(〜^∇^)〜

You pulled at the fabric around your neck, eyeing the man stood ordering a black coffee, trying not to meet his dissatisfied gaze. From the sleeve of your thin cardigan, you plucked a stray bit of lint as you pressed your lips together feeling the lip balm you had applied thin out, dryness creeping back across your skin. You were trying. Not like he would ever notice. Or care. That’s what you thought at least. Yet you still tried to get his attention, any kind of positive attention.

“Next.” The barista called you forward, offering you a warm smile, meeting your eyes. You gave him your order, thanking him before passing over your change. You didn’t even other to check over your shoulder to see if the person you had come with was still there, or if he had retreated to a booth to sulk over his notebook because I’d rather, we just explore, this is a waste of time and money you should have eaten beforehand.

You had pestered him to get something to eat before venturing out in the summer evening to a local abandoned children’s hospital, and despite his protests Cain finally had to give in when you complained of low blood sugar after tripping over in front of him.

You sighed to yourself hearing the click of his tongue echo across your memory.

“Something up?” The barista asked as he plated up a slice of cake for you, passing it over the counter. “You seem glum.”

You shook your head. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

“That’s good then.” His previous warm smile crept back over his face, “you’ve got a nice smile, don’t lose it.”

Your cheeks burned as you adverted your gaze, embarrassed at his flirting. It was one compliment, but it was enough to make you shamefully duck your head.

“Oh? Thanks. You as well.” You mumbled picking up your drink and plate, but the barista was not done.

“You look nice. I assume you must be doing something special tonight, all dressed up? I hope it brings you some joy.”

“Oh!” Your cheeks burned, “Um, thanks. I’m not really… doing anything that special.” You said fumbling with the plate of cake. “To be honest I bet you might end up having a more interesting evening than me.” You laughed awkwardly as the words tumbled out of your mouth. The barista had a kind expression, and a warm disposition that was refreshing against Cain’s gloomy vibe, it was enough to perk you up just a little, and the barista noticed.

He laughed leaning in, “I doubt that, but maybe we can both find something interesting to do together later if you’re still bored? Just let me know, I don’t want to keep your friend waiting any longer for you.” As he said those words he pointed to behind you. Turning your head, you were surprised to see Cain standing behind you still, holding his black coffee with a very dissatisfied look on his face. Daggers pointed at both of you with his stare.

“Where do you want to sit?” He asked dryly.

You turned back to the barista, but he had already excused himself and got busy cleaning up mess from previous orders. “Window booth?” You asked feeling embarrassed he had been there the whole time, though you were not sure why.  Cain turned quickly heading to sit down, slumping into a booth seat as you awkwardly followed behind. He slumped down into his seat, setting his drink down rather harshly causing it to spill slightly over the top, dripping down across the table. Yet, Cain paid it no attention as he set his familiar black notebook out in front of him away from the spillage and began his regular intense and abstract recordings. You gave a silent sigh, adjusting your skirt as you sat down, glancing out through the window to the world bathed in a rose-coloured glow. Your fork dug into the cake but for whatever reason you no longer felt that hungry. Just tired.

Time passed, not a lot of it, only a few minutes, and yet as every second passed you felt as if some force was pulling you away from Cain, who only shrunk away further into himself, his pen ever so slightly getting more and more aggressive as it scratched across page after page. Something told you there was a very intense conversation taking place in his head.

Maybe even an argument.

You dropped your fork onto the plate, finishing the last bite of you cake and braced yourself to hit a wall that you were still going to run towards either way. “So, you’ve already been to this place, right? What can I expect?” You forced a friendliness into your voice, scooting yourself to the edge of your seat and closer to the table. Of course there was no reply.

Yet.

“If it’s a children’s hospital, do you think the spirits would like it if we brought some toys, as like offerings since we’re going to poke around and such?”

“I don’t ‘poke’ around. Besides spirits have no need for material objects destined to rot in landfill when the building is inevitably demolished.” Cain’s voice was scratchy, like a record warped in summer heat. He still refused to look up from his notebook, and you knew better than to point that out.

“What about some sweets then?”

“Wasteful.”

“Come on, help a girl out here.” You teased, feeling yourself grow a little more comfortable as the awkwardness of earlier passed. “I want do the right thing when we go-“

“If you’re going to be this bothersome, I’d rather you just leave. I’m not going to hold your hand as if this is some novelty experience.” He was quick to snatch away from you that passing moment of feeling settled, his eyes flicking up to yours to take in the fading smile on your face, not even hiding the satisfaction caused from his spite. “Sorry if that makes me boring and this even less interesting for you.”

Clutching the edge of the table with both hands you ducked your head ever so slightly, something uncomfortable wriggling inside of you. “What’s your problem? If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”

Cain dropped his pen on the surface of the table and sat up straight, crossing his arms. “Maybe.” He quipped, tongue razor sharp, defences up. Of course he was ready with them, having rehearsed them all before hand in his head in that imaginary argument you had predicted. I should have known better- wait. What were you even thinking? Why were you getting ready to bow to his oncoming tantrum? Cain continued, “Or maybe this was all just a last choice distraction for you until something better came along to take your interest.” His eyes flickered over to the side towards someone else. He lowered his voice “You’ll leave, I know it. Just like everyone else.”

“The hell are you even talking about?” Cain bristled at your choice of words, scowling, but you left no room for him to chastise. “If you’re referring to what I said to the barista I was just being polite. You should try it sometime.” You mirrored him, crossing your arms and leaning back. “God, why is everything an argument with you lately?” You muttered but he still heard. You had gotten along with Cain at the beginning, or well enough compared to the rest of the Hauntnet group, but in the passing few weeks he had seemed more irritated. Intense even. Very quickly he was beginning to swallow you whole with his moods, capturing you with his messages, locking you into chaotic hypnotic conversations that were breaking your perception of the world. While frightening, it was addicting, to hear his ideas, to receive his thoughts on yours no matter if he swung from being judgemental or validating. You had found him interesting at first but now it seemed you had become joined to him enough that you were seeing through to the sharper parts of his personality. And these sides, he only showed them you. He was gritty and intoxicating. And it was becoming a problem since you were letting yourself free fall into him.

“It’s not like that.” He said at last, chewing on his lip.

“I asked you if I could come with you tonight. Privately might I add, I haven’t even told the rest of the group chat we’re exploring you know.”

“That makes your flirting with him even worse-“ He cut himself off wincing as a painful silence settled over the two of you. He mumbled something quiet enough for you to not hear it, but you assumed it was a curse.

“If you think that I was flirting,” you said eyebrows raised, “then you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”

Cain visibly flushed, his ears going red as he played with the metal cross around his neck unconsciously. “He was.” He accused.

“Him.” You said ignoring the unwarranted jealousy in his voice. “And why does it even matter if someone flirts with me? Just because you hate and ignore everyone doesn’t mean the rest of us are like that.”

“I don’t hate…” he paused. There was a word held at the tip of his tongue, but he was denying himself from admitting it, instead he finished his sentence by saying “I don’t hate everyone.” Cain’s voice had lost its edge, his fingers pressing harder into the edges of his cross as he rubbed its surface anxiously. “Look, we can drop it and get going-“

Now it was your turn to narrow your eyes and glare, “No. You said to leave. So, I’m leaving.”

“What, why?” He asked, his voice raising as he ever so slightly raised from his seat.

“Because I know enough about you by now to know this wont be the last attack I put up with tonight. Honestly Cain being your friend is exhausting so you know what, you win, I’m done.” You grabbed your things, ready to storm out. You walked away from the table without even looking back and ignored the faint sound of a regret filled apology fall from Cain’s mouth, trying to win back your attention. He doesn’t mean it. You told yourself. He’ll probably start calling me a ‘sheep’ soon, so I shouldn’t care.

What you didn’t see was the man you had left behind, still sat at the booth, staring at his notebook cursing himself as he flicked through certain pages, running his fingers over the letters of your name scribbled across the paper’s surface. Letters that had found themselves there these past few weeks without him even realising it.

The summer evening was cool; the sky had deepened into a dark red as the sun was almost done setting. You were thankful for your cardigan as the wind drifted over you, the peak of the heatwave having passed. The café you had made Cain stop at was a roadside stop, in the middle of a stretch of nothing but forest in between town and the abandoned hospital.  The nearest bus stop was going to be thirty-minute walk along the main road. And it would feel even longer considering how straight the road was, but you were thankful for it since it would give you time to process everything that had just happened.

The whole time you walked you felt the same uncomfortable presence of judgement loom over you, the same feeling you always had after a disagreement with Cain. The remnants of scrutiny. The forest trees to your side cast dark shadows over you, their rustling in the wind always sounded like whispers as of late. You shivered; the sun was gone now, and the world had been creeping you out as of late. Soon your legs began to ache as the road carried on aimlessly, how much further until the bus stop? You reached in your pocket for your iPod classic, pulling out tangled earbuds and plugged in to your moodiest playlist, ignoring the world around you.

An almost fatal mistake.

As you enjoyed the brief feeling of distance from the emotional ache settled in your stomach you cast your gaze to the sky, eyes wandering over the stars, having now emerged over a navy canvas. It was already too late before you noticed the frantic flashing of a cars lights as it swerved behind you. You turned your head, pulling an earbud out confused just as it approached you, fast, unpredictable and dangerous.

There was no time to swear as you closed your eyes, the breath leaving your chest while a pair of cold hands grabbed you roughly and pulled you into the forest at the side of the road. Your iPod tumbled from your pocked, smashing on concrete as your earbuds were fully snatched away from you by gravity as you and your saviour fell backwards into the trees. All while the car carried on without caution, swerving across lanes down the straight road at sixty miles per hour.

“Fuck.” You heard a familiar dry voice hiss, arms still gripping around you as he sat up. You could smell the familiar scent of his hoodie, the same kind of smell an antiques dealer had, and strangely it comforted you enough that you leaned backwards into his chest, feeling safe.

“Oh my God.” You whispered turning around to see Cain behind you, still holding you by the shoulders.

“Don’t put that-“

“You saved me.”

Cain was not about to show any pride however, he pushed you away from him when realizing how close you were and stood up, wiping his hands anxiously across his hoodie. “You fucking idiot.” He hissed. “Who’s dumb enough to walk away from oncoming traffic? And while not being able to hear anything. You’re so fucking lucky that I came after you.” His criticism may have been right, but damn, it hurt you to hear the words come from his mouth as he towered above you, who was still down in the dirt, fingers pressing into the earth’s dust.

“I’m sorry.” You pulled yourself up to his level, not looking at him. “Are you hurt?” Trying to not let your voice break, you knew Cain wasn’t sympathetic to tears, and it felt too humiliating to break down in front of him now.

He sighed, tutting. “I should be asking you that.” His voice was low, any trace of anger at your stupidity gone as he swallowed hard. “I’m sorry that was… harsh of me.”

Two apologies from him tonight, record breaking. And this one you could not chose to ignore. “What you said was true. I wasn’t thinking, it was dumb of me to be so careless.”

“No.” He shook his head leading you back out onto the now dead road. He picked up your destroyed iPod and handed it over, your fingers ever so slightly brushing. “I know this road better than you; I shouldn’t have let you walk alone. Or at least warned you. Idiots always speed down it since it’s so quiet and with the lack of street lights it can be a problem.”

“Yeah well, I stormed out. Neither of us planned for…” You trailed off shivering in the wind. For a summer’s night it was colder than usual. You pulled your cardigan closer to you and winced, feeling the cold air smooth over your back. “Shit I loved this cardigan.” You mumbled, pulling it off to see the big tear it had down the back and across the sleeve, probably from where you had fallen.

