.

This panel is so so painful. Aki is often the voice of reason in the manga/the one pulling the dumb faces making jokes.

This panel shows a completely different and painful side of his life.

‘Any means necessary’

‘Almost everyone asked for something in return’

‘I did things I can’t even joke about’

These words coupled with him shirtless and curled in on himself, I just want to protect him. I think this glimpse into his hidden life explains (but in no way excuses) his actions with Haruki.

I think he sees sex as something people take, something they want, something he has to do. I think aki himself has been in situations where he felt like he had to do it regardless of his own feelings.

He’s so ashamed of himself in this panel and all I want to do is tell him he’s not worthless and those people that ‘wanted something in return’ for giving a bed to a teenager desperate for a place to shelter are the worthless ones.

―I used to know two people, and your eyes reminded me of theirs. What happened to them? They disappeared.

He can’t do this again.

Hopeful cerulean eyes try to catch his amber ones, waiting for him to speak. Geralt hates this. He never knows what to say to his tribute.

Fuck, tribute, the word twists his insides, and a slow burn creeps up his throat, his jaw clenches. Those wide eyes catch the tiny movement the boy, no, the young man, is tense, flighty, good the practical side of his mind thinks we might be able to work with that.

He swallows trying to ease that burn, he knows he needs to speak ‘Jaskier,’ the tribute’s head jerks slightly in surprise. He clears his throat ‘district 4?’ he gets a nod, Jaskier bites into his bottom lip, it makes him look devastatingly young. Geralt thinks he might be sick.

‘Uh, Geralt?’ he offers a slight nod, Jaskier pushes on emboldened by the acknowledgement, his tension easing slightly ‘I…well it’s nice to meet you I guess, well maybe it would be nicer in different circumstances…I mean not that I’m not honoured to represent…,’

‘Stop,’ Geralt barks. The man’s running mouth snaps shut. He continues softening his tone ‘don’t do that, this is not an honour, this is a death sentence.’

Expecting to hear a sigh of defeat or the build to tears Geralt is surprised to see the amused quirk of Jaskier’s lips instead ‘charming, it is lovely to see how much faith my mentor has in me after what? two minutes!’ his eyes are dancing, Geralt feels himself being pulled in. The Capitol will love him. Another wave of nausea hits.

He maintains a careful blank expression and forces himself to keep Jaskier’s gaze ‘it’s not about faith, it’s about the statistics, you are one of the weakest to be chosen this year. You’ll probably be one of the first to die.’ He says it in a cold, detached manner. He tries to be frank with his tributes, it’s the least they deserve. He’s read up on Jaskier, he isn’t completely useless.

Jaskier: 19 years old, from the fishing district, his skills, singing and swimming. He may be beautiful, he may be charming but he’s not strong, he’s never lifted a weapon, he won’t last long. Geralt needs to prepare himself to see the life drain from yet another pair of hopeful young eyes in that godforsaken arena. And if, by some miracle, he were to win Geralt can already see the creatures of the capital, the aristocrats, the lords and the ladies clawing at each other for a piece of him. He grimaces, he doesn’t know which scenario turns his stomach more.

Jaskier, god damn him, still looks amused ‘wow, that’s a bit too much doom and gloom for me!’ he waves a hand as if dismissing Geralt’s statement entirely, ‘I’ll just have to defy your statistics,’ he says it in such a way that for a blissful moment Geralt is convinced. But it’s only for a second, the train carriage lurches and Geralt snaps out of it, no he needs to prepare them both.

It always hurts him, how could it not, watching youth after youth die needlessly in the arena.

Geralt can already tell this one is different, beautiful and defiant, Jaskier beams at him. It’s almost blinding, Geralt turns from him, something tightening in his chest.

God he thinks maybe this one will finally be the death of me.

Only a few minutes left, the rush of costumers getting the last minute groceries they forgot about already gone. Soon she can get home and finish wrapping the gifts she got for the kids. Maybe she'll bake a bunch of cookies, too. Vanilla butter sugar, she's thinking.

The noise of a glass breaking disturbs her train of thought. She hears a muffled curse. She sighs and walks to the aisle.

A bunch of shards and sad looking pickles lie on the floor.

"Sorry, Ma'am," Billy Hargrove says to her, all smile and flirt. As if he's not her son's age, but about to ask her out.

"Oh, sweetheart, this happens. Don't worry about it." She already brought the dustpan and a mop with her.

"What do you want for it?" He isn't talking about money. His crooked grin waivers a little. A shiver runs down her spine, because the expression seems well rehearsed - and it's utterly fake. She doesn't want to think about why a kid like Billy behaves like that.

