morning." He mutters to the little bear, expression ever vacant as that comforting feeling emanates from its small little black dots for eyes.

Kento hates to admit as a kid who once swore he would never attach himself to silly things like toys that he's beginning to understand why you have such a strong connection to Kawaii.

Kento gets up and strides into his bathroom with a pep in his step, doing his usual wash up and getting dressed until his feet hit the stairs, Kawaii in tow.

Mormor looks up from her plate where Morfar is seated across from her, morning paper folded next to his napkin until a small piece of egg rolls off his fork and onto the sentence was reading.

"Godmorgen."

"Godmorgen." Kento shoves his eggs into his mouth, immediately regretting the instant scorch to his tastebuds.

"HSFHAHASFHAHAAA." He swallows them with difficulty, reaching for his orange juice to tame the burn before reaching for his toast.

Gulp gulp gulp. Cronch cronch cronch

"Skat. Slow down."

"I'm sorry-" cronch, gulp. "This is my favorite. Thank you for making it, Mormor." His chair slides back on the wooden floor with a loud squeal as he hastily wipes his face.

"Where do you think you're going? Mormor inquires in that stern tone that would make any reasonable person freeze on the spot.

Morfar looks up, coughing before he decides to go back to the half egg-smeared article about the mysterious vandalism of the town statue of its bear mascot for the seventh straight week in a row.

"There are chores to be done, you know."

"Yes, I know, Mormor, but—"

"But? You think they'll just get done by that magic you claim to see? I made one exception yesterday, Kento. But you know the rules. Work. First."

"But, I made her a promise...." Kento protests weakly, already feeling his knees wobble for pushing the envelope further than he ever had with his grandmother's rules that he knew good and well not to challenge on a pleasant day, much less a bad one.

"You can hold up your promise. After these chores." Mormor side eyes her husband who quickly shifts to attentiveness like he didn't let the last 30 seconds go by with no absorption, paying them to the first hint of today's daily crossword puzzle instead.

"You heard Mormor, Kento. Garden. Now. Be back in 10 minutes to help with the dishes."

"...Yes, Morfar."

-----

"Hey! What took you so long?"

"I'm sorry. Mormor had me do chores again today."

"Oh, its okay. My parents did too."

Kento pauses as he approaches you, noting the weariness in your countenance that seemed to dull that natural sunniness about you by a few degrees.

"Hey, you alright?"

"Course I am, what do you mean?"

"Um, I dunno, you look kinda tired...but hey, I brought Kawaii." Kento reaches in his pocket, showing the little bear, safe and sound.

"EEEE you brought him back! I missed you!" You give him a hug, squeezing Kawaii close.

"You were right. He really is like a good luck charm."

"Wait, he worked for you too?!" You ask, flabbergasted.

"My mom said Kawaii is only supposed to work for me and nobody else! My sibling stole him one time and he didn't work. Ha! Serves em right." Your lips turn into a sly grin as you give Kento a playful elbow.

"Guess you just have the magic touch, huh? Is that right, Kawaii? Is Kento your new favorite?"

Kento smiles as you bring him to your ear to ask Kawaii's opinion directly.

"Nah, second favorite. You're still his first." Kento bashfully corrects.

"Well that's more like it!" You smile, putting Kawaii back in the front pocket of your dress where he belonged.

Kento beams as you resume your usual walk, the river rambles to your right in euphonious echoes blending with the cacophonic chirps of birds in the heart of the afternoon.

"Hey, want to race to the light post?" Kento asks, deciding a rematch was due for the loss you gave him the other day at breakfast.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're gonna win, duh."

"How are you so sure about that?"

"I saw you at recess." You dismiss him with a wave at your hand. "You weren't one of the ones picked first at soccer for nothin'."

"Haha, so?"

"How come you quit playin' anyways?"

"Eh. Zenin made it miserable." Kento recalls that young spoiled boy that used to be in your grade who had been pulled out a couple years ago in order to receive some fancy private tutoring.

"Alright. Fine. Let's see if you still got it, then."

"One, two..."

You take off hastily, almost tripping over your legs. "...THREE!"

"I never said—ah, for Pete's sake." Kento chuckles before running quickly after you.

The race became a trek through forgotten lands that led back to another daily checkup on the health and prosperity of the fairy kingdom near the pond.

That evening, when the blue became tinged with the orange of fading sunlight, Kento felt that subtle knot of dread beginning to re-fasten itself, knowing he'd have to bid you farewell and shoulder the burden of the lonely evening once again.

But, to his surprise, having already sensed his disappointment, you start to hand over Kawaii.

"Here."

"I can't."

"Just take him, Kento. You need him more than me."

Kento pauses, though possibly true, despite the relief he feels immediately upon holding the little bear, something still uneases him about taking Kawaii for another night. Remembering that look on your face, the way that tiredness weighed on your expression the next morning.

"Keep him." Kento insists.

"What about his house?"

"I can still make him his house. How about, we'll trade off, every other night?"

"Deal."

Kento grins, handing off Kawaii to you.

"If—,"

He pauses.

"If you bring me five of your Mormor's cookies tomorrow."

"I- five?" Kento sputters.

"Hey, do we have a deal or not? You gotta keep Kawaii alllll night if you can't handle that."

"I...five is a lot to ask, you know?" Kento frowns. "Mormor is not some free cookie factory." He pauses and reconsiders. "....Fine, very well."

"Deal. I knew you'd come around."

"Heh, like you'd ever know." Kento mutters without denying the plan he's already hatched, counting down the seconds until he can see the look on your face when he holds up his end of the bargain.

-----

The light under Kento's bedroom door stays on into the late hours.

Small wood shavings fall onto a tarp as Kento sets to work, applying everything his Morfar taught him, tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration as he angles the small knife, skillfully whittling, slowly carving away at what he doesn't realize in the current moment of dedicated concentration is only the fulfillment of the beginning of so many promises he hadn't even made to you yet.

Yet somehow even that fleeting thought feels like something he'd rather rise to the occasion to meet than cower away from for a reason that none of the most advanced novels he's ever read can provide him with the adequate vocabulary to explain.

-----

He's up before the first note of the mourning doves' melody can float across the halls of the empty sky as he cleans the kitchen with purpose, stepping out into the garden like he's on a mission.

Mormor passes Kento on the staircase, nearly doing a double take as she watches him carefully balance his neatly folded and sorted laundry back to his bedroom(with an already made bed) before he emerges.

"Mormor, I got my chores done early, can I go out and play?" He asks, holding his breath, bracing himself for his next humble request.

"And could you bake an extra batch of cookies, please?"

---------

Your flip flops slap noisily on the crunching gravel, flicking off the morning dew from rain that clung to the grass while a barely there breeze rustles the remaining chill in the trees from the night as warmth brews with the awakening dawn like a pot of coffee.

You're fully expecting to beat Kento to your meeting spot but today is the first day he'll prove you wrong: five of Mormor's cookies to be exact, and a small wooden carved bed that Kawaii had always wished for.

------

From the rise of the sun to the descent of cicadas at night, every day blooms a new pattern of the endearing simplistic childhood happenings of a countryside summer.

July arrives, dragging in more heat from the brightest sun in the sky as one more freckle appears by Kento's eyes that light up with joy at the sight of gulerodskage (carrot cake) his Mormor made as he turned ten, that closed and wished for only one thing in a long while he hadn't on those previous birthdays, which was to have as many more just like the ones you, and this summer gave him.

Mormor's cookies and Morfar's tomatoes in exchange for your folks' oranges and strawberries. The better half of Kento's lunch in exchange for your smile and more chapters from his favorite book. More sidewalk chalk and playfully bent rules of the game. More puddles from late August rain. More popsicles and a growing fondness for piña colada on Kento's part and early mourning doves ringing in before the day.

The hours stretched thin in number just like Kento's nightmares whenever that bear stayed the night.

For weeks at last, Kento went to bed with nothing but the expectation of another outside adventure and his first love awaiting him in the morning to beat the creatures that used to haunt him every night.

His purpose for doing something now includes Kawaii, with some help from his Morfar, helping him craft one more piece of furniture in the habitat of his dreams, filling up Kawaii's cardboard box that Kento brings every morning to your meeting spot with one more room in it, one more piece of furniture upholding the end of his promise he made to keep him safe.

And so, time passed unapologetically while neither of you were looking.

It was some day that neither of you can single out as the last one.

One last evil fairy king defeated. One last round of unstoppable laughter. One last time where the daylight held on until 9 pm when Kento watched it melt to indigo with you hand in hand until that street lamp flickered on like the remaining sand through an hourglass.

"Wait! Kawaii! Kento needs Kawaii! I can't leave him without Kawaii!"

One more time like right now as you say your final goodbyes and your families await in the car, that you decide to leave with him in the only way you can.

"I can't take him."

"Yes you can. I'm willing to give up Kawaii if it means you can sleep better at night. Keep him, Kento." You say loudly so your voice doesn't shake.

"Hold onto Kawaii for me. Just give him back when you no longer need him, yeah?"

Kento swallows, remembering your words, knowing that day must have already come for you.

"I promise. I'll hold onto him."

You smile and he smiles back, one last hug and one final glance at the little cardboard mansion with hand carved furniture you built with Kento's Morfar for Kawaii together, and the tears don't flow down Kento's face until your family's car is long out of view.

-----

The next summer at his grandparents' arrives, but without you.

Kento still does most of everything that he can, for your memory's sake. He imagines and he reads, the fairy kingdom of trees at the pond remain free of all tyranny as long as he and Kawaii visit.

Kento lets his Morfar help him carve one more thing for Kawaii's ever expanding mansion, choosing colors and keeping layouts in the way you probably would have approved of, even if Kento relies mostly on the shape of what he remembers that you left behind.

He stays busy with the tasks his grandparents give him. From helping Mormor in the kitchen, to the gruff acknowledgement as the closest thing to praise wrapped in endless garden tips he'd get from his Morfar.

That summer turned into his last in the countryside, with Kawaii sleeping at his side.

-----

New friends and a new school, the dawn of Kento's adolescence arrived and soon he wasn't the only boy who once cried for the invisible horrors nobody else could see.

He learned how to fight them as a sorcerer, more hairs left on his pillowcase by the morning that he learned to sleep through instead, making room for utter devastation that the little despairs prepared him for. He hadn't stopped for some time to realize all of what was held at bay by those precious carefree childhood summers at his grandparents' home.

You never did come back after that summer. The convenience store just ran out of his favorite stuffed bread. Kento Nanami can only vaguely remember his Morfar's favorite gardening tips.

His best friend, Yu Haibara, is dead.

Adulthood and the world of curses don't leave much time nor space he can allocate for living bigger than baseline survival. Money. His childhood, that one summer, some far off lifetime ago. Money. A new dream of Malaysia.

A brush with the slow moribound succession of all 28 years of his life in that subway station he survived that dreadful night, beginning the next 28 with a new lease on life.

He slowly takes his way back, rebellion to rebirth a new purpose, to return and choose to live when mere survival almost destroyed him.

He's learned it now, and it's earned him back, every scar, every shaky step forward more solid into the orbit of a long lost path he had crossed with once and thought he wouldn't again for good.

-----

It is an early morning in the spring, Kento Nanami, aged 36 years old, looks back contentedly at his half-scarred reflection over the sink.

To his left, some messy handwriting on lined paper, and a velvet box with his mother's ring.

The windows fog with the collide of sea and rain.

A small chapel filled with loved faces sits eagerly in wait.

One more thing, Kento remembers and delivers to Nobara Kugisaki before he meets you at the end of that aisle.