“You are hurt.” Cain said grabbing your arm unexpectedly, twisting your elbow towards him to look at your injury. You glanced over his fingers pressed into your skin, checking his expression for the usual signs of disgust at human contact. But surprisingly he only seemed concerned. It was weird.

“It’s only a graze.” You said pulling your arm from him, a little unsettled at the whole situation, shivering again. “I can clean it up when I get home.”

“I’ll walk you to the bus.” He said already moving ahead before glancing back and stopping. “You cold?” He asked noticing you shiver, clutching your destroyed cardigan, smashed iPod and tangled earbuds in one hand. “Here.” Before you could say anything he was taking off his brown hoodie and putting it over your shoulders in a rather gentlemanly manner. You had yet to see him uncovered by the thick fabric barrier in all the time you had known him. It gave you a chance to cast gaze over his slender torso, black and red striped top clinging to him tightly, an obvious size too small. His notebook remained clutched at his side.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I don’t tend to feel the cold.”

“Oh yeah.” You whispered, “I remember you saying when we first met at the fare.”

Cain nodded continuing to head down the road, you trailing behind watching his messy jet-black hair drift in the breeze and you had to stop yourself from staring. The two of you walked in silence for a while, the trees having ceased their whispering as well.

Suddenly you realised something. “Cain thank you.” You said feeling guilty it had taken so long for you to tell him that.

He did not look back. “Don’t worry about it, I did what anyone would do.” “That’s not what I meant, well, I am still appreciative of you saving me from being ran over, but I meant thank you for coming after me.” That caused him to turn and glance at you, and through the dark you could see his aloof mask slip just a bit from his face.

“I’m sorry. It was a stupid argument.” He said at last turning back. “I don’t want to lose you over it.”

“Lose me?” You asked.

Cain pressed his fingers into his palms, posture stiffening. With a hoarse voice he replied, “Yeah, lose a friend.” The words were forced, but also a warning to not pry further because something told you that he did not even know what the significance of that word meant to him. You were more likely to reach the conclusion of what he wanted before he himself even knew.

And it was becoming clear to the darkness at least, what he wanted was you.

The two of you arrived at a dimly lit bus stop, taking a seat you wished you had brought your flip phone, or watch if only to check the time. The bus came hourly this late, who knew when the next one would come. Cain promised to wait until you got on it though, he himself preferring to walk the long way back to town on his own for what ever reason. Perhaps you thought that it was because of you? Maybe he had had enough awkwardness for the day and wanted the familiar company of just himself for the trip back to town. Or maybe he would finish the adventure and go back the children’s hospital alone like he had done before. Soon thoughts of Cain swam around in your head, keeping you occupied while he returned to scribbling in his notebook until the engine roar of the bus reached both of you. The door pulled open as Cain closed his notebook, turning to you with a new, unreadable expression. His eyes glanced to the bus.

“See you on the node?” You asked.

“If you’re not giving up on me just yet.”

You shook your head. “I’ll give this back.” You said beginning to shrug his hoodie off from your shoulders, but he stopped you.

“Don’t worry about it, keep it, you can give it back whenever.” Cain took a step back, hands in his pockets, notebook resting on the bust stop bench as he chewed on his lip. “I’ll check the node tonight, if you can message to say you got home alright.”

You nodded taking a step towards the bus, Cain’s jacket still wrapped around you. “I will.”

A promise he would hold you to. Cain watched you grab a window seat on the bus as you put both arms through the sleeves of his hoodie, pulling it close to you. It was surprisingly soft. A sad smile tugged at his lips, as he watched the bus drive off after you waved goodbye to him from inside.

You can’t keep your leg from bouncing as Miss Alphys calls each name, one by one. 

“J-jockington… Snowy… Monster kid…”

They all rise, one by one, accepting their marked tests with an odd enthusiasm. Some faces drop to frowns, some rise to grins.

You might piss yourself. No joke.

“S-susie.”

You wince from the shrieking groan of the metal chair in the back of the classroom as Susie prances to the front, swinging her arms like she owns the place. She snatches the paper from Miss Alphys’ trembling hands with a confident smirk. 

With one quick glance to a certain human in the classroom, she doesn’t even look at her test before crumpling it into a paper ball and shooting it perfectly into the garbage can. She lights up.

“Haha! Fifty bucks! Pay up!”

She laughs, weaving between desks to slam her fists on the one behind you. You glide your hands over your face, trying to tune out the bickering.

“S-susie, ah, please d-don’t damage school p-property.”

You hear roaring laughter following a joke you couldn’t make out. Is it because your heart is beating out of your chest? Maybe you should go see a doctor.

“B-berdly.”

The bird rises quickly, ready to give his I-just-did-better-than-you-plebeians-on-this-test speech. Miss Alphys, surprisingly, shuts him up this time. Politely, of course. Wish she could’ve done that the last ten times. 

He plucks the test by the stapled corner, holding it delicately as if it were an ancient artifact. It would mean something if he didn’t get the clear 100% every time. You’d hate him if he wasn’t your self-proclaimed study-buddy. He proclaims it. Not you. Let that be clear.

Whatever mark you get on this test is partially on him.

Noelle is called right after, shyly holding the paper to her torso as if the red marker didn’t glow through the pages, a faint 98% visible. You can’t help but be a little jealous despite not knowing what you got yet. Not a 98, that’s for sure.

Your teacher barely glances in your direction before your piercing gaze sends her into a sweat-inducing panic.

She squeaks out your name, though very drowned out from your desk screeching and nearly tipping over from your force.

Maybe you sprint. Maybe it’s a bit embarrassing. But it doesn’t matter now; the pages planted in your hand.

…

72%.

You seem to freeze in place.

Damn it.

Your life force is being drained studying with that feathery nerd and you don’t even have a good grade to show for it. 

You stand like a statue, flipping through the pages one after another. The small, polite X’s (how are X’s polite?), circles, and underlines are scattered everywhere. You got so many partial marks that were definitely undeserved; you don’t even think the 72 is accurate.

You don’t even realize Miss Alphys called another name until you feel a looming presence behind you.

Embarrassed, you crumple the paper to your chest and glance over your shoulder.

Kris. 

Your mood somehow sours even more. 

They don’t say anything. They just sorta… stare. At you. 

You barely attempt to hide your disdain as you shuffle to the side, letting them pass. You probably look like an idiot, standing barely a foot away from the two as Miss Alphys hands them their test. You just want to see the–

94%. Yeah. Exactly what you expected.

You scurry away, back to your seat, ignoring Berdly’s pestering and grubby feathers trying to paw at your test. You hand it to him to get him to shut up.

You watch Kris stride back to their seat, but you conveniently glance at your desk when they meet your eye. 

A paper swish is heard from behind you, right before a gasp.

“What?! A 94?! What are you, a nerd?”

You can somehow hear the shrug.

“You studied just as much as me!”

“...Nothing?”

A laugh. “Nada.”

“Maybe you got perfect,” they gesture to the garbage can. “Only one way to find out.”

A pencil case is lodged across the room, bashing the side of the can and tipping all the papers onto the floor. “Eh, guess we’ll never know. Hey, think if I erase your name on this one, Alphys’ll give me the mark?”

“Number seven!”

Right. That’s you, according to Berdly. 

He’s waving your test in your face, mark blatantly out in the wild for everyone to see.

You cringe. “Yeah, I’m not so sure about that placement after that test.”

“Ah, but to achieve top status such as myself is unrealistic for a simple normalton like you! Tsk…”

He starts going off about how he’s admirable and he pities average folk such as yourself. Or something. You’re not really listening anymore.

Your distaste for smart people grows exponentially everyday.

Berdly’s the smartest in the class, by far. At least he acts like he is. That’d mean something if it weren’t him. Despite that, you can’t help but not hate him as much as you probably should. 

He helps you with everything. Your homework, studying, assignments. Well, if ‘helps’ means ‘reprimand you for everything you do wrong and give unwarranted and unwanted sympathy’. You’ll strangle him. Someday. 

Despite being what you’d consider runner up (maybe even tied for first), Noelle’s not nearly as annoying as her brainiac buddy. You’d like to consider her a friend, actually. When Berdly overlaps homework ‘dates’ by ‘accident’ (they’re not dates. And definitely not by accident) and you three end up in the library, you actually enjoy her company. She’s quiet, but kind. 

And then there’s Kris.

…

Kris. 

God, do they make your blood boil.

There’s a difference between Berdly/Noelle and Kris. That being, Kris doesn’t try. And they do amazing.

How? You try, and you do awful. In comparison. Of course, you should never compare yourself to others, but it’s hard not to when all your efforts are being put to waste.

You don’t actually hate them. There’s just a mild, growing dislike for them that’s made ten times more obvious when they’re in slight proximity to you. But it’s not just because they’re naturally smart, talented, maybe a bit charming–

But, there’s the little things too.

Like the way they look at you. Especially when you’re with Berdly.

It’ll be minutes before class; they’ll arrive fashionably late or on the dot, not that you’re paying attention, and their gaze just lingers on you for a second longer than anyone else. You’ll be ‘listening’ to blue boy spew what you’d consider nonsense, but you’d look up out of instinct from the door being opened. And do you know what kind of look they give?

The one that says damn, looks rough.

They’re so lucky they don’t have a study partner (folding the worksheets into a tower with susie doesn’t count). And the audacity to look down on you because you need one? The ego that human has is beyond this world.

And that’s not all. 

During work periods, when they’re not destroying the classroom with Susie, they’re napping. As if saying yeah, I get an extra two hours of sleep while you tried to pull an all nighter but passed out three hours in.

Sometimes you can feel their feet nudging your chair. Or hear their small, faint snores. Or the scratch of their black, chipped fingernails on their desk. Or–

And that’s not all!

They have the nerve to ask Noelle for pencils when Noelle is your designated pencil lender. It’s like they want to steal all her pencils so there’s nothing left for you–

…

Are you being petty?

Of course not! These are reasonable, realistic accusations to make about someone, especially with the ample amounts of evidence you have. 

They wish the worst for you, so you wish the worst for them.

Totally. 

~*•*~

It’s another day of group work. Miss Alphys had overexplained how she’d watched a show where teamwork created unity and had immediately zipped her mouth shut.

With groups of two and three, you’re with Berdly and Noelle. No surprise there, right?

Your teacher has given you chart paper that’s way too big for your desk, as well as mostly dried-up markers. Noelle has this really weird hack where she can instantly revive them, but it’s far too complicated for you to even bother trying to understand. 

Most groups actually don’t have functioning markers, so Miss Alphys seems to give up and says you can use pencil, too.

While Noelle and Berdly sift through their notes – arguing what parts are relevant for your group’s given topic (if arguing meant Noelle suggesting something and Berdly morphing it into his own idea) – you’re the writer.

You feel confident enough to go straight with marker, but Berdly insists you write it all with pencil first and trace over it later. Like a toddler. 

Okay. Sure.

A few minutes pass, and Noelle begins reading off what you need to write down. Easy enough.

You’re mindlessly listening, hand smooth and controlled to keep it neat, when you suddenly stop.

Because you’re not listening to Noelle anymore. She’s actually gone silent.

You’re listening to Kris, who’s standing right next to you.

Now you want to shield away like a toddler.

“Got a pencil?” They ask effortlessly.

Damn pencil stealer.

Noelle nods. “Oh– yeah. Just let me… find my–”

She’s twisting every which way, searching for her pencil case, but you remember clearing the tops of your desks to make way for the chart paper. 

She’s not going to find it, is she?

You don’t bother keeping up with the conversation, turning Noelle’s laptop to view the notes she’s highlighted; the ones she was reading to you. Kris is still as a statue, but you can feel the heat radiating from their body.