She tries to school her expression. "You're alright, it's just a glass of pickles."

Relief flashes across Billy's face. "Thanks," he says, sounding almost unsure. Like he's expecting a trap. It makes her chest tighten.

"I'll get goin'." He's holding himself stiffly, favoring his left side.

Joyce squints her eyes. She should let it go. "Take another glass then."

Billy's eyes dart from her to the pickles and back. He grabs the smallest glass. "I..." He clears his throat. "I can't pay for it."

She aches. The kid isn't getting groceries for Christmas, looking lonelier each second they're standing under the flickering lights. She wonders if there's something hidden his pockets, too, but decides not to ask.

"Just take it." She smiles encouraging, ignoring her sinking stomach.

He doesn't look at her, but cups the jar carefully. Like it's precious.

"Thanks, Ma'am."

"It's Joyce." She grabs the mop tighter, because she's considering to hug him and doesn't want him to get that weird smile again.

"Joyce," he repeats. "Merry Christmas, Joyce."

He's opening the door, the bell chiming, when she can't hold it back anymore.

"Wait!"

Billy freezes, knuckles around the jar whitening.

"Do you have a place to go to?" She fears she knows the answer already, so she doesn't give him time to lie. "Because I'm making cookies and there's always too many and Will has this thing about not liking ginger bread, but Jonathan loves it, so I'm-"

"What?" Billy looks confused and so fucking young. Joyce wonders when the last time was he had anybody care.

"You can spend Christmas with us," she offers. "It's freezing outside-"

His face closes off. "I got a place to go to."

Billy obviously doesn't.

"A friend's place?" she asks gently, thinking of all the times in her life a "place" used to be a backyard, a car, someone's garage. "A house?"

Billy chews on the inside of his cheek. Joyce tries to be patient.

"Who the fuck doesn't like ginger bread?" he asks after a while.

"Everybody's different," she shrugs, trying to fight her grin and failing. "It's okay."

Billy stares at her like he can't figure her out. She's used to it. People don't get her all the time.

"Okay," he echoes carefully. "Okay," he repeats and nods at her.

Tension bleeds out of her. She couldn't stand the thought of the kid being alone and cold somewhere.

Cw: abuse discussion/injuries

It’s 2am.

Eddie stares at the ceiling, tendrils of smoke drift lazily in the air, watches as they weave, twirl, dance then dissipate. He grimaces a little, even he’s unimpressed by his own need for nicotine at such an ungodly hour, “fuckin addict,” he mumbles softly to himself as he takes another drag.

He does need it tonight though, he reminds himself, needs to steady the constant jitter, the constant itch that lives just below his skin, he wants to feel grounded, calm, steady, for this.

Another inhale, then more smoke streams out on a sigh. He looks to his left, to the golden boy bathed in silver light, stretched out, eyes closed, lips lightly parted.

He looks like a god, Eddie thinks.

And Eddie could write, he could write anything in this moment, poetry, lyrics, love letters for his golden boy bathed in silver light. But he’s not going to, not tonight, tonight they need to talk.

Because that silver light catches not only his beauty but also his pain. Catches the inky bruises that spatter his chest, that seep into each other, that meld into an indeterminable array of purples, greens and blues. Catches the barely there threads of webbing scars that twine intricate patterns into his skin. And Eddie sees them, he sees them with a lump in his throat, a stone he can’t swallow no matter how hard he tries.

And Billy won’t speak, won’t speak of important, serious matters in the hours of the day, but in the night…in these hours sometimes he’ll sigh and say something so raw, so tender, so sweet, that Eddie finds he can’t quite breathe.

These hours, there’s something about them, something about the soft, secret hours of an early morning, when the air is still and the sky is black. Something that cracks them open, that lets the hard things out.

Eddie stares a little longer before he starts to speak, “who was it?” he says it gently. It’s a simple question, one that has no weight if your asking something mundane like, who ate the last biscuit? who dropped the milk? But it’s one that feels like lead when you ask it of a boy who lies next to you littered with wounds.

Billy keeps his eyes closed, “who was what?” he murmurs back, his voice husky with sleep.

Eddie sighs, takes another drag, looks down eyes brimming with sadness as he whispers back, “you know what, darling.”

They sit in the silence of the night for a beat, Billy takes his own deep breath, opens his eyes. Watery blues meet warm brown, they sit suspended for a moment. And Eddie can almost hear Billy say, god Eds please don’t ask.