"She is gonna kill you for choosing to do this right now, you know?" Nobara shakes her head, emptying the little bear Kawaii into her pocket.

Kento just grins. "Those are consequences that I can live with."

And he vowed anew that very afternoon on the culmination of his fulfilled promise from that one childhood summer with you that he would.

-----

"That was completely uncalled for you know, offloading KAWAII onto me like that RIGHT BEFORE I walked down the aisle."

Kento takes your left hand in his, squeezing it tightly so it has nowhere else to go on your remaining drive into the country.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Nanami." He says on purpose, giving you his version of a wink from the hollow of his left eye whose subtle expressiveness is just as unphased as ever in the driver's view mirror.

"Cruel and wrong. Just SICK and WRONG."

"And honest." Kento says calmly in in that frustrating way he had mastered of reframing everything to be better than he had left it.

"It was honest, and true. Tender. Soft. Human. You."

"I love you, Kento."

"And I love you more."

The stars that line your soul.

Tsukamoto in the backseat is doing his best to reckon with the fact that he's no longer the only bear in your lives, having recently been adopted by you and Kento from Yaga to retire him from training to a new purpose in life.

And he supposes that the calming protective energy from Kawaii can put them both on neutral ground, at least for now.

You arrive at your destination, scouring the grounds of your new home until you find the perfect spot for Kawaii and his mansion in a small grove of trees.

"I think this place will do just fine." You smile as Kento pulls you in for a kiss next to the for sale sign, glossed over in big red letters.

"That's exactly what I hoped you would say, love."

Before he follows after you into the empty farmhouse.

TOJI FUSHIGURO - SHARING SPACE

Toji doesn't know what personal space is—at least, not with you.

You’re either wrapped up in his arms as you sleep, sprawled beneath him while relaxing on the couch, or squeezed between him and whatever task you’re trying to tackle around the house. It's no exaggeration to think he'd merge with you if he could.

Because to him, his space is his space, and you are his space.

He’s never far, and if he is, it’s only because you’re out of reach. The moment you aren’t, he’s right back on you.

“We're both going to hit the floor.” You jokingly struggled under the hundreds of pounds sprawled across your back—clinging to you the moment you stepped through the door, fresh from a short getaway with friends.

“We're not,” Toji murmured into your hair, one of his arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders. His weight leaned heavily against you, and even with all your bags in his hands, it didn’t make supporting him any easier.

You trudged all the way to the bedroom with him stuck to you, not even bothering to tell him to get off.

He doesn't miss a beat even after you stop, setting your bags down on the floor, and crouching beside you as you begin to unpack.

“Do you need help?” he asks grinning, already reaching into your suitcase and lifting up some of the obviously new things you brought.

You snatch it back. “Nope. I got it.”

He nods, like that settles it. And when you stand to hang things in the closet, you can already feel him behind you—close enough that his presence may as well be another layer of clothing.

You sigh, amused. “Put it over here.”

KENTO NANAMI - ADJUSTING YOU

From your hair to your clothes, accessories, and even your shoes, he's always there to take care of it whenever need be.

So, when hands slip around your hips to adjust your waistband or graze your neck to turn your necklace right-side up, you barely notice anymore. For Nanami, it’s become second nature.

You hum softly as you slip into your dress, sliding your arms through the sleeves and admiring your reflection in the mirror. You’re not surprised when Nanami approaches from behind, knowing the back needs to be zipped.

As his hands glide up your sides toward the zipper, you smile. “Thank you.” You sing-song, pulling on the hem of your dress down as he zips it up.

“Of course.” He replies as he helps smooth out your dress.

Because you’re the only one heading out, Nanami’s attention has been fixed on you—watching as you made plans and casually chatting about your destination now and then. But since you've started getting ready, he’s been on standby. He always is.

That's why, after doing your hair and adding accessories, it’s no surprise he’s by your side again as you pull out your shoes.

“I got it.” Larger hands take the shoes from you and guide you to scoot back. “How tight?”

“Tight. I don't want to be sliding out of these,” you chuckled.

And his hands got to work, lacing your shoes up your leg and tightening them, pausing to glance up at you for confirmation each time he pulled a little harder.

As you stood to thank him, his hands were already on you again, brushing a stray lock of hair back into place.

Toji can handle this. Whatever it is – hormones, low blood sugar, divine punishment – he’s gone through worse. He’s fine. He’ll be fine.

So he sits down across from you like a functioning human being, fork in one hand, knife in the other. Pretending that the sight of you leaning over to take the syrup and pour it for him doesn’t make his pulse thunder in his ears.

You’re the problem.

No.

No, he’s the problem, and everything you’re doing is only making his problem worse. The clink of cutlery against your plate and the lazy curl of steam from the pancakes you made for him and the way you tilt your head when you smile up, at him.

It’s domestic.

Harmless.

Lethal.

He cuts into his pancake, if only to have something to do with his hands. Salivating.

For what, he’s not sure.

Toji wonders, briefly, if he’s always been this much of a fucking idiot.

This is breakfast. Not a mating ritual. But his body doesn’t seem to agree – blood still humming, heat crawling up his spine, energy sifting and curling with weight in his stomach.

And so, in a moment of poor motor coordination, his knife slips.

Clatters to the floor.

“Nice one,” you tease, about to rise to help.

He cuts you off with a halfhearted glare and crouches before you can move. “I’ve got it.”

Except he really, really doesn’t.

Because when his fingers close over the handle of the butter knife and he raises his head, he’s eye level with your pretty pussy. Clothed in cotton, covered by nothing else but your panties, his shirt rising up on your body. Exposing your thighs.

“Toji? Did you– oh–”

And without really processing it, his hands come up around your hips. Pulling you to the edge of your seat.

Is he delusional, or does your cunt smell like syrup?

Maybe he is ovulating.

Maybe you are.

He’d like it if you were.

His fingers hook in your panties and drag them to the side. He presses a gentle kiss to your inner thigh. Smiles all wide-eyed when he sees your cunt clench involuntarily.

You frown, trying to look below the table – to no avail, as he’s directly beneath it.

“Toji, what’re you doing?”

“Eating breakfast.”

His tone comes out matter-of-fact. Like it’s his god given right to get his syrup straight from the source. And when you open your mouth to retort, you’re cut off by a whine – because without warning, his mouth is on you. Tongue dragging flat and slow along your folds, parting them with a deliberate kind of pressure. Flicking up to circle your clit before dipping back down. You gasp, fingers gripping the edge of the table, thighs trembling on either side of his head – and he just smiles cruelly against your cunt.

“Sweet,” he murmurs. Vibration humming straight through you, nose nuzzling against your clit. Inhaling deeply. “Fuck, so sweet.”

His tongue swirls messy, spreading out your slick. And you try to shift, or to push him away with a foot to his chest – only for him to prop your legs up over his shoulders for better leverage. Thumbs digging into the plush of your upper thighs to keep you spread wide. Another long lick, this one direct to your clit before dipping lower, and you feel the tip of his tongue probing. Pushing inside just enough to tease before shying away.

“At least eat your pancakes first,” you scold. Half-hearted. Body betraying you as your pussy clenches around nothing.

He chuckles against you, the sound muffled. Wet.

“Nah. I’m good here.”

Then he’s back at it, tongue thrusting back in. Deeper. Fucking into you with shallow, insistent strokes, while his thumb finds your clit. The table above creaks faintly as you lean forward, biting your lip to stifle a moan.

He’s relentless. Obsessed with every inch, everything about you – the way your walls flutter, the slick sounds filling the space. His hands slide further up, big palms resting warm against your inner thighs as he spreads you wider. Exposing your cunt fully to his mouth. He flattens his tongue again, lapping from below and then up to your clit in a single broad stroke, collecting every drop like it’s the sweetest nectar.

And then, hoarse and ragged, his voice breaks through the haze.

“Why the hell’re you so sweet?”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull away. Murmurs it right against your folds, mumbling things without thought.

“Like honey. Driiiipping. My pretty pussy.. gotta clean you up, huh?”

His words send a fresh wave of arousal flooding out, and he groans in approval. Lips closing around your clit.

Two of his fingers join in. Digging into your cunt with an obscene squelch – sliding into your soaked entrance with ease.

He doesn’t just push them in.

He does it achingly slow, pads of his fingers rough against your walls. Exploring and bullying in and stretching you out until he’s knuckle deep inside and you’re pulsing around him.

He crooks them without a second thought.

Not for your pleasure, but to hit that spot that has your clit pressing further into his mouth – a spot that makes your eyes roll back with a cry.

Toji knows where you’re sensitive. All the spots inside you that have you melting into his hold. And he uses the curl of his fingers to scrape and press right against them, relentless. At the same time, his tongue swirls around your clit, sucking with a greedy, rhythmic pace.

Your breath breaks into a whimper. Lost in the fervid, focused attention of his mouth, and the brutal thrusts of his fingers.

He pistons them in deep. Almost to the hilt. Before dragging them out all slow and agonizing, letting your gushing cunt milk every inch of the retreat.

You shiver, back arching into the touch. “You– oh, fuck.. cumming, cumming–”

“Attagirl.”

The vibrations zip right from his tongue to your clit. He scissors his fingers out, laughing when you tremble – back arching as the world dissolves into ringing white noise.

Your cunt spasms around him, clenching and contracting and desperately clinging to the sensation as your high washes over you. Pulling the digits in deeper, even as he holds them steady.

A long, shaky sigh escapes you, 

and for some reason, Toji can’t stop.

It’s not like he doesn’t hear your cries, or notice the way your pussy flutters helplessly and milks him in – he just doesn’t want to let go. You’re sweet, so sweet, and he’s still hungry. Still searching for more.

So he goes back for seconds.

His tongue flattens, working against your clit to draw out every last shudder and whimper. Fingers flexing deep inside to stretch you out. He pumps them slow, curling them right against that sensitive spot once more – then faster when your walls clench tight, gripping his knuckles. Twists his wrist. Finds an easier angle and starts pumping, faster, until you’re gripping onto the arms of the chair for dear life, head thrown back with an incoherent whine. Downright filthy sounds fill the dining room – slick coating his hand, dripping down his chin.

God. He’s greedy.

And you’re so good for him.

He doesn’t ease up, even as your thighs clamp around his head, bucking involuntarily into his mouth. Just groans low, dragging his tongue down your cunt to meet the base of his fingers, nestled inside you.

Your own fingers tangle in his dark hair, pulling – and he groans again, more guttural than before. The sound reverberating through your syrupy cunt.

“Please,” you gasp, voice cracking, “Toji, m’gonna–”

“–you’re sweet.”

Toji’s not listening.

He can’t even hear you. Mumbling into your cunt, drunk on the taste.

“My pretty, pretty girl.” His tongue slurs the words out, gaze half-lidded and focused nowhere in particular. “Taste so good. Gimme more. More. More.”

His tongue pushes in alongside his fingers. Digits crooking downward so he can taste up, swirling around to gather your slick. Your legs tremble, toes curling – and the overstimulation borders on pain. The good kind. The ache that twists into pleasure, sharp and unrelenting and inescapable in Toji’s hold. He laps at you, swallowing – nose bumping your clit with every eager movement.

And just as your body gives out and you slip into another orgasm, his lips close in a cruel suction around your clit once more. Tongue swirling as the waves crash over you, your pussy spasming wildly around his lengthy fingers – soaking, rivulets dripping obscene down his wrist.

He drinks you in without complaint, letting you ride it out on his face. Lips curved in a wide, wild grin. Keeping his fingers buried deep, thrusting through your high and prolonging the feeling until you’re sobbing his name.