Ew. Is that creepy to think?

…

You’re a bit skittish now.

You will your hand to stop shaking as you continue writing. 

Another minute goes by. It’s the longest minute of your life. Even Berdly’s telling Noelle to give up, piled under stupid gamer metaphors. 

But Kris isn’t leaving.

…

Fine! 

They win this time.

You stop writing mid-sentence, stretching your arm to jab the pencil towards their face. 

“Just let them have this one, Noelle.”

She seems a bit confused as to why you’re talking to her, but gesturing to them. You’re not too sure either! All you know is you’d much rather talk to her than them. 

They seem to give a face of slight doubt from the way Noelle reassures them. “It’s fine, Kris! We can just use the marker.”

“No, we cannot!” Berdly argues. But it’s too late.

Kris’ digits wrap around the wood, barely brushing your own. You can’t help but notice they’ve got chilly fingers–

Not important.

The marker calls to you now. Even if Berdly shrieks otherwise.

~*•*~

So you tried pulling another all nighter. Chugged half a carton of milk because you thought that since milk typically goes in coffee, there has to be some sort of energy boost associated with it. Didn’t work. Kinda stupid too, considering one google search would’ve told you it does the exact opposite. But it wasn’t warm, so you thought it’d be different. Like a reverse sleep agent. It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t.

Not only is your neck sore from awkwardly passing out over your desk, but you’re also going to be late. Well, you are late.

You’ve never sped down the halls like this before. There’s only a few kids still chatting, uncaring of the warning bell, but most of them are gone. 

It’ll be fine, you ration as your bag nearly falls off your shoulder. One last quick turn, and–

“HuuAH–”

You slam into someone as you cut the corner, letting out the most unattractive sound imaginable; a mix between a huh and an ah. Something falls on the floor, but you’re too distraught to look down.

You’re about to slap your palm to your mouth out of embarrassment, but you realize your back leg lost its footing. You’re falling backwards. Quickly.

Your arms flail behind you as you squeeze your eyes shut. 

This is gonna hurt. Bad.

Brace brace brace–

Brace…?

…

You’ve stopped falling.

But you don’t feel the bruising impact…?

There’s two hands on your shoulders, righting you to your feet. They’re soft, but stable. You shiver when the coolness seeps through your clothes. 

There’s a breath on your cheek, a warm contrast to their palms. You feel so close, you can’t help but creepily take a sniff. They smell sweet. Like apples. And pine. There’s something so familiar about it, but you can’t put your finger on it.

And you kinda just… want to keep breathing it in. Bottle it. You’d love to smell something so… pleasant every morning–

“You okay?”

Your eyes burst open. You may have gotten an aneurysm.

Of course, your knight in shining armour is none other than Kris. 

Their grip on your shoulders loosens, but you’re very aware of the fact that they don’t step away. It seems like they’re almost scanning you. You nearly twitch.

Then, they…

…mutter your name as a question.

Oh.

You squint your eyes in confusion. In… disbelief?

You don’t think you’ve ever heard them say it before. 

…

And you hate how much you want to hear it again. 

Their voice doesn’t sound as monotone and mumbly up close. Just soft. Very soft, from the way their tongue wraps around your name like a prayer–

Nope. Keep moving!

With such a confession now being buried into your very soul for no one to hear, you become acutely aware of how close you are. 

“I–” you stutter, tripping over your own feet to make some distance. “T-thanks! I mean, sorry–”

They barely react. You wouldn’t have noticed the slight raise to the corner of their lip if you weren’t staring so intensely at their face. It’s to show no weakness, you tell yourself.

And your eyes drift upwards, to their strikingly beau– average eyes. Red? Pshh. You see that… everywhere. Like, on… uh– that one… guy…

Bail. You’re being an idiot! Go. Now!

“Okay!” You grin like a maniac, swerving around them like a car in traffic.

You swear you hear a small chuckle as you round to your locker, making your eyebrows furrow automatically like some sort of rudeness detector. And you can’t have them thinking you’re some joke, so you snap into an immediate U-turn. Just to be met with an empty hallway.

That damn zombie ghost hybrid.

But your eye catches something on the surprisingly pristine floors. You can’t help but approach it; the shape being all too familiar.

It’s a pencil.

Kris’ pencil.

~*•*~

You try not to think about the fact that you know this is Kris’ pencil and not Noelle’s, because that’s sorta creepy, right? Noelle’s pencils are always themed (Christmas, of course), perfectly sharpened, and in peak condition. You never believe she’s ever used any of the pencils she’s lended you because they look so fresh.

This pencil? It’s atrocious.

There’s nothing horribly wrong with it, like, for example, Susie’s pencils (which are usually snapped in half, chewed to oblivion, and found on the ground). It just looks very used. Which is unbelievable, considering you’ve never seen them use it ever. Not that you’re keeping track.

It’s got no eraser; the ferrule was squeezed to push as much of the remaining eraser out as possible. That might be a bite mark? The orange paint’s been scraped off the edges. The lead end is dull and the grey colour has smudged onto the wooden tip.

Also, what kind of maniac brings nothing but a beaten up pencil to class, courtesy of their pant pocket? You’d think with a mother like Toriel, they’d be swimming in school supplies. Y’know, like a pencil case? 

You spin it between your fingers.

Why’re you still holding it? Why didn’t you just leave it on the ground?

Why’re you even debating what to do with it? Throw it out.

You brush your thumb along the chipped paint. You’re touching something that belongs to Kris. You’re touching a place that Kris’ fingers have definitely touched. And that shouldn’t make your neck heat up the way it just did. 

You pause. 

You hold the pencil to your nose and sniff. Of course it doesn’t smell like apples, you creepy idiot. 

~*•*~

Susie’s been in the bathroom for thirty minutes. 

Kris watches Alphys scurry back and forth in the front of the classroom, nervously debating what to do next. “I d-don’t understand what she might be… doing i-in there that would take this long. I-is she okay?”

“Maybe she FELL IN! HAHA!”

No one graces Snowy with anything. Not even a cough.

“W-well… I can’t– shouldn’t leave a student u-unattended for this long. It’d be nice if a-anyone would volunteer to s-search for her–”

Berdly leaps onto your desk dramatically. “Worry not, Miss Alphys! I shall find the wretched beast, only tamable by a valiant knight such as myself!”

Your notes, which Berdly currently plants himself on, fly to the floor like leaves when he bolts into the hallway. They witness you groan, clutching your face in your hands. 

“...He knows he’s not a-allowed in the girl’s bathroom… right?”

Noelle almost instinctively rises. “I’ll, um, watch over him, Miss Alphys. And find– S-susie.”

Noelle’s face turns beet red as she dashes after him, closing the door much more smoothly than Burghley. They ignore how the rest of the class resumes chatting, resting their head on their desk. It’s weirdly loud, especially with the two most noisy people absent.

Susie barely looked conscious before asking to go. They think she was half asleep, likely intending to leave the walls of the classroom and not return. Wherever she is, she’s not coming back. 

Their eyes close, almost perfectly comfortable, when they feel something brush against their leg. 

They lift their head, immediately met with your very stiff back. You’re really still. Probably not breathing. 

They lean back to glance at their feet. One of your pages rests perfectly on their shoe. Without thinking, they pinch it between their fingers and scan it on their lap. 

It’s just some random worksheet Alphys assigned to them a few days ago, marked courtesy of Berdly. They can tell by the obnoxiously long pointers and tiny checkmarks, as if embarrassed to say you did something right.

They always wondered why you bothered with him. Why not go to Noelle? She’d be a much better tutor; much more uplifting, helpful, useful. Anyone would be a better option.

Hell, even Kris would be a better option.

They mindlessly poke you with the corner of your worksheet, half-assedly trying to get your attention. You tilt your head back just enough to make slight eye contact. 

“You dropped this,” they offer.

And there’s just something about your eyes. The way you looked at them in the hallway when you bashed into them. The way you’re looking at them right now.

They’ve never talked to you before. Not once, not until yesterday. And they barely said anything.

Yet, you’re looking at them like you’re looking at nothing but them.

There’s something that swells deep within their chest. Makes them feel weird. Warm. A bit uncomfortable.

You never used to look at them like this before. You always seemed in a constant state of pissed off. Not that they really cared; it was none of their business. 

It wasn’t until the test scores came in, and you followed a similar pattern. You’d very unsubtly glance at their percent and scoff like they’d just insulted your entire family. That’s when they realized your mood was specific to them.

Again, they didn’t really care. You can feel whatever you want. They won’t stop you. 

But now, they talk to you once – randomly, in a scene straight out of some sappy romance movie – and your entire persona’s been flipped. 

You somehow seem even more uncomfortable. But not a bad uncomfortable; like a flustered uncomfortable. They’re not sure if it’s better or worse. 

Did they make you feel weird when they caught you? Should they have just let you fall? Probably.

They’re still holding the sheet, arm getting a bit tired from supporting itself. They have to rustle the sheet, just slightly, for you to snap out of whatever daze you’ve put yourself in and take the paper with a squeaky thank you.

You twist awkwardly, facing the front once again. Eventually, you seem to refocus, sorting your papers in some intricate, over-the-top way Berdly probably taught you.

They realize they’re still staring at the back of your head when you itch it thoughtfully. You’re talking to yourself; planning out your thought process for the next problem, mumbling small quips to the comments Berdly wrote in your feedback (stuff they doubt you’d ever say to his face)...

They have to stop themself from straight up laughing at one of them. Only so their classmates don’t think they’re crazier than they’ve already presented themselves to be.

It feels almost magical the way they’re able to tune out everything around them and listen to your commentary. 

They barely register their eyes closing. They’re too busy focused on the smile etched into your voice. 

~*•*~

It’s been a few long days of unbearable work periods, pretending to do the worksheets you’ve all been assigned by Miss Alphys (you’re three pages behind). You were going to catch up at home, but that’s been a disaster, too. There are so many ample distractions that have kept you from even starting. Like the texture of the carpet. Or Kris’ pencil– not Kris’ pencil. 

Okay. Maybe you’ve been glancing at it every once in a while from where it sits in your pencil holder. Maybe you’ve used it once or twice, despite the lead being actual ass cheeks. 

What is wrong with you? Nothing even happened!

Did feeling their stupid hands on your shoulders and being close to their face really do that much? You don’t even like Kris! You’d be happier in the kindergarten class!

…

You’re jealous of their natural academic talent. You know that; you’re not that much of an egomaniac to think otherwise. But… maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it always has been.

Maybe deep down, you actually… admire… Kris. For being so stupidly effortlessly smart. Eugh.

And maybe you just needed a small excuse to indulge in your admiration. Like getting a good look at their face. 

Not that it matters, anyways!

A small admiration for a fellow classmate. You admire Noelle, too! No different! You admire many people. Maybe even Berdly!– okay not Berdly.

It’s. No. Different. 

You’ll return the pencil tomorrow. 

You’re not even sure why you’re giving it back. You just don’t want to stare at it anymore. It’s just a reminder of the lack of effort they put into everything. Which is totally rubbing off on you, considering the absolute flunk you’ve found yourself in.

So the next day comes. And your hands are way too sweaty.

You’re a punctual ten minutes early, for some reason. Definitely not a good idea, considering now you’ve got ample time to just think about how to do this.

“Hey, you left your pencil on the ground a week ago and I kept it and wanted to give it back–”

No. Too much info.

Should you lead with something?

“Hi Kris. How was your weekend? Oh? That was days ago? Oh? I’m being weird? No! This is how I always act–”

…

Why’re you trying to explain yourself?

How about…

“Here. You dropped this.”

Solid, straight to the point, easy. Done. Okay. Okay.