Eddie licks his lip, stubs out his cigarette on the bedside table and oh so slowly reaches out a hand, gives Billy time to stop him, he doesn’t.

When a light finger touches, the tiny circle of a scar seared just above Billy’s heart a small whimper is followed by one word, “cigarette,” his own heart contracts painfully in his chest. He moves on traces the edge of a thicker line that curves from his back, a shaky inhale followed by “belt,” and god Eddie wants to kill someone, he breathes out slowly traces a thin short scar that runs across his bicep, Billy presses his eyes shut, a tear tracks down his cheek, melts into his pillow “glass,” he whispers, a little cracked.

They continue, on and on, Eddie’s touches silent questions, Billy's words, heart wrenching answers. They keep on until Eddie can’t bear it, until Billy can’t bear it, until Billy’s pillow is salt soaked with their combined tears.

The questions stop, and Eddie goes back, places a gentle kiss on Billy’s lips, then on the burn, then the on the belt, then on the glass, Eddie grits his teeth. He continues, he kisses, he kisses and he kisses and Billy threads a gentle hand into Eddie’s hair and smooths his thumb softly over sensitive hidden skin.

Eddie keeps kissing, presses his love over scars, into bruises, focuses on the love he feels for his broken boy bathed in silver light, pushes the anger away for now.

A little later, he feels Billy tense, sees him work the muscles of his throat, as he pushes out an answer “Neil,” he says it staring at the ceiling, he says it with a crack in his voice, with tears on his cheeks and his hand in Eddie’s hair.

Eddie can see him teetering on that edge, gets ready to catch him when he falls. It doesn’t take long, it’s Eddie’s response, a gentle cracked “oh sweetheart,” that sends him crumbling into sobbing, gasping breaths. But it’s ok because when Billy breaks, Eddie’s right there with him.

Eddie Munson is in love.

And Billy doesn’t think he has the strength to weather it this time.

Because it goes like this, Eddie will wallow and wail and wax poetry about a love not returned. He’ll twist himself up inside, gnaw at chipped polish, pace Billy’s tiny trailer, throw his hands in wild uncoordinated movements, voice catching, eyes sparkling as he describes a stranger.

And Billy will sit, Billy will nod, Billy will smile, Billy will comfort and then Billy will break.

Again.

And the thing is this, the thing is Billy likes this stage, god help him, because at least here Eddie is still his, still his wild-eyed romantic, his flailing fantastical artist, his world-weaving word master.

It’s the next stage that hurts the worst. Eddie will muster up the courage and speak to them and they’ll be captivated and Billy will watch, he’ll watch them fall with blurred vision and a clogged throat.

He can’t do it again.

But he has to, because Billy can’t leave him, can’t leave this crazy metalhead who makes his world seem so so much more just for being in it.

So he’ll take it, he’ll take it and take it and take it until he can’t anymore.

So Eddie Munson is in love again.

And Billy knows it. He knows it because Eddie’s been rasping out a beautiful song about sunshine and saltwater recently and Billy can’t bring himself to ask. He’ll know the answer soon enough.

So instead he lies back, presses his foot against Eddie’s thigh as the man plucks at his guitar working over another lyric about ocean-eyes, his rich tone stroking up through Billy’s body as he lets himself sink into it, eyes drifting closed.

He’ll never be Eddie’s muse, but god at least he’s got this.

…

The thing about Eddie is this, he falls in and out of love with a little bit of somebody everyday. He loves life, loves love, loves laugh lines, loves scars, loves the sparkle of an eye, loves the passion of a voice, loves people.

But there’s one boy, one sunshine salt-soaked boy whose eyes hold entire oceans that he’s been in love with since the dawn of time.

A boy who holds storms inside, who sometimes rails and rages against the world so hard that he almost dashes himself on the rocks of it.

A boy who can be so sweet in the sunset, whose cheeks dimple and flush when Eddie says something stupid just so he can see the spectacle of it.

That boy lies on his bed as he sings of sunshine and saltwater.

And he hopes Billy doesn’t notice the hitch in his voice as that foot presses against his thigh. Hopes he doesn’t notice the quiver in his voice as he sings of a love he knows won’t ever be returned.

He stares down at golden sunlight-dappled skin, red lips and shuttered eyes. He takes a breath, plucks another string.

Billy will never be his, but god at least he’s got this.

AKI HAYAKAWA ✧ Chainsaw Man (2022)

Enemies are enemies. We’re only using them. I have no intention of getting friendly with one.

Bonus: Aoi hair study