When your climax fades, Toji withdraws his fingers slowly. Pupils blasted as he watches the way your hole clenches around nothing, as if begging to be filled again.

He brings those slick digits to his mouth and sucks them clean with deliberate slowness, watching the way your puffy pussy begs for more.

“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he whispers. Hoarse.

He leans back in and laps through your sticky folds one last time – one last taste.

Then he reaches down, fingers closing around the handle of the knife lying beneath your seat. Holds it up. A mockery of a domestic moment.

“Told you I got it,” Toji rasps. Rising and throwing the knife onto the table with a clatter.

Before you can process anything at all, he’s standing. Licking his glistening bottom lip, then a long stripe from his wrist – where your slick has dripped down – before hauling you forward by your hips. Right out of the chair.

You let out a surprised yelp as he sits down and lands you hard atop his lap. His big hands bracketing your hips to grind your bare cunt down against his length, pressing against you through his boxers.

The fabric’s rough and hot against your already sensitive clit, friction sending a jolt through your entire body. Your slick soaks right through to his cock, and he rocks his hips. A slow, deliberate grind, smearing your warmth along his pulsing length.

You let out a stunned little noise, and Toji laughs. Head dipping down to kiss up your neck almost obsessively.

His hands leave your hips. Slip beneath your shirt, up, until they’re palming your breasts with rough enthusiasm. Thumbs grazing your hard nipples, circling before flicking. Playing.

“Look at the mess you made, baby.”

His voice is a demeaning coo in your ear. But he’s satisfied, with you in his arms. Soaked and somehow just as gorgeous as always. If not more so,

“S’sticky now,” Toji grins. “Gotta take you upstairs and clean you up the right way.”

His hands slip back down around your waist, muscles flexing as his hips roll against you one more time. Before he lifts you up.

The pancakes sit on the table as you’re lugged upstairs. A sad little afterthought.

"'m still small," he mumbles, tugging at the hem of Toji's shirt, as if asking for backup. To his surprise, his own father contradicts him. Toji bends down to scoop him up and exaggerates the strength needed to lift him.

"Hold on, I got it this time," he says, after "failing" to lift him up. He grunts, getting Megumi's little feet off the ground. "Holy, kid. You weigh as much as five hundred flour sacks."

"No, I don't," Megumi responds, a sweet giggle elicited from him when Toji nods. "I'm still six years old."

You hum, like the fact and his logic has changed the entirety of your argument. "I think he's still small, Toji," you whisper, purposely loud enough for Megumi to hear.

"I think so, too," Toji whispers back, matching your volume, earning another entertained giggle from the boy. "Alright, little man, breakfast is in the works. Wanna start taking some stuff to the table?"

Megumi nods, wiggling his legs to signal that he wants to be put down so he can start his job.

Toji plants a quick kiss on the top of his head and sets him down. He picks up the bottle of maple syrup, ready to hand it off to Megumi, only to immediately set it down again when he sees that the boy is occupied with something more important.

Unable to reach your arms, he's settled for hugging your leg, but you, being the angel Toji has known you as since day one, crouch down to give him a proper embrace. You squeeze him a little tighter towards the end, to send him off with a laugh. Toji knows his son feels loved just by the way he turns to face him, a smile lingering from his burst of amusement, as he waits for things to be given to him to take to the table. The bottle of syrup is handed off, as well as an almost finished roll of paper towels, and Megumi scampers off to complete his task.

"And you," your playful, stern voice returns, this time directed towards Toji, who is just standing there, watching you. "Keep that smirk to yourself before you hurt someone."

"Or what?" Toji pokes, said smirk gradually growing. He leans back against the counter, watching as you set another couplet of perfectly crispy bacon onto a plate with a napkin. The spatula is set down and you turn around to face him with that adorable expression you consider to be stoic. It quickly falters when Toji stares back at you, amusedly.

"Or the-" you stutter, doing your best to restrain the laugh bubbling in your throat. "The only thing you'll be getting for breakfast is a knuckle sandwich."

"Oh, yeah?" Toji taunts, standing up straight as if trying to intimidate you.

"Yeah," you respond, standing on your tippy toes to make yourself look more intimidating as well.

"Try it," he dares, eyeing you up and down.

"I will," you say, dropping flat on your feet to step closer. "Get ready," you announce, bringing your hand up and slowly curling it into a fist.

"I'm ready," he assures.

"Whooosh..." You mimic the sound of speed and power, but your fist is going at a snail's pace, and once it finally reaches his face, you're merely pressing your fist into his cheek, gently digging into the softness with the backs of your fingers.

"Ow," he utters, sarcastically, his voice as monotone and steady as can be.

You pull your hand back and make a show out of pretending to be hurt, wincing and crying out dramatically, like a dog who got its paw grazed and is seeking attention.

With an incredulous scoff, Toji swipes your hand. His thumb massages each of your knuckles until the back of your hand reaches his lips.

"You 'hit' me, and yet you're still gonna go and play the victim?" He murmurs against your skin, pressing a chaste kiss where his lips rest.

All Toji can do is snicker when your borderline theatrical display of injury comes to an abrupt end, replaced by your focus on him and his affectionate gesture.

"You're such a big baby." One more kiss is planted on your knuckle, before he releases your hand.

"It didn't even hurt me," you answer, matter-of-factly. "You said 'ow', and I didn't," you add, sassily, quickly and efficiently ending the dispute.

"Right, and you didn't become an actress for a minute, huh?"

The combination of your shrug and that cocky little smirk on your face earns you a huff of laughter from Toji, a sound that manages to break you out of that playful smugness and forces out a laugh of your own.

Megumi makes his way to the kitchen again after what seemed like a while. He only had two things to set on the table, so it's likely that he got distracted by something else, but he's back on track, now, ready to carry more stuff.

The boy walks in on you and his dad laughing, a sight he's gotten used to seeing since you mercifully allowed them to stay with you. Wide smiles, that rosy tint on his father's ears, the shine in your eyes—he understands that you're very happy whenever you're together, himself included. You give him silly nicknames and you talk in funny voices. You help him get ready for school when Toji comes home extra tired from work and can't wake up early, and when he has nightmares, he's never nervous about going to you in the middle of the night.

"Megalodon shaaark," you call, enthusiastically, at the sound of his little pitter pattering footsteps approaching.

"Those are scary," he answers, scrunching his nose and shaking his head disapprovingly.

"Oh yeah... they are pretty gnarly. I totally meant Gumi bear." You hear Toji snicker behind you as he mixes chocolate syrup into a glass of milk for Megumi, luring an involuntary twitch of your lips.

"Look, I tried to make some dog shaped pancakes." You display your effort to the boy, smiling when he gasps as soon as his eyes meet what is on the dish. "Some of them don't look so good, but I promise they're made with love."

Megumi smiles, his wide green eyes glowing as they roam the details of your effort. "They have pointy ears like a wolf and the eyes look just like my plushy."

"You like them?" You ask, despite seeing the way he's almost jumping with excitement.

"I really like them," he assures, hands twitching like he wants to grab the plate for himself.

"Okay, this one's yours, then. Do you need help or you got it?"

"I can carry it," he says, bouncing with anticipation.

"Alright, just be careful. It's a little warm," you warn, handing off the plate to him.

"Thank you," he blurts, before turning around and quickly making his way back to the table.

You sigh, loudly, as you finish serving your plate of food and Toji's. When he doesn't spare you attention, you sigh again, the soft sound progressing into a loud groan.

"What?" Toji finally asks, knowing you won't stop until he plays along.

"Oh, nothing... I'm just recalling the way you hurt my feelings earlier," you explain, scooping the last portion of scrambled eggs onto your plate.

"Yeah? How so?"

"You laughed every time I flipped one of the dog-shaped pancakes. Is my effort and need to experiment a joke to you?" You ask, raising your voice to make your point seem more powerful.

"You look at one of your creations for more than ten seconds with a straight face," he argues, matching your volume once again.

You gasp, eyes wide in awe of his audacity. Both of you are trying so hard not to crack up through this showdown, but you see the way that scar on his lips twitches, and your eyes hold no sharpness towards him, whatsoever. Still, you manage to give him a final message without sputtering.

"Don't talk to me anymore, unless you want the knuckle sandwich supreme."

And then you walk off, both your plate of food and his in your hands.

-

Weekend mornings are like that all the time—bringing Megumi out of his sleepy grogginess by making him laugh, playful banter between you and Toji about everything and anything, eating together at the table where plans are made for the day—its developed into a routine, one Toji sometimes still can't believe he and Megumi get to partake in.

There's a routine for days where everyone has a job, too. One of you helps Megumi get ready for school. Most of the time it's you, because you're getting ready for work at the same time. Sometimes it's both of you if Toji works the morning shift that day. It's funny watching him button up his chef's jacket with his eyes closed.

Then, you split. You and Toji make sure Megumi makes it to the school bus, sending him off with hugs and promises of seeing him later, and then you drive Toji to work.

There's always that silly moment when it's just you and Toji sitting in your car once you get to the bakery. He's looking at you with that lazy smirk of his, while you blatantly pretend not to notice and act like the wind is speaking to you.

"Come on. You know what i'm waiting for," he nudges. "You don't want me to have a good day at work?"

"Have a good day at work, Toji," you say, smiling knowingly. You know what he wants.

"You really wanna make us both late for work, huh?" He says, his tone riddled with disbelief.

One sigh and a roll of your eyes later, and you're leaning towards him to press a kiss on his cheek. A laugh rumbles through his chest—it's another victory for him.

"Thanks, sweetheart. I'll see you and Megs in a bit, 'kay?" He says, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door.

You nod. "Bye, Toji."

-

Toji never goes to bed without saying goodnight to you. Regardless of how tired he is and how tense his muscles feel, he drags his feet closer towards the door to your room. Your bedroom light is visible beneath your door, so you must still be awake. Toji knocks and waits a couple seconds to ensure it.

"Come in," you say, loud enough for him to hear, but not loud enough to possibly wake Megumi up.

The doorknob turns, and there stands Toji, looking like he had lots of fun at work. His chef jacket is speckled with flour and what looks like pastel purple frosting on his sleeve. His pants got similar treatment and his clogs look like they walked him through the first tier of hell. Luckily they're slip-resistant.

"Hey," you greet, with a smile that slowly turns into a more concerned expression when he sighs. "Rough day?" You ask, sitting up on your bed.

He hums, contemplating the entirety of his shift. "Not too bad, just tedious," he says, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"Come sit with me," you tell him, patting the spot in front of you.

"Nah, sweetheart. You gotta go to sleep so you can wake up for work tomorrow," he responds.

"I'm gonna wake up regardless," you argue. "Come oooon, I wanna hear about your day. Please?"

Why you're begging to hear him yap about work, Toji isn't sure, but how is he supposed to turn you down, when just the thought of having this kind of conversation with you is easing his mind?

"For me?" You add, pleading eyes meeting Toji's tired ones. He hesitates for a few more seconds, then steps out of his shoes and makes the distance to your bed.

"Would've took them off at the front door, but you see their condition," he comments, with a half smile.

"Looks like you glazed your shoes and drizzled them with chocolate instead of decorating actual bread."

A breath of a laugh escapes him, something that makes him drop his shoulders a little more. "Ass. And I was gonna give this to you and not make you share it with the kid like I always do."

Your eyes dart to the brown takeout container he's holding in his lap, then back to the smug look on his face.

"What's that you got there?" You say, low, like it's top secret.

"Cake," he responds, smoothly. "Made it myself. Last piece, too, so I had to snag it."

You gasp, smiling with glimmering eyes at the thought of him going through all the steps needed to make a nice and fluffy cake.