The bell rings. Thankfully, Berdly has occupied himself with Noelle (sorry, Noelle. Valiant sacrifice). But Kris is nowhere to be seen. 

Another ten minutes pass. Nothing.

Miss Alphys is about to take attendance, waiting extra long in case more people show up, when Susie busts through the door, Kris not far behind her. They both look a bit… battered. Small scratches litter their hands, some on their faces.

“Kris! S-susie, you’re b-both here.”

“Yeahh, we had to ward off the leftover raccoons. Just don’t know when to quit. Would’ve definitely followed us into the school.”

The class goes silent. You can barely hear Noelle giggling to herself. 

“...R-raccoons?”

“What? You’ve never seen ‘em behind the school? Near those big bins?”

Miss Alphys breaks into a sweat. “You mean… you and Kris were… d-dumpster diving?”

“Eh, more like dumpster rummaging. Diving is for the weekends.”

Susie waltzes to the back, leaving behind a very… interesting odor. Like a mix between old school lunches and paint. It’s not pleasant whatsoever. 

Miss Alphys eyes their cuts. “D-do you need to see the school nurse?”

“Nahh, we’ll be fine. Right, Kris?”

Kris, who’s still standing at the doorway, nods with a quick yup and moves to take their seat.

You can’t help but eye them intensely, bracing yourself for the same odor. But it never comes.

They radiate the smell of fur. Not like wet dog, rotting grass type of fur. But like a cat, where you know they haven’t taken a bath in months but their self-cleaning makes them smell like an odd flower anyways. And, of course, apples. Sweet, sweet apples. 

They stare at you as they approach. Then, they glance at Berdly. Then back at you.

Wow, they’re good at holding a stare. You’re sure you could cook an egg on your face. 

You grip Kris’ pencil harder in your lap, immediately pretending your eraser is the most interesting thing in the world. 

You take a deep breath as they pass you. Yeah, furry apples.

Miss Alphys announces what you already know; it’s another work period for the upcoming test. This unit is more self-taught, anyways, which is both good and bad. Good because you have more time in class to work, bad because the self-taught aspect is usually replaced with Berdly-taught.

Susie immediately gets Kris’ attention with a flying eraser (likely meant to hit them but instead it skims your cheek and hits Berdly square in the head), commenting on how badass their scars look.

Okay. Before they both somehow find another excuse to leave, you need to do it. Now. 

Just turn around.

Your body stiffens up.

C’mon! Just pretend you absolutely hate their guts like you did before.

You brace yourself.

Do you turn slowly? Or quickly? What if you scare them? Oh, who are you kidding. You couldn’t scare them even if you tried.

You turn. You can feel how awkward you probably look.

Susie’s the first one to notice you, since she’s facing you. You’ve never seen her look so confused before. You open your mouth to speak, but your voice dies in your throat when Kris notices Susie’s perplexed expression and turns to the culprit.

Yeah. 

Susie’s right. They do look badass with all those scars.

Shut up. You wish you could just stop thinking.

Kris never shows any emotion, ever. Which is why you’re so shocked when you watch their eyes widen, just slightly. 

“Hi,” you wince at your shaky voice.

“Hi,” they echo.

You’re staring. 

“You–” you clear your throat awkwardly. “You dropped this?”

Why’d you say it like it was a question?

As if there was a delay in your actions, it takes you a second to realize you need to give Kris the pencil you’ve been gripping so hard it might snap. So you stiffly offer it, acutely aware of your moist palms and probably moist pencil.

They watch it as if they don’t trust it– don’t trust you. They just got here; they’re probably wondering when the hell they dropped it. Explain yourself!

“It’s yours,” you say stupidly, as if that wasn’t already implied. “You dropped it a few days ago–”

No! That’s exactly what you weren’t supposed to say!

Your mouth clamped shut. Their expression doesn’t change one bit; they’re giving you a poker face. Y’know who’s expression does change?

Susie’s.

She gives you an incriminating, almost knowing smile. You want to crumple in your seat. 

“A few days ago? You couldn’t have given it back earlier?”

And you do the worst thing you could’ve done. You launch into defense mode.

“Well, okay, but returning a pencil isn’t exactly at the top of my priority list. I have tests to study for and homework– And I was going to, but class has been busy, and I’ve been busy, and I’m sure you’ve been busy… with…”

You insinuate to the whole dumpster diving thing.

“Hey, Kris?” She gets their attention, playful mockery dripping in her tone. She gestures to the pencil now in their hand. “How long’d that take? Three seconds?”

Yeah, she has a fair point.

You’re about to debate between cowering under Kris’ intense glare or give another stupid excuse that Susie of all people could probably pick apart, when the screeching caw of a bird catches your attention.

He didn’t actually caw. Though, it did sound like it. 

“Don’t busy yourself with the lower class when I’ve already maxed out my level of genius.”

You’ve never taken a Berdly beckoning so quickly before.

You give an almost manic smile to the most blank face you’ve ever seen. “Okay have fun!” Have fun? “Bye!”

Totally taking the chicken route, you scoot your chair further from the pair and way closer to the front. You can feel both their eyes stabbing you from behind.

Berdly seems unimpressed but ultimately (some form of) proud of you for being beckoned like a dog. Noelle, who’s sitting next to you by proxy, would have stars in her eyes if this were a cartoon.

“You were talking to Susie?” She leans forward, just slightly. “What were you talking about? What was she saying? Did she say anything funny?”

Your eyes gravitate to the chalkboard and you start to zone out, trying to calm your heartbeat and reduce the heat from your face. But a voice cuts through your rushing thoughts.

“Hey Kris. I think you have an admirer.”

Your eye twitches. You turn just in time to see Susie punching Kris’ shoulder and laughing. But Kris isn’t laughing.

Their eyes are on you. And you can make out just the faintest flush on their cheeks.

You feel all your hard work go down the drain as your face heats up again. 

Damn it.

~*•*~

You’ve never felt so hyper aware in your life. It’s like everything you do now has an ulterior motive.

You used to be so on top of everything you did. Not that you were amazing at it; that’s what Berdly is for. You’d scooch your chair just enough to reach his desk (but far enough to keep your much needed distance), sitting on either side of him. Now, you sit in front of him.

Why? Because it gives you a good view of Kris. And a good view of the rest of your classmates. That’s the important part! It’s about knowing your competition.

Not that it really matters, of course. You’re here to work diligently and efficiently. 

Berdly’s showing you some random function and what pieces of the graph correlate to what parts of the equation. It’s covered in a bunch of gamer lingo, but he’s ‘trying’ in his own way. You’re nodding along to him, a bit too focused on pretending to pay attention for you to actually process anything he’s saying. 

Oh well. Looks like you’re skimming decade-old YouTube videos for tutorials later. 

If you start listening now, you won’t understand a thing. It’s like jumping midway into a book; there’s no context for what the hell’s going on. And God forbid you use any intuition skills to piece together what he’s saying. The reason you’re sitting here with him is because you have none.

Plus, you’d rather look conveniently behind him at a certain duo. 

Kris has turned their chair to face Susie, so all you see is their brown tuft of hair. From where you’re sitting, you can barely peak over their shoulder to view the array of stuff on her desk. They’ve got pencils, crayons, pencil crayons, and chalk (ironic) that’re nearly rolling off the edge.

Susie whispers something as she continues dumping more drawing material from the plastic bag she got from who knows where, Kris nodding in confirmation.

They subtly scan the class – an action you’d likely not notice if you weren’t ogling – twisting their body uncomfortably. 

You seem to make eye contact much more frequently as of late.

Their eyes linger on you, just enough for you to see their eyes poking through their bangs. 

You really like their eyes. Yeah, you’ll admit it now. Do all humans have red eyes? Or is Kris just apple-themed?

And they smile at you. It’s a small one, sure, but is anything Kris does anything more than small?

They quirk their head, like a cute bird. They’re probably so confused as to why you’re resting your chin against your palm, sighing like some corny schoolgirl staring at her crush. 

For some reason, the shame leaves you when you ogle at them.

And it returns tenfold when they break eye contact. 

Oh wow, you’re such a loser.

You follow where they’ve set their eyes – on a certain teacher who’s engrossed in the school computer, watching something she’d probably immediately alt+tab from if someone snuck up on her. May or may not (definitely may not) be school related.

They seem to get all the confirmation they need, slipping their hand against their leg, pulling something out of some mysterious pocket that you can’t make out. It isn’t until they lay it on the desk when you realize it’s a knife.

Susie seems to raise an eyebrow unamused, not nearly as shocked as she should be. She nods as they grip it confidently and start… scraping the crayons to make fine powders.

Huh.

You figure they’re doing something stupid, so you try to tune back into Berdly’s explanations. After about three seconds, you realize you don’t have the energy, so you end up zoning out for a bit.

Miss Alphys gave a new worksheet today, so you definitely need to catch up on that. The one Berdly’s going over is yesterday’s worksheet, on which you got half the questions wrong. No need to panic; you have all of tonight to figure out the logic.

There’s also the one before that. You can probably squeeze that one in tonight too. There’s also that workbook she handed out a while ago. Apparently Berdly claims some of the questions are of your ‘skillset’, so maybe you can fit those in sometime tomorrow. Work periods aren’t exactly work periods for you anymore, moreso tutoring sessions that you don’t think are useful in the moment, but actually end up helping you on the homework.

Doesn’t make them any more fun to sit through, though–

Berdly stopped talking. Oh no. 

Did he notice? No, no. He’s not looking at you. 

You follow his spiteful gaze to Susie, who’s planted herself right next to Noelle’s desk; hands in her pockets, leaning back casually. On instinct, you glance over to Kris. They’re already pinning you down with their eyes; the raise of their eyebrows is a clear oh crap. 

“–and it’ll be cool. Trust,” you hear Susie finish.

Noelle’s definitely too busy listening to her voice to understand a word she said.

“Oh– huh?” Something clicks in the deer’s head, cheeks glistening red. “It’s not mine. But I can get mine from my locker? If… you want?”

Nevermind. She heard something. What’s not hers?

“Nah, it’s fine. Who's this, anyways?”

Curse your eavesdropping addiction. What’re they talking about?

Then Noelle says your name, gesturing to you like it’s the funniest thing in the world, still staring at Susie.

Your what? Your what?

You’re already sweating and you don’t even know what’s happening. 

You blindly stare up at Susie, who’s already inspecting you like fresh meat.

Berdly squaks, flailing his arms around animatedly. “I’m afraid not, Susan! I have claimed ownership over the water, as I own the owner who therefore has ownership over it!”

“What does that even mean? You don’t own me,” your eyebrows furrow. At least that clears up what she wants.

Despite that, Susie still decides to ask you directly.

“Hey. We’re doing– uh, a science project. And we–” Something clicks in her head and she grins villainously. You don’t like it. 

“Kris needs your water for it. Mind lending a hand? Er, a bottle?”

You freeze. Berdly’s about to say something more, so you squeeze his beak shut. 

One glance at Kris reveals they’ve turned back around, facing away from you. They’re scraping more aggressively than before, from the looks of their quick arms.

“C’mon,” Susie offers an all-too-friendly smile. You’re unnerved. “We’ll give it back faster than you gave back Kris’ pencil–”

Okay! That’s enough of that!

“Sure!” You announce, snatching your water bottle from Noelle’s desk and shoving it in her face, hoping to shut her up.

Susie seems pleased you’ve agreed, but there’s something else in her eyes. A glint of mischief.

“Wait one sec.”

She smoothly spins to face Noelle once again, now mumbling something you can’t make out. Noelle seems beyond flattered for some reason, proceeding to offer Susie her entire pencil case and the few pencil crayons scattered across her desk with an ecstatic smile.

Coming back to you, she shrugs. “Actually, could you bring it over for me?” She gestures to her newly acquired materials. “Hands are full.”

You squint your eyes. “Just put the pencil crayons in the case, man.”

“Can’t get the zipper,” she’s already begun walking away. “Hands are full.”

You sigh, a bit more dramatically than you actually feel, and release Berdly. You ignore when he starts going off and follow Susie. 

She’s just about sat down when Kris starts talking, and you register you’re not on your A-game when you realize you’ve been duped. Your realization comes through the squeeze in your chest at the sound of their voice.

“I was trying to tell you that wasn’t–” they notice Susie’s not holding the water bottle. You are. And their voice dies, just a bit. “–Noelle’s.”

You’re still standing. They have to tilt their head up to look at you. You feel your stomach churn at their expression.

Their expression.

You want to dissect it. There’s so much and yet so little to see. 

Shock, confusion, amusement, something else. Something else. What is that? 

…

You don’t think you’ve blinked for a minute.

You feel so unbelievably pinned to the spot. Is it bad you kinda like it?

Susie’s the one to clear her throat, reminding you that you’re still alive and here with a purpose.

“Right,” your voice is hoarse. You lift the bottle in your hand. “What’s this for, again?”

It’s only then when you notice the giant accumulation of rainbow powders that sit in the center of the desk, all the corpses of school supplies circling around it like some insane campfire.

You can hear the smile in Susie’s voice. “Told you. Science experiment.”

She dumps the rest of Noelle’s hoard in front of Kris, who immediately gets to work. They glide the blade effortlessly along the tips of the pencil crayons; thumb controlling the movement. You’re maybe staring just a bit too hard at their hands–

“Do you think this’ll explode?”

Kris shrugs. “Hopefully.”

You let out a laugh before you can stop yourself.

They’re trying to hide it, but you can make out the small squiggle of their mouth turning upwards.

It takes about a minute, but Kris has gone through about three quarters of Noelle’s stuff. Susie told them not to completely ruin the supplies, to which Kris raised an eyebrow at. Susie made up some random excuse about it being someone else’s property and Noelle will give her shit for it, but you can’t help but jokingly scoff internally. That fact never stopped her before.

You’re still stupidly standing next to Susie’s desk like you’re lost. You don’t realize you’re getting a bit tired until you start fidgeting, switching between each foot.

Susie notices. “You okay there?”

“Yeah, I’m just–” you adjust again, tilting slightly to rest your hip on the desk. “Yeah.”

She, to your surprise, picks up on context clues, and you can just see something formulating in her brain when she peers at Kris, then you.

She tips back, as if she’s about to say the most casual thing in the world. 

“Just sit on Kris’ lap. They’re pretty much like that one dude– Santa Claus. Since they radiate jolliness and positivity. Y’know, especially with the knife.”

It’s a joke. You can tell from the way Susie howls right after.

But you’re not laughing. You actually might pass out just thinking about it. Did you even hear the second half of that? Probably not!

Kris’ lap? Feeling their chest against your back? What if you start sliding off, and they have to wrap their arms around your stomach– 

You brush your hand against your cheek as if you were wiping something away, but you’re just trying to feel how hot you are. It’ll help you translate to how red your face is.

You don’t even notice Kris freezing, too. Their movements, still as a pond. 

You’ve now decided the ceiling is very fascinating; all those indents, oh wow! Is that a stain? You’d crawl into the vents if you could!

“What?” Susie sneers, defending herself against Kris’ probably violent stare. “I’m just tryna help!”

They brush their sleeve against their face, trying to rub the colour off their cheeks.

Oh, and you’re staring again. 

The colour’s just so entrancing. You’ve never seen Kris truly off their guard. 

It’s… really cute.

But there’s something else. They’re thinking. Hard. Smoke coming out of their ears, rusty gears turning, all of it.

They’ve decided something, and so you wait.

Kris shuffles, sitting so they’re hanging off their chair, leaving half of it vacant–

Oh.

Oh no.

“Sit,” they pat the empty half once, then return to scraping with their knife. 

Susie’s got a hand over her mouth, not-so-obviously trying to hide her tear-inducing laugh.

Sitting next to Kris? And not in an oh we’re kinda close and maybe we’ll brush a bit– no. Like, flushed against each other. Spreading body heat. Not being able to look in each other’s general direction because you’ll end up nose-kissing–

Oh my God. 

You don’t want to deny them. That’s just rude, right? They offered. You’re not just accepting because you want to feel their sweater with your own hands. No.

You don’t bother saying anything, because your soul might leave through your esophagus if you open your mouth. 

So you scooch next to them, stiffly sliding until you’re just touching the chair. You might as well be squatting. 

But you didn’t give your legs a break from standing just to make them squat, right?

You scooch a bit more. You’re maybe a quarter on.

When their arm adjusts to get a better grip on their next victim, you feel them brush against your own. 

You swallow. It goes down very slowly. Very painfully.

Just rip the bandaid off. 

You usher yourself closer maybe a bit too fast, okay a lot too fast and you end up nearly slamming yourself into their side. They still.

…

They’re very warm.

Definitely not as warm as your malfunctioning body, but it’s really nice.

You try not to think about the fact that they’re still not moving. Was that too much? You’re thinking about it. You should just fling yourself to the floor and crawl under the tiles–

“You’re really warm,” they mumble, replicating your thoughts back to you like a mind reader. 

You’re on autopilot now. If you weren’t, you’d likely start laughing hysterically.

“Am I? Didn’t notice. Must be my natural insulation and heating unit.”

For some reason, your default is humor. But it worked, because they’re laughing softly.

They’re laughing.

You made them laugh. 

Oh, you need to hear them laugh again. Right now.

A voice interrupts your thoughts. To be honest, you forgot you were in the classroom.

“Better?” Susie asks with an incriminating smile. “That was painful to watch.”

You’re not sure why, but you feel more confident now. “Hey. I’m the one with the water, remember? Don’t insult me unless you wanna cancel the science fair.”

“Of course. Sorry, boss.”

Kris shakes their head to themself as you and Susie start to bicker. You notice them switch hands after nudging your side one too many times; your curiosity starts to spiral.

Oh, they’re mixed handed!

…

That would’ve pissed you off a week ago.

It doesn’t take long for Kris to finish scraping the last bits of pencil crayon. They both begin forming the collection of powder into a giant mountain, as if this was just a part of the plan. You don’t question it. Out loud, anyways.

While Susie creates a little divot in the top, Kris turns expectantly to you. Which would’ve been fine (it wouldn’t, you would’ve cowered under their gaze anyways) if they weren’t an inch from your face. 

“Then you pour it on top,” they instruct, as if this proximity was completely normal and okay.

The movement makes your eyes zone in on their lips. You didn’t mean to! It’s just– eyes naturally gravitate to change!

And they notice. Oh boy do they notice.

You thought they turned red before? This time, their ears burst into flames. They’re somehow able to stop it from spreading, but it concentrates right across their cheeks and nose.

You applaud them for their self-control; you probably look like you just ran a marathon. Maybe the rest of your body will shut down from all the blood leaving it and rushing up your neck.

Once you calm down just a tad, you’re left identifying every shade of red in their eyes. Your self-control has left alongside your dignity. 

You’re an actual idiot. You wanna know why? It’s such a stupid thought. 

Do you want to know what your first thought is?

…

I really

want to 

lean in 

right now.

…

“Ahem.”

You both immediately break away. You might’ve gotten whiplash from the way your head snaps in the opposite direction.

Susie nearly cries your name from how much she’s holding it in, but she keeps her composure.

“You’re up,” she clutches her mouth like she’s about to throw up.

Your hands quiver as you uncap your water bottle, splashing just a bit too much water into the divot due to your pumping adrenaline. It pours over the edge like a volcano.

Susie instantly gets to work mixing it all like some sort of messed up baking concoction. The water becomes discoloured, staining her hands in the process. 

Speaking of hands, Kris is suffocating their knife in a death grip. Might kill someone, actually.

Stop staring at their hands.

“What’s with the bottle, anyways?” Susie peeps at you for a second, then back to the concoction.

You raise an eyebrow, clearing your throat. “What about it?”

“Why’s it on Noelle’s desk?”

“Oh,” you sigh, as if expecting something much worse than that. “Because there’s no space on Berdly’s.”

“‘No space’?”

“Worksheets,” you answer simply.

Susie fake gags. “Gross.”

“Yeah. We’re going over stuff from the last unit. Apparently, you need stuff from that to understand stuff from this.”

Susie already looks confused. “Don’t look at me, I don’t even bother with that stuff.”

“With school?”

You give the obvious answer, but she takes the opportunity to jab at you anyways. “With Nerdly.”

“He’s making you do more than you need to.”

For some reason, Kris’ voice surprises you.

(And not just because they’re pretty much caressing your eardrum with their voice.)

“How so?”

“Don’t do every worksheet we’ve ever done. Just do the important ones.”

You cross your arms, ignoring how it brushes theirs slightly. “And how am I supposed to know which are important if I don’t know any of it?”

“You won’t know asking Berdly. Ask Noelle.”

“Noelle?” You instinctually glance at Susie, who’s become very focused on squishing the soggy powder into a ball. “Like hell her mom would ever let me come over to study one-on-one. She barely knows me; I’ve talked to her, like, twice. And it felt like she wanted to kill me with her gaze alone.”

They snort, and you remember you’re talking to Kris and you immediately smile like a giddy loser. 

God, what a pretty sound.

With the dusting of red on your cheek bones, you continue. “And plus, we’re not like that.”

Susie’s attention is immediately brought back. “Oh? And you’re ‘like that’ with Berdly?”

“I wish. Maybe then he’d stop slyly calling me an idiot.”

She wheezes as she finishes packing the wet powder into a tight ball. The colours have mended together slightly; now, it’s just streaked brown with swirls of rainbow. It’s kinda cool, actually. 

“What now?” You ask, for some reason, completely on board with whatever this is.

“Well, it didn’t explode. Y’know how every good science experiment ends with an explosion?”

You’re not exactly picking up what she’s referring to. Well, not until she stands, placing the ball in the center of her desk. Your eyes widen as she cracks her knuckles.

Susie clasps her hands together, not once hesitating before she slams her fists on the ball, 

You barely have time to shield your face.

Weird, rainbow-brown, sticky substance flies across the classroom. Either this stuff was made to be a projectile, or Susie’s a lot stronger than you give her credit for.

It’s coated the tiles, the desks (not just her’s, also the ones adjacent)…

It’s also all over your arms.

You try to shake the stuff onto the floor like a dog, but you halt when you feel shuffling next to you.

Kris seems to have just accepted their fate, bits of rainbow sludge coating their cheek.

You realize they’re snickering to themselves while Susie’s screeching on the floor, unintentionally rolling in the sludge that’s made it onto the floor.

You’re about to blame the dazed look on your face from the frankly toxic-smelling fumes.

…

Yeah, you think to yourself as some of their pearly whites peek through their lips. You could do this more often.

Their head turns when Miss Alphys starts gasping in confusion, but they forgot you’re both hip-to-hip. Face-to-face.

They quirk their head again with a smile, sludge dropping down their face.

But their smile vanishes.

Your hand’s started gravitating towards a large chunk.

You brush it off with your thumb before you realize what you’re doing.

And that thumb? The one that greedily caressed their warm cheekbone like some disgustingly sweet trope? It leaves behind a pink trail. Might be the colour smudge from the slime, but you swear their eyes are glistening.

Save face! Hurry!

“Sorry!–” You lean back, acutely aware of the decreasing surface area of chair you’re sitting on.