A few months ago, when you were helping Toji apply for jobs, he told you that working at a bakery didn't sound so rewarding, and that a guy like him wouldn't fit in at a place like that.

When he said that, you interpreted it as him not finding interest in the job, but you were wrong, and it sadly turned out to be a bad case of him not believing in himself. Toji was so used to things being difficult and not being given a chance, that he couldn't possibly envision himself doing something so simple without screwing it up.

You were his voice of reason. You had to be. He was spiraling, questioning why you would allow someone like him to stay. His words made your heart wrench and your stomach turn. 'useless...' 'worthless...' 'waste of time and effort...' Self deprecation in every other sentence, you had to dig your nails into your palms to keep yourself from crying.

'You get to make cakes, a-and different kinds of bread. I know you work out—those forearms are gonna be even more toned and muscular, you'll be able to pick Megumi up with them like he's made of air.'

Thank goodness he smirked. Thank goodness it stopped and he remembered the ones who are there for him.

'I can do that already. Bet I could pick you up like that, too.'

"Tell me there's a spoon in there," you say, staring at Toji intently, waiting for him to say what you want to hear.

"No, I wanted to watch you eat with your hands," he responds, sarcastically.

"Toji, you dog," you say, giggling when he clicks his tongue before smirking.

"'Course there's a spoon in there, doll. It's probably covered in frosting, but I doubt you care," he says, handing you the box.

"Your doubt is correct," you mumble, entranced by what is practically glowing before your very eyes.

You pull at the tabs at the top of the box, opening it to reveal the most precious slice of cake. The dried lavender purple frosting on Toji's sleeve matches the frosting layered on top of it. You see little pieces of cut up strawberries in the center, cushioned by thin sheets of what looks like whipped cream above and below them.

Toji was right—the spoon has specks of frosting on it, and yet it still doesn't matter one bit to you. You pick up the spoon, pastel purple now smeared on your fingers, and sink it into the softness residing in the paper box. It's a perfect bite, enough of the spongy bread and the strawberries, sweet frosting layered right on top.

The second it meets your tastebuds, you're at a loss for words. All you can think to say is, "are you kidding me?" but it's not enough. With your continued wordlessness, you move the box over and let yourself fall back on the bed, your eyes shutting as you savor what has undisputedly topped your list of favorite desserts.

Toji leans closer, his palm planted on your bed as he watches you swallow the bite with your eyes still closed. His eyes follow the flowing movement of your stomach and chest when you sigh, the sound heavy and telling of satisfaction.

"How is it?" He finally asks, grinning at the way your lips curl, like you've reached some sort of enlightenment.

"Fuck." You laugh, loving the way Toji shifts again, almost as if he's antsy over your pending critique. "That hit the spot."

"Yeah?" He asks, biting back a chuckle at the way you slowly nod and hum out your affirmation.

"Perfectly sweet, the strawberries add some acidity. I could eat a whole damn cake like this in one sitting."

"Really?" He questions, again, almost as if he doesn't fully believe that he made something that you like so much.

"Yes, Toji. Please make me a birthday cake just like this." You sit up, reaching for the spoon to carve out another piece of cake. There's a spot in your heart that already aches at the thought of it being gone.

"It's nothing crazy. Eggs, flour, sugar—you know, the usual ingredients in a basic cake." He shrugs, shoving his effort further down into the depths of nothingness.

"Uh-uh," you tut, disapprovingly, sharp eyes catching cool ones. "Do not downplay your work. Did you even try your own masterpiece?"

"No, it was cut up and put into some boxes by someone else. I don't even know if they tried it before or if they just trusted that I followed the recipe."

"And this was the last one?" You ask, recalling his words from before. When he hums affirmatively, you beam, just barely suppressing the true excitement and pride you feel over his success. "It sold out!"

"Shh," Toji hushes, chuckling behind his instruction.

"Sorry," you whisper, a more bashful smile taking over. "It sold out," you repeat, volume lowered, but the enthusiasm living on through your tone.

"And?" He's nothing short of unimpressed with the fact. "Means nothing."

"You had to snatch the last piece, Toji. You knew that if you didn't grab it quickly, someone else would have. You know what that means?"

He nods in question, his expression unchanging.

"It means you made something that looked so good, so appetizing, that people took and took until it was gone. All except for this piece—and that's only because you wanted me to try it. I guarantee it would have sold as well."

Toji's gaze falls to his lap, a boyish, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It's the spitting image of a puppy relentlessly wagging its tail while being cooed at.

The visual flickers for a few seconds. You spoke and it felt like his chest flooded with feelings. Five words. Does he even deserve to hear them? Maybe you misspoke and dropped something heavier without meaning to.

"Are you seriously tuning me out right now?" You lightheartedly tease, grinning when his gentle smile flows over his face, again.

"No." He melts back into the comfort of your presence, the delicacy of your eyes on him.

"Well, you listen and you listen real good. It won't be the last time I tell you this, but I want you to hear it now." His attention spotlights you, unwavering as he hangs off of every word you say. "I mean it, Toji. I'm proud of you. Everything you've done, every victory—small or big—it's been great seeing and hearing about them all."

You smile, watching him pull at a loose thread on his pants. "You're doing amazing. You're an awesome dad to Megumi-- You know he draws you in almost all of his artworks?"

Toji nods, prominent Adam's apple bobbing with held back emotions. You see the glimmer in his eyes, like shimmering dewdrops on grass blades.

"A chef cap on your tiny head and raging, steroid-like muscles on a body that makes you look like Hulk."

Toji chokes out a laugh, quickly pawing at his face to stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. His lips quiver through the faint smile he keeps for you, but those beautiful eyes are silently pleading for you to be closer—for you to hold him the way you did that first night when he was still a stranger to you.

"Ah, come here, big guy," you say, outstretching your arms towards him. He doesn't hesitate for a second and quickly scoots across the edge of your bed to fall into the safety of your embrace. "It's okay," you murmur, laughing softly into his shoulder.

The room goes quiet, save for the sound of Toji's sharp breaths and the soft rasp of your palm rubbing his back. Slowly, you feel him relax in your arms. His breathing steadies, and his hold on your shirt loosens.

It's always been hard for Toji to let go of you in moments like these—for him to pull away from the space where he knows nothing can hurt him, the space that makes him feel the most at peace. The thought of going to sleep like this, holding each other through the night, comfort and safety surrounding both of you like a force field—it sounds like the sweetest dream.

Toji finds there to be something so comforting about the fact that you never make the effort to let go of him first. You let him take as much time as he needs, and only when he slowly starts to detach himself from you, do you follow suit. This time is a little more difficult, but after an almost four minute hug, he finally peels himself off of you.

"I will always acknowledge you, Toji," you promise, smiling as you gently cradle his face, wiping away the wetness beneath his eyes with your thumbs. "You will never have to worry about being unheard or unwanted, as long as I'm around. That extends to Megumi, as well."

Toji nods, wrapping his hands around your wrists and bringing your palms to his lips. They're warm against your skin as he presses little kisses to the lines that crease it. Your smile grows, beautiful and infectious in a way that brings a glint to his eyes as he watches you, intently. The most lovable giggles escape you, they're sweeter than all the sugar at the bakery—it's addictive and he doesn't want it to stop.

"Now, tell me about your day," you request again, the soft curl of your lips lingering as Toji lowers your hands. They still aren't free from his grip, but you wouldn't dare ask him to release you.

He sits there for a few seconds, humming low in thought. You think about asking him questions, to refresh his mind of some of the events that happened during his workday, but the humming stops and his eyes return to you.

"I made a cake by myself today." There's a subtle twitch of his lips, like he's trying to hold back a smile. "No hovering from anyone or anything. Just me and the ingredients, in the kitchen, while everyone was around doing their thing."

You hum, nodding in comprehension and patiently wait for him to remember more. The mindless humming returns as he tries to recall other parts of the day.

"I guess nothing else was as interesting, 'cause I can't think of anything else."

"Yeah? No pointless arguments today?" You ask, a knowing smirk growing on your lips.

"Nah," Toji responds, a low chuckle following. "That guy just mad dogs me all the time, now."

"How do you even blame someone for losing something you had in your hand a minute ago? That's just ridiculous," you say, shaking your head in disbelief.

"I don't know, but he found a way, and me being the only one around, meant that I did the crime," he says, rolling his eyes at just the memory of that whole situation.

"Lucky you," you tease, earning a click of Toji's tongue.

A notification lights up the screen of your phone, allowing Toji to catch a glimpse of the time. It's too late for him to still be chit chatting with you, and though it pains him to put an end to it, he understands the importance of you getting your rest.

"Well... I should probably get out of here." He squeezes your hands one more time before releasing them. "You need to sleep, I need to go check on the kid, then go sleep, too."

"Can you do me a huuuge favor before you go?" You ask, standing up after him.

"What is it, doll?" He responds, watching as you reach down to pick up the takeout container from the bed.

Your fingers curl around the handle of the spoon and you carve out the perfect bite of cake for him. "Try it, please? Just this tiny piece and then i'll shamelessly scarf down the rest of it."

"Seriously?" He asks, grinning at the way you nod encouragingly, like trying the dessert will be life changing.

"Please? And then you'll have my permission to punt me into the sun," you offer, smiling as kindly as you can to convince him.

"You are so dramatic. Give me that," Toji mutters, taking the spoon from you with the cake nestled in it.

You watch excitedly, from the moment he shovels the dessert into his mouth, to the emotionless chewing, and then finally, the little nods of satisfaction.

"Yeah?" You squeal as quietly as you can, peering at him with the proudest smile ever.

"Yeah," he answers, nodding a couple more times, a smile cracking at how much you're actually struggling to contain your enthusiasm. "Crazy," he mumbles, affectionately.

"I'm gonna dream good, tonight," you tell him, like you know it. Like it's confirmed because of this one little thing he did for you.

"Yeah? Well then, I won't keep you any longer," Toji says, setting the spoon back into the container you're holding.

He takes one step closer to you, eliminating some of the space between you and him by setting a hand on your shoulder. Then, he leans in so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body, and he kisses the top of your head. It's not hasty, it's not a small ghost-like kiss. It's something more intimate—the kind of kiss you give someone when you want them to know you're glad they exist.

"Goodnight." His voice is as soft as the smile he offers you.

"Goodnight, Toji," you respond, reciprocating that kind smile.

With that, he starts his way towards your door. He bends down with a quiet groan to pick up his messy shoes.

"Hey," you call, not able to wait until tomorrow to tell him this last piece of information. Toji turns with a hum, hand still on the doorknob. "Sometimes when Megumi has a nightmare, he'll come over here and tell me about it, and then, I think he's either too scared to go back through the dark alone or he's made himself comfortable, but he ends up falling asleep in here with me."

"Yeah," Toji whispers, almost like he's thinking about asking you to pardon his son. "I wondered about that for a while, too, until I saw him in here, doing his starfish pose with no regard for your space."

"He swats my face with his arm every time," you explain, with a soft laugh. "But it's fine, I'm used to it, already."

"Same," Toji agrees.

"Anyway, I just wanted you to know that you can do the same—come here in the middle of the night, I mean. Or even on nights when you don't want to wake Megumi up by scooting him over—just... whenever you want. It extends to you, is what i'm trying to say," you rephrase.

"You want me to sleep over?" He asks, genuinely, no dirty intent to his words.

"Whenever you want," you repeat.