You’re falling– again!–

You try to grab onto the desk before your ultimate demise, but your hand slips right off from the water.

So, from your panicked state of mind, of course, you go for the next logical option: Kris. Digging your fingernails into their sweater, their eyes widen a fraction.

But you’re already falling, and your legs are tangling with the desk and with their own.

And you end up dragging you both to the floor.

They land on top of you with a crazy grin, and you think you might’ve passed out for a second. 

~*•*~

Yeah, the knife wasn’t a good look. And the mess. Who knew Miss Alphys even considered detention as a punishment? Not you, that’s for sure.

She wasn’t even that mad; more shocked, if anything.

And since both Susie and Miss Alphys considered you an accomplice, you got roped into it too. Probably well deserved.

It takes ten minutes of sitting in silence for your teacher to combust from the pressure – making up the excuse that you’ve all probably got places to be and families to get home to – allowing you to leave.

Susie all but bolts from her seat, shoving Kris’ head and not bothering to watch if they jolt from their nap or not.

They don’t.

…

Do you wake them up?

No, no. They need their sleep.

…

You wouldn’t have hesitated with the opportunity before all this.

You forget Miss Alphys is still in the room when she awkwardly clears her throat, breaking your attention from Kris (nothing new).

You hear them twitch. You make like susie and run.

The halls are cleared empty. You’ve seen stragglers of students, but it’s never been this dead before. It’s a bit creepy how silent it is.

You find yourself in front of your locker, legs having automatically pulled you here. You must’ve forgotten to lock your locker because the opened master sits on the hook, never having clicked in place.

Your heart drops.

Inside your locker sits a lone bottle of apple shampoo.

You twitch, mouth agape.

What the hell?

You try to hide the bottle like contraband, peering down each hallway for any witnesses.

Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but it just feels… incriminating for some reason. 

Susie’s down one of them, standing next to Kris. She notices you, the bottle, and snorts. She looks as guilty and culpable as possible.

Is this?–

Kris follows her eyes, landing on the bottle you’re poorly hiding. They mirror your shock to the best of their monotone ability.

They slam their locker and immediately speed walk in the opposite direction. Susie’s not even trying to hide her amusement as she follows en suite.

Susie glances back and waves at you. “See you tomorrow, apprentice!”

You wait until she turns the corner to examine the bottle more closely.

Apple…

You pop the cap. Take a whiff.

You sigh from the familiarity. It smells really good.

It smells like…

Kris.

Yeah. That’s why it feels incriminating. 

…

Wait.

That means…

It can’t mean what you think it means, right?

But… what else could it…

…

Oh no.

It can only mean one thing.

One thing.

Kris knows you’ve sniffed them.

~*•*~

You’re practicing self-control.

Maybe the shampoo bottle was a bit of a wakeup call. You hope it’s that and not the approaching unit test. Actually, maybe that's more of a concerning motivation. 

Test. You need to do better on this test. Above an 80 at least. 

Which is difficult with this new hobby of yours. 

You’ve been flunking on quizzes, not even bothering to show Berdly due to the predicted reprimand you’d get. He might as well be your mother. 

The staring-at-Kris has died down. You still peek, because your restraint is that of a rubber band, and they almost always meet your eye immediately, even when you’re glancing at the back of their head. 

And they smile. No hesitation.

Not good!

You need them to… give you the finger, or something. No, that wouldn’t do anything. Susie gives you the finger all the time and you just laugh instead of scowl.

It’s like they know what they’re doing.

It’s like they want you to keep looking. 

No way.

Doesn’t matter. You need to stop zoning out and start listening to the beak yapping in front of you. Wait. Maybe that’s contributing to the issue.

You shuffle your chair to sit beside Berdly instead of in front of him. He’s too busy in his own head to notice. You’re getting odd flashbacks to when you’d sit like this before; when you’d purposely face your back to Kris.

It takes about five minutes for your composure to break.

You glimpse over, twisting your back enthusiastically.

They’re still for a second, but they peek, too.

Their lip curls upward.

Your head feels fuzzy.

Damn it!

~*•*~

Test day.

Alphys scrambled the seating arrangements, mostly to separate Kris and Susie, since they have a known record for cheating.

They’re sitting next to you. You look beyond terrified.

They almost want to comfort you, but wonder if that’s too much. It’s a test; it’s not that big of a deal. But they know you’re different. You think differently.

You’ve been acting differently, as of late. You haven’t reverted back to the hateful glances you used to give them, which is nice. They’re not sure why they think it’s nice.

But you’ve stopped staring as frequently. And it’s an issue for them. Is it bad they’ve gotten used to it? Is it bad that they like it?

They thought they did something wrong (stupid, right?), so they started smiling at you more often. Nothing seemed to be wrong; you still flush when they look at you. But then, you immediately revert back to your brainiac mode. Face forward, listening to Berdly.

They don’t like how the roles have reversed. Why’re they the one staring at your head?

Susie’s definitely noticed. Surprisingly, she doesn’t comment on it. Not that much, anyways.

Might be a silent apology after the shampoo. They were so ready to rip her to shreds.

…

They realize they’re studying you again. You don’t notice because you’re working through the test.

Right. Everyone’s started already. 

And ten minutes have gone by, their test white as snow. They haven’t even put their name.

Eh, they’ll be fine.

~*•*~

They pretty much finished their test in under an hour.

They don’t bother looking over anything, because that’s way beyond their energy levels right now (and all the time), so they prepare to hand it in. 

Berdly’s been triple-checking his answers, mumbling so loud Susie told him to shut up. Noelle’s just about finished, too. They can’t really see Susie from here, but she seems ready to hand in whatever she has and go home early.

But you? You’re stressed.

You’ve skipped half the questions, now working your way back through the ones that gave you trouble. They don’t blame you; some of the multiple choices were horribly worded. Nothing new, though.

Now you’re just blankly scanning your page, reading the words but not really reading them. 

They’re fondling with the pencil in their hand. The one you gave them. It’s technically theirs, but it feels different now. Just knowing you’ve touched it makes them shiver. 

…

They’re tapping the pencil on their desk before they realize they’re doing it.

It’s not exactly quiet, as the sounds of lead scraping on paper and pages being flipped kinda drowns it out. But you notice. You always notice.

They like how much you notice.

Your head hangs low as you offer them a quivering smile, almost saying I’m doomed.

One glance at a semi-busy Alphys makes up their mind.

They’re holding up a finger. You seem confused.

They phantom-write the letter B on their desk.

Your eyes widen. It clicks.

Yeah, they’ve been caught cheating with Susie, but they’ve also gotten away with it more often than not. Can’t be persecuted for the crime if you’re not caught, right?

You both follow the same pattern for the next ten minutes. You erase some of your circles to replace them with Kris’ answers. They wish they could tell you to not put that much faith into them. But from the gleaming look in your eyes, they wouldn’t have the heart to tell you so.

The written application questions are harder. At that point, they just lend you their calculator (disguised as friendly borrowing) with the answer displayed on the screen. You’re not stupid, you know the steps and the process to getting the right answer. They know that. 

Which is why they can’t help but break out into a toothless grin when your face lights up from getting a matching answer.

It’s probably not great to make you rely on them like this, but they can’t deny it makes them feel almost guiltily good. 

They stay with you until the bell rings, half the class already gone. 

They make sure to hand theirs in first – a minute or so ahead – to quell any suspicions Alphys might have.

All she does is give Kris her signature nervous grin and they leave, not sparing a single moment. The front doors funnel out the rest of the students. They let out a breath they didn’t know they were holding. 

They barely realize you’re sprinting after them until they’re outside near the bike racks. 

You seem to still be running on adrenaline from the way you jump right into conversation.

“Oh my God, holy shit thankyousomuch. You don’t understand how unbelievably screwed I would’ve been if you didn’t– I would’ve aimed for a fifty, max. Passing would’ve been a luxury! I’ve just been really– out of it–”

They can’t help but ask. “Berdly being a pain in the ass?”

You’re over explaining, but they’d never stop you. “Surprisingly, no– well, not more than usual, hehe. I’ve just been tuning him out for some reason. I never used to do it– well, not this much. He’s just been too much for my brain to handle, y’know, ‘cause I’ve been spending so much time staring–”

You halt, blooming more red than before. Their heart squeezes.

“–at. Things.”

They’re definitely looking at you like you’re the most precious thing they’ve ever seen. You can’t seem to tell. 

You tilt your head curiously. They realize you’re waiting for them to say something.

Their mouth is moving before they can stop it.

“If you ever need a break from Berdly, I could…”

They trail off. Unintentionally. Accidentally. They’re too busy glancing at your lips.

But you get the jest.

You’re hopping from foot to foot. “You would?– Actually, yeah. That’d be– yeah. Great, I mean. After all that, I think I’d trust you more tenfold… I’d really like that, Kris.”

…

They’ve decided they love the sound of their name on your tongue.

~*•*~

“I was actually about to go to the diner. Grab a quick bite, probably start studying for the next test. Y’know, better safe than sorry,” you start to hesitate, fiddling with your fingers. “Would you… wanna come?”

You realize they’ve processed half the things you’ve said, with the oddest expression on their face.

“Yeah,” they sigh. “That sounds good.”

It’s almost…

Like–

They’re looking at you like they’re looking at nothing but you.

…

That’s what that is.

Is that how you look? When you look at them?

Wow, you…

…

You kinda look like an idiot.

In the cutest, most adorable way.

…

You’re also a liar. You weren’t supposed to go to the diner. You were supposed to meet Berdly in the library for another impromptu studying session.

But he’s been torturing you inadvertently for the past few years, he can wait a few hours.

He can wait.

~~~

ok believe it or not ive been in a writing flunk for like two years and apparently this is what happens when ch 3/4 drops. i had a few 'why am i giggling at my screen' moments when writing it, so thats something. anyways i really hope you liked it !!!

Dazai doesn’t remember when you started to keep an extra pair of clothes in your bottom drawer just for him.

He doesn’t remember when you bought an extra toothbrush for him either, the item sitting in a small cup on your bathroom counter so intimately close to yours. He doesn’t remember when you started to stock your cabinets with canned crab or an occasional snack he had stolen from you before and said it tasted good. He doesn’t remember when you began preparing meals big enough for two. And he doesn’t remember when you started to look at him the way you do.

Those eyes that so fondly trace over every inch of his frame like he’s capable of being loved— like he’s not a silver-tongued beast of a man, his words filled with more teeth than his bite ever could. He doesn’t deserve it— he knows he doesn’t— so why does he find himself at your doorstep every time he fails his attempts in ending his miserable existence?

“You’re going to get sick if you keep this up,” You sigh out, stripping away Dazai’s soaked clothes until he’s shivering in his sopping wet bandages and boxers. “And you smell horrible every time…” Your nose slightly scrunches at the lingering smell of hydrogen sulfide and mucky water from the Yokohama canal.

“Whatever do you mean, dear? That’s just my natural musk,” Dazai gives a lopsided grin, attempting to lighten the mood. His grin falls into an uneasy look when he notices the brief side eye you give him as you toss his clothes into the washer.

“My water bills spike every month you do this, you know,” You point out blamelessly.

“Sorry,” Dazai mumbles with a weak smile. He always made a promise to try his hardest not to inconvenience anyone while making his attempts— making it up to those who he had done so with such as Atsushi. But he’s burdened you countless times, not realizing until now. Before he mentally promises himself to never return to you like a pathetic, mangy stray dog— you come into his view again.

“Don’t be sorry, but please come to me when you feel the urge to do these things, ‘Samu. I worry about you.” And Dazai can’t help but to immediately let his previous thoughts fly away. Who was he kidding? He’d never be able to stay away from you.

Your hands carefully reach to begin unwrapping the bandages sliding off Dazai’s body. Flinching, Dazai subconsciously moves a hand to stop you from taking his bandages off. There’s a momentary standstill between both of your movements as you look into his eyes with a reassuring gaze before his hand relaxes and falls to his side. It’s not the first time this has happened, but Dazai doesn’t think he’d ever get used to the feeling of having his protective cloth shed to reveal the myriad of scars that are engraved on this once blank canvas that humans call skin.

And when all is removed, you still look at him as you always had with an unwavering fondness that leaves him subconsciously leaning into you, yearning to be swallowed and drowned in your gentle affections. He doesn’t understand why you do the things that you do, such as loving him no matter how many times he tells you how much he doesn’t need you because it’s always been like that— lonely— or why you even put up with any of his shit for that matter. But you do. And he thinks he’ll never know why, because he’s terrible and doesn’t deserve what you do in return to his horrid behavior.

He slips into the tub without needing guidance, face tilting up to look at you without his usual charming grin, expression replaced with a quiet pleading, begging for any sliver of attention you can offer. And you give into his pleads, sitting by the tub while running a hand through his dark tangled hair before reaching for a washcloth to bathe him. There’s a lack of cheeky comments and flirting from Dazai as you rinse away the grime sticking to his tainted skin, his eyes flickering from distant to focused in a matter of minutes before glancing back over to you and melting further into your reverent touch.

Even after exiting the tub, he says nothing, allowing you to wrap a towel around his shoulders and place a tender kiss to his forehead. If this had been any other day, he would’ve teased you to no end about how you had to stand on your toes just to reach his face, but he merely softly smiles in mild amusement and lets you lead him into your room to get dressed.

He wears the extra pair of clothes you keep for him at the bottom of your drawer, shirt loosely hanging off his shoulders and pajama pants dragging along the floor each time he takes a step forward to follow you to your bed. He was used to sleeping on his futon, but he much preferred your bed and the comfort your body brought when he tangled his limbs in yours.

You don’t scold him either when he buries his face into your neck like you used to the first few times he had done so— complaining about his hot breath on your neck. Now, you reach a hand back to scratch your fingers through his damp hair in an affectionate manner, sighing out softly in what he can tell is contentment.

In the seventeenth winter of Denji’s life, he curls up against his temporary home- the glass window of a convenience store, too afraid to enter. People come and go, crinkling bags of plastic shrugging into protective arms, parents tugging a little harsher at their children, who point and slobber at his ghastly figure, partners who hold each other’s waists a little closer as they pass.

“What a poor guy.”

“Fuck, that scared me.”

“Is that guy dying or something?”

Dying. Do they know what it feels like to die? 

Denji’s head is hung low when plastic wrap lands on the back of his skull. His fingers, frozen stiff, swipe at the glossy packaging, before a fleeting moment of warmth graces his frozen fingertips. He doesn’t look up to the sound of plastic ripping, or to the hand that slips a heat pack into his arms. He doesn’t look up when someone kneels to his level, and his vision trains further into the ground when they offer him half of a steaming red bean bun in a paper packet beside his body, their eyes peeking through the gap between his knees. 

“Sorry, that’s all I have.” 

He doesn’t make a sound when a bottle is twisted open, doesn’t move when they grab his hands and begin trickling water from their thermos onto his fingers. He only winces as the blisters begin to thaw, steaming as the remnants of wet snow melt beneath his feet. 

“I hope we never meet again.”

Denji only looks up as you turn to depart the store, etching into his mind the person that moves further from him with each step, and the eyes that meet his own, but only between his knees, and the fleeting touch that may have just saved him that night, in the seventeenth winter of his life. The person who had to see his shrivelled, curled up figure, and had to feed his dried, crusted mouth with half a red bean bun that still sits on the ground beside him, and had to touch his bleeding, puss-filled, blistering fingers to thaw them.  

He too thinks he would rather die in the cold of this winter than meet you again.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Die, Denji does, but only in the eighteenth spring of his life, when the blisters on his fingers have scarred into hardened skin, and he has found himself a new shed to spend his nights in. He dies with a chainsaw cord through his chest, and it’s a million times less painful than he once believed, at least until the dying pump of Pochita in his heart almost begs for mercy. Suddenly, his chest feels just a little too heavy, and he realises he’s never known how warm blood was until it drowns him in pools of sticky, metallic red. When two strong arms reach out to hold his collapsing body, he’s sure that he knows what it feels like to die. Denji’s limp figure hangs motionless in your grasp, and you frown at the mess of dried blood that paints his toothed head in specks of brown. This is not somewhere safe for him.

Denji opens his eyes with his head in someone’s lap, bumpy roads jolting him awake from his unconsciousness. He stares into the back of the front passenger seat, warm fabric beneath his cheeks as he inhales the air freshener of the car and raises his hands to his eyes. The hardened skin of his fingers seems to have scabbed and fallen off, leaving him with hands more akin to that of a teenager. A normal teenager. He senses something else, something toying with his matted strands of golden hair. Fluttering touches stir and spread on his scalp, a whole palm nuzzling into the top of his head and eliciting a satisfied sigh from his lips. 

“We’ve got another hour to go. Sleep more if you need to.”

There it is, the voice that haunts him in his sleep and chases him in his waking hours. The voice that tells him he did a good job after every hunting gig, snickers with him when he cheats the yakuza out of a sleazy hundred yen coin, lulls him to sleep at night with the promise of bread, and butter, and honey, even some jam. The voice that he remembers all too well, and can’t seem to run from, no matter how hard his mind races. 

His mind freezes, but his body betrays him as his head turns in your direction, vision meeting the full face that hid behind the cover of his knees on that winter day, when he swore he knew how it felt like to die. He once envisioned his death to be silent, frozen in his final breaths into the winter sky. Then, he thought of it as a mess of red, putrid blood flooding his orifices as he drowns in a dumpster of sliced up human remains. Now, by some miracle, he lies in the lap of a familiar stranger, staring back at their gaze that remains unchanged from the one they shot at him between his reddened, shrivelled legs, exactly one hundred and fifty four days ago.  

Denji isn’t completely sure if he knows what dying feels like anymore.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

There is vomit in Denji’s mouth. There are mouthfuls of grainy, soured bile that barge through Denji’s lips as he sits on the ground of a restaurant, arms pulled into his chest. Himeno’s grip on his jaw is unshakeable, no matter how hard he thrashes and gargles, doing anything he can to separate himself from her. She pulls him closer to her as she continues spewing all the food she’s consumed throughout the day into his throat, and his eyes dart toward you, who grimace in disgust at the horrific scene that ensues before your very eyes. 

Do you know what it feels like to die while still breathing?

Denji wants to die. He wants nothing more, than to really die here on the ground, somebody else’s vomit spilling from the corners of his mouth. Yet the way your eye twitches at his pathetic attempts to free himself, and the wandering of your gaze between Himeno, who just refuses to let go, and Denji, who can’t seem to force her off, sends him to the depths of hell before he’s even lost consciousness. There is no empathy in your gaze, only disgust. Denji once thought that having to touch his frostbitten, rotting body in the winter was the most shameful thing that he could put you through. He thinks this is tenfold worse. He glues his eyes shut, praying for this all to be over, and just misses the slam of your soda can into the wooden table, and the shuffling of your feet towards the combined bodies of himself and Himeno. The weight of Himeno’s suffocating grip lightens, and Denji is just able to wriggle out of her grasp, before he’s falling again and his head hits the ground. 

You watch the pool of puke that spreads beneath Denji’s cheek, seeping into his hair and sticky with bile and spit. Himeno babbles on, half a jug of beer in hand, and eight empty ones in front of her. You wince, tugging at Denji’s sleeve. He is motionless, blacked out, and you can’t help but feel a pang in your chest. How did he, of all people, end up here? You look around at the people that surround the table, all of which bear lines of jagged scar tissue beneath the rolled up cuffs of their shirt sleeves, across the skin of their faces, along their huffing chests. You touch the scar on your shoulder through your shirt, scratching at it through the fabric. The itch does not fade, gradually becoming more and more intangible, yet so obviously present. This is not a place for people like Denji, or you, or anybody with half a will to live. If eighteen years of training and living under the public safety sector has taught you anything, it is that you never want to be near this place. You did not save Denji’s life last winter for him to let something as wretched as this line of work ruin it once again. You did not reminisce about him on the way home, half a red bean bun in hand, praying that he might find solace in this perverted world, only to have him return to the root of all things depraved. You did not scream for three days straight, the speech devil clawing open the skin of your esophagus at every breath you took, just to watch him jump into the stomach of another devil, giving up whatever little shred of sanity he had left. 

Your hands come up to form shapes, fingers twisting and jabbing at each other in sentences of sign. 

Makima, should I take him home with me to Aki’s?

“I’ll taaaaaaaake him…!” 

For somebody who is clearly far gone, Himeno is quite perceptive of what others around her are planning. Makima smiles, waving you off, and you frown. Grabbing your soda, you leave the restaurant without a word. Nobody else follows.

In the eighteenth spring of Denji’s life, he wakes up in a bed for the first time. His body sinks into the soft, linen sheets that cover the plush mattress, and there’s a weight that sits comfortably above his chest. He isn’t sure what it is, yet it wraps around his sweaty body like a cloud, threatening to lull him into slumber against the midnight that settles in a blanket of blue and ribbons of silver through lidded blinds. He does not want to die here. For once, Denji decides that he will bask in the rare warmth of a quilt on his chest, and the smoothness of silky fabric beneath his arms, his body finally relaxing after eighteen years of endless running, reluctant hunting, cold slumber on planks of wood and chewed up, moulding mattresses. That is, until, a familiar body crawls onto him from where his feet lie.

“Hey… Denji.” He freezes, the bed transforming into a bed of nails and pinning him down like needles that stab through fragile, fluttering wings of butterflies on framed planks of wood.

“Wanna sleep with me?” Himeno’s hand comes up to hold Denji’s cheek, creeping impossibly close to his flushed chest. 

This is what he wanted, right? Every night, as Pochita drifted to sleep on Denji’s shrivelled chest, he would tell him that getting laid would be the greatest honour of his life, wouldn't he?