Toji nods, memorizing your invitation. If you ever slam the door on his face, he'll use your words against you to get you to open the door again.

before you came around, these kinds of thoughts consumed him. chewed through the meat of him every night, before he drowned himself in the last couple sips of the bottle and passed out sideways on the floor. there was no one to catch him. he didn’t want to be caught. and then you showed up; unceremoniously, with little fuss. he doesn’t remember the moment clearly—just the aftermath. the echo of your laugh in a room too dark for joy. his number in your phone, typed with his own hands, even though he swore he didn’t give it out. him, calling you weeks later when he hadn’t answered a single text, hadn’t promised a damn thing, hadn’t even given you his last name, and you still came.

he was awful to you in the beginning. touchy when he wanted something, distant when he didn’t. gone for days, sometimes weeks. didn’t text back. didn’t explain. he expected you to leave, told himself that's what he wanted. expected you to look at him and see what everyone else had: a fun mistake. a lost cause. something to be ashamed of the morning after. and maybe you did see it—but you never treated him like it. most women would've dumped his ass without blinking. moved on to the next guy who remembered birthdays and didn’t smell like musky cologne and blood. but not you. time and time again, when he resurfaced like something rotten dragged in by the tide, there you were—dry towel in hand, quiet smile, no questions. just eyes that saw right through him and still softened anyway.

he let you in. not all at once. it was small things. letting you stay the night instead of slipping out before dawn. giving you his key without saying anything. cooking once, maybe twice, when he realized you skipped dinner waiting on him. it wasn’t conscious. it wasn’t strategic. it was survival. somewhere between fuck and forget, you’d stitched yourself into the parts of him he thought were too far gone.

he still remembers the first time you crawled into his bed like you belonged there. you didn’t ask. you didn’t need to. he was sprawled out like a corpse, half-dressed, barely sober, and you just curled around him like gravity itself had finally decided to be kind. he didn’t really sleep that night—too stunned. too afraid to move, like it might’ve all been a fever dream. but you stayed. and in the morning, when you stretched and kissed his shoulder like it was the most normal thing in the world, he knew something had shifted. fatally. beautifully.

he never asked you to move in. never said the words. you just stopped leaving. toothbrush in the cup. body wash in the shower. your coat hanging next to his like it had always been there. and now he doesn’t seem willing to let you leave. not ever.

not when the nights get too quiet. not when the weight in his chest flares up and threatens to tear him open from the inside out. not when he comes home limping, blood on his hands, and finds you waiting with warm food and gentler eyes than he’s ever deserved.

you’re not just something good in his life. you are his life. his whole goddamn center of gravity. and when he looks at you—really looks—he thinks: this is what the knife was protecting. this is what the bottle was numbing. this is what I almost missed. but he usually only lets himself think those things when he’s drunk, or pretending to be drunk, at least. because sober toji cannot bear that kind of responsibility...can he? he thinks, when you lean back against him in the miniature closet of his apartment, tapping your lip curiously, deciding what to wear, that maybe he can. 

and maybe he’ll always be a little fucked up. maybe he’ll always feel like a man made more from loss than love. but for once—for once—he’s got something worth staying for.

......

it’s a job. that’s it. in. out. blood on his hands, sometimes on his boots. he doesn’t blink anymore. doesn’t pause. this armor is muscle memory now. cold, quiet, efficient.

you don’t ask what he does. maybe you understand the extent of it. maybe you don’t. maybe it’s better you never say it out loud (he knows you know, you're too perceptive not to). but he sees the way you look at him when he comes home late. smell of copper still clinging to him. red scar on his cheek that wasn’t there this morning. you don’t flinch. you just hold the door open.

you make him take his shoes off. wash his hands. sit down. you talk about your day like he just came home from his nonexistent 9 to 5 day job. like he isn’t built from violence. like he’s still a man. and for a moment—just one—he forgets the weight. the blood. the cold. the armor doesn’t come off. not fully. but you make it crack. you make it crumble. and that’s more dangerous than anything he’s ever done.

he doesn’t understand it, the way you love him.

it’s not a performance. not a plea. you don’t look at him like you’re trying to fix him. you just look. like he’s already something worth looking at. like the blood under his nails doesn’t scare you. like the things he’s done aren’t rotting inside him, leaking out through the cracks. 

he’s never been gentle. doesn’t know how. not with his hands. not with his words. but you—you laugh like you don’t notice. you kiss him like you do. and it breaks him. every time.

because you see him. you see the weight, the filth, the violence stitched into his bones—and you stay. you press your fingers to the jagged parts and don't flinch. you cook him breakfast like he isn’t a murderer. you hum while you clean his wounds. you kiss his temple, not his mouth, and he thinks he might actually cry. god, how long's it been since he's done that?

he tells himself it’s weakness. that you’ll leave, eventually. you’ll see what he really is and run. but until then? he’s yours. and that’s the scariest job he’s ever had. what he doesn't fathom quite yet, is that you already know who he really is and you're staying anyways. or maybe he does know that, but he can't possibly understand it; so he won't admit it, to you or to himself.

…… 

some nights, it hits him out of nowhere.

he’ll be halfway through peeling an orange at the counter—shirtless, scarred, domestic in a way he doesn’t feel entitled to—and then he’s not. he’s back in some shitty living room, smoke curling up the wall, a tiny pair of shoes by the door, and no strength in his arms to pick them up.

he wasn’t there. not really. even when he was. too consumed with jobs, debts, the sound of screams in his ears. he knew he was messing it up in real time. watched it all slip, and chose not to stop it. it felt like the only thing he was good at—leaving. you come up behind him now, wrap your arms around his waist like you always do when you know he’s drifting. he doesn’t flinch. he lets you anchor him.

“he used to get scared of thunder,” he says, voice gravel, soft like he’s afraid it’ll shatter. “wouldn’t cry. just…sit real still. like I did.” you rest your cheek on his back, listening. "I didn’t—” he swallows, hard. "I didn’t know how to comfort him. I just told him to sleep through it. like it’d make him tough. like that’s what a good dad says.”

he turns, face unreadable, eyes hollowed by something that’s been gnawing at him for years. “he was a good kid,” he says. "I just…wasn’t a good man.”

you don’t say that’s not true. he wouldn’t believe you. you don’t try to offer him redemption, not outright. just the kind of steadiness he never had growing up, the kind of steadiness he could never offer. the kind of forgiveness that isn’t flashy. it’s just there. “what would you say to him now?” you ask quietly, thumb brushing over the scar on his side.

toji hesitates, stares at the floor like the answer might be buried in the tile. “...that I'm sorry,” he says eventually. like that'd fix anything, he thinks. “that I knew better. and I still left. and that he didn’t deserve that.” his voice cracks at the end. he clears his throat too harshly, like he’s trying to scrape the pain out of it.

you pull him down to sit, and he lets you. he sits between your legs on the floor, head bowed, shoulders too big for the shame he’s trying to fold them under. you just run your hands through his hair. “you did what you knew,” you whisper, and that's all you can say. not you did the right thing, or it's okay because that's not true and you both know it.

he closes his eyes. “doesn’t make it right.”

“no,” you agree. “but it means you'll do better.” he doesn’t respond. but his fingers curl around your ankle like a lifeline. like maybe, just maybe, there’s still time to learn what love looks like—without the leaving. and for tonight, at least, he stays. and who is he kidding? certainly not himself. for as long as you’ll have him, for as long as you allow his presence, he’ll stay. he’d never leave, not until you ask, because that’s what a good man does, right? 

the fear is the heaviest weight of all, and on nights like this, it drags him down under, and he’s so damn tired of swimming. fear of what, he doesn't quite know. fear of his past, though he thinks that sounds stupid. fear of you leaving, and that...that doesn't sound quite as silly to him. that is very, very real.

the grief comes quiet. doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t wail or scream. just settles into his bones like it’s always belonged there—grief for megumi, yes, but also grief for who he could’ve been. for the man he never got to grow into. for the kind of father he might’ve become if the world had given him just one more inch of slack, if he'd allowed himself to share instead of steal, let him give what he had instead of hoard it all to his chest; not just what little money he had, but the love he might've given, the care he might've shown.

you feel it before he even shifts. the way his body stills beneath your touch, the tight coil of muscle in his jaw, like he's holding back a scream that has nowhere to go. he doesn’t cry. of course he doesn’t cry. it’s not in him—not anymore. but you can feel the weight pressing on him, pinning him in place like a second skin.

he’s not thinking about just megumi now. he’s thinking about everything. the years spent as a blade, not a man. the people he’s killed. the blood under his fingernails that never quite washes off. the nights he should’ve slept but stayed awake because closing his eyes meant seeing their faces.

grief, regret, shame—what’s the difference anymore? it all tastes the same going down. bitter. rotting. permanent. you don’t say anything. you just lean into him, your head on his shoulder, your hand pressed flat to his chest like maybe if you’re close enough, you can keep his heart from collapsing in on itself.

"I never thought I’d live long enough to miss anything,” he mutters after a while, voice like sandpaper. “didn’t think there’d be anything worth missing.” his hand is on your thigh, holding tight—not possessive, just scared. of the dark. of the silence. of himself.

“but then you happened,” he says. “and now every time I look at you, I think about what I almost didn’t get to have. what I still don’t deserve.” the fear in his chest flares hot. ugly. alive. the vulnerability makes him nauseous. but he doesn’t look away from you. doesn’t bury it this time. just lets it sit there between you, raw and real.

and you, unshaken, still breathing next to a man the world tried to turn to ash, just whisper, “you do now.” and something in him cracks, quietly. like a storm on the horizon deciding to pass over. just this once.

……

he wakes up some mornings already braced for impact—heart hammering, mouth dry, stomach tight like he’s expecting a bullet instead of breakfast. 

but then there’s the smell of coffee. a plate on the table, still warm. the dishes in the sink—his dishes, his mess—already scrubbed clean. you don’t say anything about it. you never do. never ask him why he leaves nonperishable food out for himself everywhere, why he never eats more than a few bites, why he sometimes disappears for a day and comes back with blood on his soles and that hollow look in his eyes. you just wipe down the counter, hum softly under your breath, and hand him a fork.

he doesn’t know how to say thank you. not in words. not in the ways that count. his gratitude is jagged and half-formed, splintered beneath years of being treated like a monster, like a thing made for killing, not caring. and still, somehow, you never flinch.

he watches the way your hands move when you clean up after him. when you fold his laundry, not because he asked, but because he forgot to. when you take his hand and press it to your chest without speaking, like you know he’s about to spiral without needing an explanation.

it makes him physically ill, the way you love him. not out of pity. not out of naïveté. but wholly. steadily. willingly.

and there are nights he almost pushes you away for it. almost snaps. almost recoils. because he doesn't know what to do with love that doesn't come with strings, or shame, or screaming. but he doesn’t. he won’t. because a good man wouldn’t. and you—you—you’ve never asked him to be anything more than that. you ground him in ways he didn’t think possible. you ask nothing, demand nothing, expect nothing—and somehow that makes it worse. because now he wants to give you everything. the pieces of him still worth offering. the ones not soaked in blood.

so when his fingers twitch toward the doorknob in a moment of panic, when the air gets too tight and the guilt claws at his throat—he stops. breathes. thinks of your hands, your voice, your steadiness. and he stays. because a good man doesn’t run. and for you, he wants to be one. and with you, sometimes he thinks he can be because you’re so sure of him. so confident that he can deserve you, provide for you, earn you. some nights, you even whisper in his ear that he already has. 

……

he’s holding the knife like it’s a weapon. which—technically, it is. but probably not the way you intended when you handed him the cutting board and told him, so sarcastically it peeves him, “you’re on onions tonight, chef.”

toji stares at the onion like it insulted him. then back at you. you’re already halfway through prepping something complicated-looking with spices he couldn’t name if you offered him a million yen and a one-week head start. he mumbles something that might be a curse. might be his last will and testament. and then he starts cutting.

you don’t correct him. not when he massacres the first one. not when he holds the knife like he’s defusing a cursed object. not even when he somehow ends up slicing the onion vertically, horizontally, and diagonally all at once. you just hum along to whatever music you’ve got playing, give him a quick kiss to the jaw when you pass behind him, and toss a handful of salt into the pan like you’re dancing with it. he doesn’t understand how you do that. how you make this place—a cramped kitchen with uneven tile and a broken light—feel like sanctuary. like something holy. and how you look at him—him, of all people—with that stupid, stupid smile every time he gets something right. or wrong.

when he burns the egg, you coo like he’s a toddler. wrap your arms around his waist, press your a kiss to his bare skin—he shivers, it always tickles him—tell him, “you’re learning, baby.” he grunts. scowls. tells you to knock it off. but the tips of his ears go red and he doesn’t push you away. he can kill a man with his bare hands before breakfast. he’s outrun the best of the best. he’s been on every watchlist in japan at least once. but he can’t cook a fucking omelet without your help. and he hates how much he loves that.

because it means he gets to stand next to you, shoulder to shoulder, hips brushing, listening to you ramble about sauces and slicing techniques, and seasoning ratios he’ll never remember. it means he gets to clean the dishes after—not because you ask, but because you cooked, and he’s not a total bastard. not to you. it means, when you curl into him after the kitchen’s dark and clean, your belly full and your hair damp from the steam, he gets to close his eyes and pretend he’s someone else. someone who’s not just good with a knife. someone who knows what it means to make a home. even if he burns half of it along the way.

……

toji knows it’s a joke. this whole thing—the dinners, the quiet nights, the way you kiss the scar on his lip like it’s holy instead of hideous—it’s a cosmic, cruel joke. one day, you’ll wake up. you’ll blink twice. the spell will break. and you’ll see him for what he really is: pitiful, rotten, born wrong.

and you’ll leave. they all do. he doesn’t say it out loud. never has. he doesn’t have to because it lives under his skin, worms its way in between the silences. it clings to his shoulders when he watches you stir cream into your coffee or fold laundry wearing his clothes and humming along to your music that always seems to be playing. it creeps up his spine when you laugh at one of his dry, half-hearted jokes, like he’s actually someone worth listening to. and it chokes him, some nights, when he lies next to you—your head on his chest, your fingers soft on his stomach—and wonders how the hell someone like you ended up here, in his goddamn bed, with him.

you should’ve run by now. and maybe that’s what scares him the most. you haven’t. you know. you know what he’s done, what he still does. you’ve seen him, bloody and broken, dragging himself through the door after a job. you’ve kissed the bruises on his ribs. you’ve scrubbed his blood out of your towels. you’ve seen him with shiu—heard the way he talks, the shit they laugh about. you’ve stood there, gentle and glowing, while toji snarled and bristled like a guard dog when shiu smirked at you a little too long. and still, you stay.

you even made dinner for shiu once. sent him home with leftovers and told toji, “you could be nicer. he’s your friend, isn’t he?” toji had rolled his eyes and grunted something obscene, but he shut up. because whatever you say—whatever you say, whatever you say—is gospel. what you don’t see, what you can’t see, is how much that fucks him up.

because he’s not some battered stray you picked up off the street. he’s not some tragic redemption arc waiting to happen. he’s a killer. he’s toji fushiguro. and the longer you look at him like he’s worth saving, the more it feels like the air around him is thinning—like you’re pumping oxygen into his lungs with every kind word, every kiss, every goddamn meal. and he’s terrified of needing you too much. of building a whole second life out of your kindness, only to watch it collapse when you realize he’s still made of rot and regret underneath.

and yet—there’s this one night. you’re curled up beside him on the couch, watching something light and stupid. you’re both tired. comfortable. and you mutter something under your breath, more to yourself than to him.

"I wish I didn’t have so many freckles. I look like a connect-the-dots puzzle.” he stiffens.

“what?”

you wave him off. “nothing. it’s just funny, how stupid they make me look. I mean, why’d I end up with freckles head to toe and you’re like this tall, muscle pig—”

“don’t say that shit." it’s low. serious. sharp enough to cut. you blink up at him, caught off guard. he doesn’t blink. doesn’t soften. just watches you like he’s daring you to keep talking.

“toji…”

"I mean it.” his eyes are dark, hard. "I don’t wanna hear that kind of shit from you. ever. you got me?”

you soften. smile, faintly. “okay. I got you.”

but it this weight doesn't seem to settle, like his usually does when he's with you. not really. not when he’s still thinking about it an hour later, staring at your profile, at the not-so-faint dusting of freckles across your nose, at the way you bite your lip when you focus. imperfect? you? no. you’re perfect. you’re perfect.

and if he could dig into his chest and rip out every ounce of self-loathing and burn it at your feet just to deserve you, he would. he would. but he doesn’t know how. not yet.

this simple act, though, shows him a side of this relationship he didn't think he'd get the chance to see. for all your beauty, for all your saving grace, he could be right for you, too. as right as you are for him. he'll never be enough for you, nothing could ever convince him of that...but maybe you need him in ways he didn't see before. it's always been about how much he needs you, how he doesn't think he could survive this life anymore without you, as much as he's trained himself not to need anyone. you haven't. you're not afraid of needing him, of desiring him.

so he's found his new purpose: being needed by you. for some reason, as this occurrs to him with you snuggled up to the hard plane of his chest that night, softly snoring, he feels dizzy, light-headed, disoriented even though he's laying down. he feels like he's floating. he feels weightless.

……

the wind howls outside like it’s trying to claw its way in, bending the trees, rattling the walls of your apartment until they groan in complaint. the kind of storm that seeps into your bones, into your dreams, and makes it just a little harder to fall asleep. toji knows that. he’s been home for only a few hours, fresh off a hit that took longer than usual—two, maybe three days of radio silence. longer than you're used to. not longer than he’s used to, but much longer than he’s okay with being away from you. you usually fill those first moments back together with chatter—telling him about every little thing that happened while he was gone, like your voice can patch the aching silence that clings to his skin like a film of sweat.

but not tonight. tonight, you don’t speak. you don’t need to. you’ve already said everything you needed to in the shower, the warm water washing away days of grime and distance. you'd missed him. you always missed him, and something primal inside him lights up at being missed.

he never says it out loud, but it thrills him, this domesticity, this relationship of being dependent on each other. that caveman instinct, the one he pretends he doesn’t have, gnaws at his ribs like a hunger: the need to protect you, to provide, to make sure you're okay. he watches you eat like he's witnessing art, watches your eyes get heavy like he’s earned a trophy.

and god help him, he loves cleaning you. lathering shampoo into your hair like it’s sacred. drying you off, dressing you in one of his sweatshirts—hanging off your frame like a blanket—and those tiny shorts you wear to bed that he thinks are criminally short, though he'd never complain. you brush your teeth next to him and nearly fall asleep against the sink, and all he can do is watch, dazed.

he doesn’t say much. he rarely does. but when he finally crawls into bed next to you, he's a man unraveling.

toji doesn’t cuddle. that’s what he says. but here he is, wrapping himself around you like a vine, tucking your smaller frame against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck as if you’re the one who’s been gone, and he’s trying to remind himself you’re real. he squeezes tighter than he should—just shy of bruising. you make a sleepy noise, more instinct than complaint, and he eases up immediately, but not much. he can’t. he needs this. needs you.

you could leave him.

that thought hits him harder than any punch he’s ever taken. you could just...decide you’re done. not with malice, not with drama. just simply, with love of course, as you do everything. you’d just slip away. like mist. like the dreams he can’t ever seem to hold on to. he presses his nose into your neck and breathes you in. you smell like his shampoo, like his soap, like a person-shaped sanctuary. he presses a kiss to the spot beneath your ear, feather-light, almost reverent. he wants to say something, but doesn’t trust his voice not to crack.

you shift against him, and it takes his breath away. just a twitch. a tiny sleepy sound. but your hand finds his where it's splayed against your waist and holds it like it's second nature. like he belongs there. you don’t even open your eyes.

sometimes, when he comes home late and you’ve already drifted off on his side of the bed, he slides in quietly, trying not to wake you. and without fail, without thought, you reach for him. groggy and half-asleep, you find him, pull him in, curl yourself around him like your body knows he’s home before your brain catches up. he doesn’t always sleep well. years of sleeping with one eye open will do that to a man. but when you pull him close like that, when you press your cheek to his chest and hum in your sleep, he thinks maybe he could unlearn that. maybe he wants to.

he’s not a romantic. never was, never will be. but this? this is romance, in its rawest, ugliest, most basest form. holding you close, letting you sleep while the wind screams outside and the whole world feels like it’s falling apart—that’s what love looks like for a man like him.

you shift again, half-waking, and mumble something into his shoulder. he doesn’t catch it all, but he hears the words “you’re home.” said with relief, like you were worried he wouldn’t be. and suddenly, he can breathe a little easier. he closes his eyes.

……

he almost dies. again.

that’s not hyperbole. you find him half-conscious in the doorway, shoulder wedged against the frame like it’s the only thing holding him upright. his jacket’s soaked with blood—his or someone else’s, you can’t tell yet—and when you lunge forward, hands shaking, toji barely reacts.

his head lolls. your hands catch it before it hits the tile. "jesus christ, toji—"

but he’s not hearing you. not really. his mouth is slack, his breathing shallow. you press your fingers to the side of his throat and feel it—there, barely—his pulse, weak and stuttering, like it’s trying to decide if it wants to keep going. you call his name again, louder this time. your hands are everywhere—his neck, his ribs, his jaw, trying to anchor him to this world—and when his eyes flutter open just enough to register your face, he flinches.

not from pain. not from the blood or the busted rib or the gash over his eyebrow. from you. like he didn’t expect you to be there. like he wishes you weren’t.

you drag him to the couch somehow, your body aching from the effort, your voice breaking as you bark orders he’s too out of it to obey. but he lets you tend to him. lets you strip off the ruined jacket. lets you clean the blood from his temple and cradle his face in your hands like it’s something fragile, something worth saving. he hates that. hates the way your touch makes him feel real. present. human. like a man with something to lose.

he lies there in the dim light, body trembling from pain or shock or the sheer effort of holding himself together, and he watches you. you, barefoot in your sleep shirt, crying softly as you press gauze to his shoulder. you, who should’ve left the first time he came home like this—broken and near-bled dry—but didn’t.

“you shouldn’t have to see me like this,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “not like this. not ever.”

you don’t answer right away. just lean in, forehead pressed to his. "I chose you, toji. I don’t just get to pick the easy parts.”

and that wrecks him. splinters him. because all he can think about—his blood still warm on your hands—is how easily he could disappear. he could do it. tonight. leave while you're sleeping, soft and unsuspecting. take some cash, take nothing, it doesn’t matter. he’s done it before. closed the door so quietly they never even knew he was gone. maybe you’d convince yourself he was a dream. just some violent little hallucination in your bed for a while. maybe that would be kinder. cleaner.

but the thought of you waking up alone makes something inside him howl. you’d cry. you’d blame yourself. you’d look in the mirror and ask what you did wrong. and that? that’s the thing that nails him to the floor.

so instead of running, he says nothing. he lets your fingers card through his sweat-damp hair. lets your lips brush the corner of his mouth, gentler than he deserves. lets you tuck the blanket around his battered frame like he’s something precious, something yours. because he is. god help him.

later that night, you fall asleep upright, curled at his side with your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder. and toji watches you, throat tight, eyes burning.

his head nearly fell off. in the literal sense. and the metaphorical one. and still—you held it steady.

he wants to weep from the absurdity of it, from the wonder. he doesn’t.

……

toji’s hand settled firmly at the small of your back, the warmth of his touch a steady anchor as he guided you through the dull hum of the apartment building’s hallways. the elevator dinged open, and you stepped inside, still blindfolded, your breath catching slightly with the mix of anticipation and nerves curling inside your chest. he was always touching you in some way or another—fingertips brushing your arm, the occasional rough palm at your shoulder—but this was different. this touch was leading, showing, promising something new.

he’d run through dozens of ways to make this moment perfect. carry you bridal style over the threshold, surprising you with a soft “welcome home.” or maybe telling you the night he signed the lease, forging your signature because he couldn't do it legally. no fuss. but in the end, he chose surprise. you’d been working all morning, tired and unaware, and he only had a limited window. shiu had helped him move everything from that shabby, hellhole of an apartment you’d shared—the one with peeling wallpaper, the creaky floors, the lingering smell of smoke and regret—into a small, weather-beaten trailer parked out back.

neither of you had much stuff, and most of the busted furniture he’d left behind. but he’d packed up the things that mattered: the pictures of you, the quiet memories wrapped in faded frames; every cooking utensil you owned, all the cleaning supplies—anything he thought you’d want to keep. it was a collection of fragments from the life you’d built together, crammed into a few boxes like a secret treasure.

now the elevator stopped. toji’s grip tightened slightly as he moved you forward. the jingle of keys sounded before the door clicked open. you still couldn’t see, but you caught the faint scent of something new, clean—unlike any place he’d ever lived before. he guided you inside, his steps steady but deliberate, careful not to rush the moment. when he finally removed your blindfold, you blinked against the flood of light, taking in the space. it wasn’t huge. small, really. you probably always wanted small. but it was clean—no stains on the floors, no moths buzzing in the corners, no stale smoke thickening the air. it smelled fresh, like new paint and hope.

your eyes darted around. the kitchen caught your breath: a real kitchen, with a working oven and microwave, a stovetop free from grime or burnt bits, counters you could actually cook on without worry. no mystery stains, no peeling tiles. it was home. yours and toji’s. and somewhere in that simple, honest space, toji was on his knees, eyes bright with something that looked like gratitude—maybe awe—that he was lucky enough to share this with you.

you walked around, taking it all in, and couldn’t help but scold him a little. “why didn’t you let me help move anything? you must be exhausted.”

his chest swelled, pride making his rough edges soften. “I did it for you,” he said, voice low. “didn’t want you busting your ass over a couple ‘a boxes.”

you unpacked slowly, quietly—unpacking wasn’t glamorous, but every box opened felt like laying down another brick in your new life. you arranged the few things you’d brought, marveling at how this place could feel so alive, so full of potential. you told toji how proud you were, not just of the apartment, but of him. how he’d made this happen, even when everything else seemed like a mess.

he stopped you before you could go on, voice firm, a little rougher than usual. “I ain’t doing nothing for you that you don’t already deserve.” you shook your head, feeling tears prick your eyes. he looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t. instead, you just stood there in that small, bright room, knowing that this—this was home. and he knew that it was because of you.

the next few days stretched long and sweet. you found it hard to leave the apartment you shared. you threw on some paint-stained overalls and a tank top, plastering the walls with broad, uneven strokes of color—rose floral wallpaper for the kitchen, bold and a little bit feminine, just like you.

toji tried to help, but there wasn’t an artistic bone in his body. his idea of decorating was hanging things where they fit and making sure the pipes didn’t leak. he grumbled a little about your wallpaper choice, but deep down, he loved it. loved how you’d made the place yours, the toaster you’d picked out, the way you’d organized everything like a promise for the future. he installed shelves, tightened screws, hooked up the stove and the fridge, always grumbling but never complaining when you asked for his help.

you bought painfully comfortable blankets for the bed, small luxury items—a tiny tv you both knew you wouldn’t use much, a new kettle because god only knows how long you’d gone without one that didn’t sputter or leak. you weren’t quite wealthy enough for this, but for the first time, that didn’t matter. this was your space. your home. no expense too small, no detail insignificant.

one evening, toji came home late from a job. something easy to make ends meet, the kind of work he’d been taking more often lately. you barely blinked at his worn boots or the grease under his nails. you liked these simpler jobs he seemed to be taking, though he was complaining about them. they pay like shit, he’d whine. but money was no longer the constant weight in the pit of his stomach. you’d unconditioned toji’s hoarding habits, slowly but surely. there was no more cash hidden under mattresses or tucked away in boots or secret cupboards. when he needed money, he knew it was there—your joint bank account, two cards that made life easier and more secure. and when the money ran low? you both made do, scrimped by a little, and nothing bad happened.

the only thing toji hoarded these days was you. you lay together in your new bedroom, soft warm lamps casting lazy light across the walls. you talked quietly, about everything and nothing—hopes, plans, memories. his hand found yours under the blankets. he traced slow circles on your skin, breathing in the way your voice filled the room, the way your laughter loosened the knots in his chest. he loved the sound of you. more than anything.

months later, the apartment still smelled like fresh paint and new beginnings. but it also smelled of you and him. the scent of love, hard-earned and fiercely protected. the weight of the past was still there—heavy, yes—but it no longer dragged him down. it anchored him. you had taught him that. anchor, anchor, anchor. and this small space, these simple walls, were your anchor too. together.

……

toji steps inside, and immediately the proof of your shared life is everywhere. two pairs of shoes sit neatly by the door—his heavy boots and your delicate ballet flats—silent witnesses to the everyday rhythm you’ve built together. on the small table by the entrance, two metal water bottles stand side by side, worn but cared for, like trophies of a quiet domesticity he never expected to want.

his eyes drift to the kitchen window above the sink, where a printed photo leans against the glass. it’s from that night at the club—him, sharp-edged and fierce as always, but gazing at you with something softer, something almost sacred. you’re breathtaking, the dress painfully beautiful, your hair done up in intricate curls that frame your face like a halo. he’s not smiling, but the reverence in his eyes speaks volumes, like you’re a goddess only he can see.

the scent hits him next—a perfect mix of your perfume and his natural musk, a heady blend that clings to the air. it wraps around him like a second skin, comforting and intoxicating. he remembers leaving this morning, not even noticing the faint smudge of your lip gloss still lingering on his cheek until shiu caught it mid-tease. that bastard grinned, poking fun, but toji just grumbled, wiped it off, and let a secret smile break through. yeah, suck it sideways, shiu, he thought, I’ve got a girl who loves me at home, and you don’t.

this—this was different. it used to scare him, this softness, this intimacy. the idea of someone caring for him, of him caring back, shook him to his core. but now? he craves it. he asks when you’ll be home, not because he needs to control your schedule, but because the answer settles him. he assumes you’ll be sleeping in his bed, and when you are, the room feels whole.

at night, he plugs in your laptop without a word. he eats the lunches you make, savoring every bite like it’s a love letter. in the kitchen, the two of you stand wrapped in each other’s arms, chores forgotten in the warmth of your closeness, sharing soft kisses like secrets no one else knows. it’s not just a place. it’s a life. it’s home.

……

you don’t ask much of him. not really. toji works—hard. not the kind of job with clocks or breaks or performance reviews, but the kind that leaves blood in your mouth and bruises blooming beneath your ribs. hunting. tracking. killing. it’s brutal, and it's not without its toll. there’s a version of him—older, colder—who might’ve used that as an excuse to do nothing else. a man who would've let you clean up after him, cook for him, nurse him back to health while he rotted on the couch like a king on a crumbling throne. but not this version. not anymore.

this version keeps the living space clean. your living space. he wipes down the counters, sweeps the floors, keeps things tidy with quiet, obsessive precision. he doesn’t just help cook because he enjoys watching you zone out while you dice vegetables, even though that’s a major draw. he does it because it feels good. it feels like providing, and for the first time in his life, that word doesn’t taste sour in his mouth, it’s not just financial means. he likes knowing you’re full and warm and safe. he likes the idea of taking care of you, he relishes in it.

it took him longer than it should’ve to realize: the more time he devotes to taking care of you, the less he has to spend inside his own head. the less space regret takes up in his chest. it’s not healing, not really, but it’s something. a survival tactic that smells like lavender laundry detergent and sizzles like garlic in butter. sometimes you let him cope this way. sometimes you don’t. you’ve said it before—you’re not here to fix him. if this is how he wants to keep the darkness at bay, you’ll allow it. but you won’t let him kill himself in the process.

you find him dozing off on the couch, sprawled sideways in the dim afternoon light. not a rare sight—but it’s rare that he doesn’t immediately snap upright the second he hears your key in the lock. that worry itches at the back of your mind. you set your bag down, shoes off, quiet as can be. then you pad over and settle beside him, curling a hand around the back of his head. your nails graze gently through his scalp, soothing, grounding. it’s a lullaby touch—but instead of sinking deeper into sleep, it stirs him.

he blinks awake fast, guilt chasing the sleep from his bones. “shit,” he mumbles, dragging a hand down his face. “fuck, I forgot. I was supposed to—groceries—I'm sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I meant to—” his voice is thick with sleep, apology pouring out like a busted faucet, but he’s distracted. you’re smiling. soft and sweet, like you’re indulging a child. your fingers are still in his hair, still combing through the overgrown strands, and you’re thinking it might be time for a trim—but you don’t say it, he doesn't want to hear it. you just let him talk, even though you’re not sure he even knows what he’s saying.

you know what he means, though. he’s terrified of disappointing you. it clings to him like a second skin. not because he thinks you’ll scream, or slam doors, or walk out—but because he knows you won’t. because you’re kind to him. and that is infinitely more devastating. you keep smiling. and it guts him. why aren’t you mad? why aren’t you yelling? why isn’t this devolving into an imperfect argument, filled with bitter silence and slammed cupboards? why aren’t you leaving him—not just over the groceries, but over everything?

you hold out your hand.

“c’mon,” you say, voice light as the breeze coming in through the cracked window. “let’s go to that taco cart for dinner.”

he blinks. “but…what about…we were gonna cook. the list—the stuff you needed—”

“we’ll grab it after,” you shrug. like it makes perfect sense. and to you, it does. you reach for your bag again, grab your keys, and press his wallet into his hand. “then we’ll come home and go to sleep.” you raise a brow, giving him a look that’s more affectionate than scolding. “someone needs it.”

it’s so simple. so casual. so…domestic, it makes parts of him shrivel up in disgust. it’s sickening, in the best way. your tenderness feels like someone peeling off his armor with bare hands. not a weapon in sight. no bullets, no blades. just you. and you’re deadlier than anything he’s ever fought. not with a gun to his head or a knife to his throat, not with a target spotting him from his spot, not during any sex he’s ever had, has he felt more vulnerable, more naked than he does when you’re smiling up at him like that. 

he can’t speak. he just looks at you, bleary and stunned, like you’ve slayed him with a smile. he wants to ask—why aren’t you mad? why do you always forgive me? why are you so good to me? but you’ve told him before. when you’re brave, when you think he needs to hear it—when you just want to say it—you’ll look him in the eyes and say: because I love you, because you deserve it, because I want to. he’d begged you to stop, once. voice cracked and fists clenched, like it physically hurt to hear. but you didn’t. you never do. and though it makes him squirm, sometimes miserable, it also makes him feel—blissfully, painfully—happy. you’re already at the door now, holding it open with a look. you coming? he stands slowly. he doesn’t say a word. he would follow you anywhere.

……

the first time you ask to cut his hair, he scoffs. the second time, he ignores you. the third time, you plead—and something about the tilt of your head, the way your fingers curl around his wrist and your voice goes soft with sincerity—it breaks past whatever wall he's built around himself.

so now he’s here, in your bathroom, perched reluctantly on a low stool that still doesn't make him small. even sitting, he’s nearly your height. his knees brush against the vanity, arms crossed loosely over his chest, like he’s trying not to look too invested. he’s not. Probably. but he lets you touch him.

your fingers start slow, carding through his thick black hair, tugging gently as you tilt his head this way and that. he grunts under his breath, but doesn’t move. not away, at least. the pads of your fingers massage his scalp as if you’ve forgotten what you came here to do, nails skimming gently, almost apologetically.

“this a haircut,” he mutters, “or a spa day?” you smile, but say nothing. you keep touching him like that—light, aimless, reverent—and he thinks maybe this is some form of slow death. or slow mercy. he can't decide. he should tell you to knock it off. to hurry up. he opens his mouth to say as much. nothing comes out.

instead, he leans into your touch, almost involuntarily. his eyes slip half-lidded. his shoulders—always so tense—lower by degrees. you haven’t even made the first cut yet, and he already feels like you’re disentangling him.

eventually, you start snipping. the sound of shears, soft and rhythmic, punctuates the silence. hair falls to the tiled floor in quiet flurries, dark strands catching the light like feathers. you move with surprising skill—no hesitation, just quiet confidence as you circle around him. he tracks you in the mirror until he doesn’t. at some point, his eyes close again.

and the strangest thing happens. he relaxes. fully, wholly, in a way he didn’t know he was capable of. your touch is so practiced, so sure. he lets himself imagine—for just a second—that he’s something soft enough to deserve this. that the hands moving through his hair aren’t just being careful. they’re being kind.

the air smells like your shampoo and your skin. you’re breathing softly, and the rhythm of it is lulling, almost hypnotic. he feels lighter already, and not just from the hair. like something else is being cut away. something heavy. something he’s been dragging around for years. you finish before he wants you to. his eyes open slowly at the sound of your voice. “all done,” you say. there’s a flicker of pride behind your smile, a quiet triumph like you’ve just completed a work of art. you point to the mirror. “what do you think?”

he looks. it’s…the same, mostly. the same rough cut he’s always worn. nothing fancy. nothing new. but there’s something about it now, something that wasn’t there before. it’s yours. you did this. with your hands, your touch, your steady love. he doesn’t say much—he never does—but the look in his eyes is molten.

“yeah,” he says, voice a little too quiet for him, almost a whisper. “looks good.”

you beam. he looks away quickly like it burns to witness you that happy over something he can’t even explain. what he doesn’t think is this: he’s had a hundred haircuts in his life. barbershops, backroom shears, blade-over-sink jobs. none of them made him feel like this. like he could close his eyes and let someone else take care of him. like it wasn’t just about cutting hair, but about cutting away the pieces of him that no longer serve him.

he doesn’t say any of that. he just sits there, feeling weightless. and when you lean in to brush the stray hairs off his cheek, he closes his eyes again—just for a moment. because this is what mercy feels like.

......

toji didn’t know shiu was dating. like—dating dating. sure, they’d both had their fair share of late-night texts and bar meetups that ended in someone else's bed. it was practically a hobby back then. occasional hookups weren’t newsworthy. temporary girls came and went. but this? a double date? toji hadn't thought shiu had it in him. hell, he hadn’t thought he had it in him. but then you slept over that first night and... that was it. like something clicked into place. like his body had been hardwired to want you there, limbs tangled in his sheets, warmth soaking into the mattress. he never looked back.

and somewhere along the way, shiu must’ve seen that. maybe he saw how you curled into toji on public benches, or how toji texted you back with uncharacteristic quickness. maybe he saw how soft toji looked when he watched you talk, like you were made of glass and starlight and he was just a guy trying to be worthy of either.

now here they all were. a table for four, a place with real lighting and menus that didn’t come laminated. it wasn’t exactly michelin-star territory, but it was definitely not their usual corner food cart with grilled meat skewers and soda cans. the place even had cloth napkins.

toji had taken a long moment to size up the woman shiu arrived with. pretty. confident. comfortable in her own skin. her nails were the kind that made clacking sounds on phone screens and held wine glasses like weapons. she kissed shiu on the cheek and adjusted his collar like she’d been doing it forever. and shiu? that cocky bastard just grinned, let her. pride throbbed through toji’s chest unexpectedly. he hadn’t realized he’d been the blueprint. not that he’d ever say that out loud.

you slid into the booth beside him, and instinctively, toji threw his arm across the back of the seat behind you. he didn’t even realize he was doing it until the waiter showed up for the third time in ten minutes—refilling your glass like it was the holy grail and completely ignoring everyone else’s. toji glared. the kind of glare that held no subtlety. he didn’t like the way the guy looked at you. didn’t like the fake smile or the way he angled his hips toward you while pretending to check on the table. toji’s hand dropped from the booth to your waist, a silent little minefield of possessiveness. you leaned into it, like it was nothing new.

"think our waiter wants to fight you," you murmured, sipping from the now suspiciously full glass.

"let him try," toji muttered. his fingers tightened slightly at your hip, like he was physically anchoring you to him.

meanwhile, you and shiu’s girl hit it off like wildfire. she was funny. you were funnier. the two of you commiserated about how the boys drove like hellspawn and never rinsed the damn dishes. you swapped book titles, music playlists, compared manicure preferences. she gasped over your new apartment and sighed theatrically about how she was begging shiu to move.

“he still lives above that loud-ass karaoke bar, right?” you asked.

“yes, and it gets worse,” she said, flicking her eyes toward shiu. “he insists he likes the ‘ambiance.’”

toji barked a laugh, low and guttural. “she’s got you pegged.” shiu rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

you kept talking. they kept listening. at some point, toji noticed he and shiu were just…watching. you two were in your own world, giggling over who knows what. your eyes sparkled under the restaurant’s soft lighting. shiu’s girl tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled at something you said. and suddenly, toji felt it—that sharp twist of how the hell did we get here?

he caught shiu’s eye across the table. they didn’t say anything. didn’t need to. the silence between them was filled with mutual disbelief and unspoken realization. how the fuck did a couple of losers like us get so damn lucky? they’d been wreckage not long ago. men built from smoke and bad decisions. and now here they were—sitting in some semi-fancy restaurant with two women who loved them, who laughed and teased and didn’t look the least bit afraid of their shadows.

toji blinked slowly, like maybe this would vanish if he looked too fast. like it was all some trick of the light.

after dinner, shiu mentioned they lived nearby, and it felt natural to walk. the streets were quieter here, less chaotic than downtown. you all stopped at a late-night gelato place on the corner—just to “peek,” according to shiu’s girl. you got a small cup of chocolate hazelnut and fed toji a bite off your spoon. he pretended to scowl. you did it again just to annoy him. he let you.

shiu’s pda was subtle, but it was there. an arm draped low around her waist, thumb brushing idle circles into the curve of her hip. protective, sure. but also a little amazed. like he still couldn’t believe she existed. the four of you meandered toward their apartment, voices low and full of warmth. toji didn't talk much. he didn’t need to. the warmth of your hand in his said enough. when you got to shiu’s building, the goodbyes stretched long—talks of next time, maybe a game night, maybe cooking something weird and homemade. she hugged you tightly. you liked her. you could tell.

then it was just you and toji again, walking toward the metro. he noticed you were quieter now. the city around you was humming in a low buzz, but your steps slowed near the stairs that led underground.

“I’m happy for him,” you whispered, almost like you weren’t sure if you should say it. your voice barely carried above the city’s rhythm. toji looked down at you. your hair was blowing a little in the wind. you looked tired but beautiful. soft. still glowing from the night.

he gave a small grunt that barely masked the emotion behind it. “yeah?” he said. “me too.”

the train station lights flickered softly as you descended, the sound of your shoes echoing lightly against the stairs. he held your hand the entire time, firm and unyielding. you leaned into him, shoulder against chest, warmth on warmth. there was a time when the idea of domesticity would've made him scoff. the word itself sounded foreign—fragile, like something you could snap in half. but now? now it was everything he had. everything he wanted. and seeing it bloom in someone like shiu, someone just as wrecked and unfinished as he’d once been?

it made toji believe a little more in miracles. or at least in second chances.

that night, as the train rumbled forward and the city blurred by in streaks of yellow light, toji didn’t say much. but he held you tighter. because love like this—real love—it didn’t need words to be understood. it just needed staying power.

……

toji comes home late tonight, the kind of late that smells like dust and smoke and too many footsteps running from something worse than pain. he’s not bleeding—at least not enough to worry you—but every muscle in his body is screaming exhaustion. it’s a deep, bone-deep tired that nothing fixes except the kind of peace you wouldn’t think he deserves.

you’re there. you shouldn’t be. not with him like this, not with him angry at the world, angrier at himself, not after the day he's had. but here you are anyway, and he’s not letting the moment slip through his fingers. he grabs your wrist, hard enough to anchor his weight down, to keep from collapsing. his tall frame bows down, nearly breaking his own rules about keeping his distance, dipping his face into the curve of your neck. your scent—soft, warm, a strange kind of sanctuary—hits him like a punch he didn’t know he needed. he breathes it in, slow, like it’s the only medicine that’ll put the fire out.

you feel the weight of him as he presses you back against the doorframe, steady and relentless. it’s not just fatigue—it’s loneliness wrapped up in muscle and scars, something almost desperate. he’s letting the world fall off him here, pound by agonizing pound.

you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. he just holds you, steady and silent, like he’s trying to memorize the way your skin feels beneath his calloused hands. sometimes, when toji lets his guard slip, he lets you hold him—wrap your arms around his shoulders, cradle the mess of pain and pride. but not tonight. tonight, he’s possessive, almost feral in his need to claim this moment, this quiet, this fragile tether to something good.

you sink into the couch, and he lets you stay there, letting his head rest heavy against your collarbone, your heart, your existence. hours stretch out, wordless and raw. just two broken people breathing, one holding on because he’s too tired to fight, and the other holding him because somehow, that’s enough.

he’s never going to be a saint. hell, he’s never wanted to be. toji isn’t built for white picket fences or sunday morning brunches. but he’s yours and you’re his.

he can’t undo the past—not the nights he wasn’t there for megumi, not the hands that pulled triggers, not the ghosts that haunt him in the dark. he doesn’t believe in miracles, only in the small victories: better hits, higher pay, more room in his heart for this love you seem to freely give, a better ability to reciprocate it. 

it’s not about the dreams he's never given the time of day. it’s about the ones you have—the quiet kind that don’t need fancy fences or spotless lawns. and yeah, maybe that’s why, no matter how hard he tries, he’s never quite left the job. it’s the life he knows, the path he walks. but he’s learning to walk it better, with less weight crushing his steps.

he cooks now. sometimes burns the vegetables. cleans without being asked. takes care of himself, because taking care of you means being a man who’s still standing at the end of the day. because taking care of you means taking care of himself, and that's all he's ever wanted to do, really.

by god, he’ll die trying to take care of you—in every way he knows how, in every way you’ll let him.

the weight he’s carried with him for so long—the guilt, the shame, the regret—it doesn’t vanish. but around you, it loosens. just a little. like a heavy coat in the summer heat, slipping off, forgotten on the floor.

and in that quiet space, between your hands and his scars, toji finds something he never thought he could hold onto: love. love is a weight of it’s own, a kind of weight he’s more than happy to bear.