But Denji wants to scream and cry, until his throat goes hoarse and his ribs crack under the pressure from the sheer exertion of his lungs. Himeno comes even closer now, and he can smell the bitter beer and putrid puke that laces her mouth. He doesn’t move. He can’t move. He can’t speak either, as her lips begin to pepper across his face, and along the shaft of his neck. Her kisses send his throat in a frenzy, panicked wheezes and groans vibrating into her mouth as she takes his Adam's apple in an open-mouthed kiss. He can’t breathe, and his legs won’t move to save him as her saliva dribbles down his neck, into his frantically heaving chest. Denji is frozen in place as Himeno peels off her sheer shirt, and he almost chuckles dryly, the concussion from before throbbing at the side of his skull. Safety? Comfort? A roof over his head, a house that won’t collapse even from the strongest of winds, a place to sleep in that won’t end up twisting his back? How audacious. Who is he kidding?

Denji thinks he should have just chosen to die when he woke up in this bed. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The day that Makima catches wind of Denji’s incident with Himeno is the day that he is moved to Aki’s residency. At the click of a key turning in a lock, you walk out of your room groggily to see a figure in the dark, who drops a half-empty duffel bag onto the ground at the doorway. Denji shrugs backwards as you flick the lights on, arms coming up to cover his eyes. The flat is warm, smells that he doesn’t know wafting into his twitching nose as he removes his hands from his vision to look around. You stare at Denji, who wanders around the kitchen counter, eyes searching every surface for something, anything. 

“We have leftover curry, if you want it.”

There’s that familiar voice again, calling out to him, offering him food, and safety, and a roof over his head. He turns to you, and you nudge your head towards the fridge, hands in the pocket of your hoodie. His eyes are bloodshot, and he doesn’t make a sound, or say a word. He simply glides towards the fridge, pulling it open and rummaging the racks for a plate of leftover curry rice. The clanks and clinks of glass dishes on plastic stirs the Hayakawa residence awake, Power swinging the door to your shared room wide open as the handle slams into the wall with a thud. Aki’s room remains closed, but you hear an abrupt hiccup from the other side of the door.

“What is this thing doing here! Why is it taking my food!”

“He needs food, Power. Plus, it’s not even yours. Go back to sleep.”

“No!”

Power huffs, and you forcefully shove her into the room, shutting the door behind you and flicking the lights back off. Denji unwraps cling wrap from the dish, balling it in his fist and tossing it aside as he searches for a spoon, metal utensils clashing against each other in wooden cabinets as his impatient fingers sift through forks, and knives, and chopsticks. Upon finding one, he travels to the couch, where you are sitting with your legs manspread lazily. The black screen of the television reflects the two of you on the couch; Denji’s tired arms reeling spoonfuls of cold curry and meat into his mouth, and you watching him eat, hands clasped and elbows propped up on your thighs. He lets each bite linger on his tongue for a little longer than it has to, savouring this new sensation of proper food in his mouth. Then, he wipes his mouth on his rolled-up sleeve, and sniffles at the realisation that his stomach is no longer throbbing and growling dully.

“Do you want to sleep?”

Denji doesn’t respond. He thinks you have hidden away the last two words to that question. He would rather die than hear confirmation of it.

“You can take my bed if you want. I can take the sofa for now.”

He doesn’t get up from the couch. Instead, he drops the spoon onto the empty plate, and feels his body tip sideways. His head lands in your lap again, the same way it did in the company car, on the day that he died for the first time. Your arms shoot up to accommodate him, body tensing as his hair hits your leg. He sighs, small snores eliciting from his nose as he passes out on you, still clad in his work suit. You tug the windsor knot of his tie loose, before running your fingers through his blonde locks, and rolling your head back over the edge of the couch. You can only take a guess at what happened with Himeno the night before that rendered him so unresponsive. So unlike the brash, boisterous version of him that beamed at Himeno’s offer of a french kiss, before having puke forced into his mouth. You cringe at even the thought of it, taking note of Denji’s little hums in his slumber, limp arms hanging off the couch and feet dangling off the edge. Swiping a thumb across his lip, you collect the curry that remains around his mouth, and he jolts unconsciously in his sleep, before relaxing against you again. Wind whistles past the glass windows of the living room, and it’s almost as if Denji shivers at the sound of coldness, even if it is blocked by the four walls that surround him. Your hand on his head moves to cradle his jaw, which shifts periodically as he breathes in, and breathes out. You hope that he can stay like this forever.

Another hiccup sounds from Aki’s room, Power kicks and flails at blankets in muffled thumps.

You bring your other hand to your mouth, parting your lips against your thumb to take a first taste of the untouched plate of curry that was supposed to be your dinner.  

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

“She even touched my shoulder! My shoulder, guys!”

On a windy night of Denji’s eighteenth autumn, he beams at the dinner table, grains of rice spewing from his stuffed mouth as his chopsticks wave and swing in the air. He hits you in the face, a piece of limp spinach slapping onto your cheek from his utensils, and Power screeches, jagged teeth bared in her maniacal laughter. You side eye him, picking the vegetable off your face and silently shoving more rice into your mouth. You’ve noticed the skip in Denji’s step upon his return to the Hayakawa residence, the dusty blush that lines his cheeks as he grabs at the fabric of his shirt around the shoulders, and sniffs it, the bashful giggles he gives himself when he waves you off for asking him what’s got him in such a good mood. Knowing your line of work, that won’t last, no matter how hard you try to speak it into existence. 

“Yeah, she touched your shoulder. We get it.”

“No no no, you don’t. I think she likes me! Like, really likes me!”

Denji slams his hands onto the coffee table now, shooting up to defend his proclamation of love on behalf of some random girl. You sigh, opting for a piece of beef from the plate in front of you. On your tongue is soft meat, savoury sauce, sour, putrid dread. Aki shoots you a glance from across the table. He watches your eyes widen for just a glimpse of a second, and nods, a mutual understanding clearly reached between you two. You take a fistful of Denji’s shirt, yanking him back down to ground level, and he pouts as you shove bundles of spinach and ladles of sauce into his bowl. He bites his thumb, gnawing and nibbling as his chopsticks pick aimlessly at his meal.

“Stop biting your finger, Denji. That’s gross.” You grab his wrist and pull his thumb out of his mouth.

“Nah, I made a promise to Makima.”

“Makima?”

Aki chews on his rice silently at your question. Denji stares at his nail, jagged and peeling from biting on it constantly. 

“She’s the one for me. That’s why she told me to remember how it feels when she bites my thumb.”

At that, your palm makes contact with the back of his head, knocking it forward. Denji wheezes, the wind knocked out of his windpipe at your sudden attack. Aki shovels individual grains of rice into his mouth, clearing his bowl. Power joins in your antics, hands chopping at his body even after you’ve stopped to glare at him. She gets bored of your inaction quickly, scratching her ass as she leaves the table for the shared room. Denji’s eyes are trained onto his bowl, the food looking less and less appetising by the second. 

“She did what?”

Denji stretches his palm in front of his face, inspecting it as if it was some antique object. His chest sinks, feeling your eyes burn holes into the side of his head. Makima promised him love, and sex, and everything he has ever wanted. He isn’t sure why it seems so wrong to you. You once told him you wanted him to find someplace safe, no? Where do you think he would be, if not for Makima bringing him in on that fateful spring day?

“Well, she let me cop a feel because she cares about what I want. Even said she’d grant me any wish if I got the gun devil.”

“She does not care about you, Denji!”

Denji scowls, hands waving erratically as he searches for his words. Aki leaves for the kitchen sink silently, the sound of running water serving as a backdrop to your wordless fury. You slam your hands onto his shoulders, shaking him back and forth. His eyes meet yours, and he sees something that Makima, that other girl from today, Himeno, Power, Aki, none of them have shown him before. Desperation. Fear. Worry. 

“You know what? Go back to that girl you met in the phone booth. Do what you want, just don’t get me roped into your shit. And remember, I told you so.”

You shove him away, retreating into the shared room. That night, Denji sleeps on the couch instead of you. He doesn’t think about the girl from the phone booth, or Makima. He dreams about the day that you thawed his frostbitten fingers outside a convenience store, the day that had him thinking he knew what it meant to die, but really had no grasp on it. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Denji learns the taste of flowers in the eighteenth autumn of his life, when he shoves an entire bouquet of them into his mouth in a cafe. The petals turn into mush on his tongue as he chews and swallows them. He waits for some girl that tried to bite his tongue off and murder him two days ago, sitting alone on a bar seat in a bustling coffee shop. Stares and murmurs ensue behind his back, couples and friends alike glancing at his pathetic figure that waits for a fabricated promise, flowers stuffed in his mouth. He tastes the bitterness of the flowerbuds, the type of bitterness that seeped through his veins when she kissed him, and ripped his tongue from his mouth. The type of bitterness that he can’t seem to fully carry, even after she tried to blow him up. The type of bitterness that is covered by the sweetness of flora, which somehow still makes its way through to his sinuses. Like recollections of how she showed him how to swim, laughed at his awful jokes, taught him to read and write, and turned all shades of red and pink at his flirtations. Rose-tinted recollections of a military trained spy, whose very purpose was to blush on command, laugh on command, lure him into emotional investment, before biting his tongue off, slashing his wrists open, and ripping his heart out of his chest. 

He doesn’t like the way these flowers taste. He throws the half-eaten bouquet onto the ground of the cafe, and pushes his way out of the shop. 

When Denji returns home, you are squeezing whole bottles of throat medicine into your mouth on the living room sofa. He points at his throat, and pretends to pull a pin from his neck. You nod, clawing at the air around your throat. He shoots you a thumbs up, unsure what to say as he faces the consequences of his fortunate victory against the bomb hybrid from the night before. You wave him off, eyes never meeting him as you mouth, it’s fine, I’ll be good. From across the living room, he catches the blood that coats your entire bed of teeth, the dark, deadly shade of crimson splattered across your lips. He hears your screams again, and again, and again, as he stands in the doorway. Blood curdling commands coming one after the other, he can almost feel his throat rip open with every word, taste the blood that you cough up after finishing the bottle of throat medicine. 

Walking towards the couch, he plops down beside you, his weight creating a dip in the soft fabric. You pretend to pull a pin at your throat, and point at Denji, who sighs hopelessly. You falter, brows furrowing at his disappointment. For the weeks leading up to today, Denji had not removed himself from Reze- some unknown girl he met in a telephone booth. He had beamed about his advances to you- namely regurgitating a saliva coated flower from his mouth magically, and you had listened patiently, fists gripped by your sides. He told you he wanted to run away with her, after all this mess and carnage was over, only for her to become the root of another senseless massacre. Your hands move to form shapes, sign language that Denji has picked up on throughout the past months of living and working alongside you. His skills are scarce, yet he just makes out what you are asking.

Beach, girl, run?

He shakes his head, back hunching in defeat. She didn’t care about his heart, only the Chainsaw devil’s. Even her blushes and laughs were rehearsed to perfection. 

“She didn’t show up to the cafe anyways.”

You frown, hitting Denji’s chest with the back of your palm, eyes still not meeting his own. He bites his thumb, and you slap his hand away from his mouth without even looking. Signing furiously, your fingers contort into a flurry of shapes. Shapes that Denji can barely decipher, but understand just enough to feel your disdain. 

No biting… unbelievable. Makima, Reze. Gross... 

Denji smiles weakly, wiping his thumb on his blood-stained uniform. Your teeth are bared until the tips of your canines just peek through the opening of your lips, before you retract them and gnaw your bottom lip meekly. He takes in the corners of your worried eyes and irked brows, and he thinks that even Pochita feels a little guilty in the way that his chest seems to beat agonisingly with every pang, like a nail burying itself into his heart at each pump. You punch his shoulder, finally taking a good look at his haggard figure, before reaching for another bottle of medicine and twisting the cap open with a click. You gargle and cough at each swallow, splatters of blood spitting into a white tissue from your throat at each sound you make. Suddenly, Denji wishes he didn’t throw the flowers away at the coffee shop. Maybe a few petals could ease the pain too, because he’s sure it’s the petals he ate that are making him feel a blooming warmth in his chest right now.

“You don’t have to be sorry. Plus, you saved my life out there yesterday. So, thanks.”

You smile at him with your lips pursed, and Denji hopes that he doesn’t die before you find your voice again.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

In the beginning of Denji’s eighteenth winter, he slashes a chainsaw through Makima’s body. He watches her cut up, mutilated organs fall to the ground, throwing the chainsaw next to them. There is no pity, or rage, or overwhelming sadness. All he can do is stare, coated head to toe in her blood. He takes her skin, and bones, and organs in a plastic bag, inhales blood that smells akin to rat shit and bile. He walks into a new apartment, devoid of the Hayakawa name that was once engraved into the tin mailbox of his old home. It is empty, no one greets him on the couch as he walks in. 

He throws the bag of remains onto the counter of his new kitchen, bought with the money left in Aki’s will. He’s sorry, he thinks, because he doesn’t feel anything right now. Not anger, not worry, not fear. Aki is dead. Power is dead too. He should feel something, at the very least for you, who was wheeled onto an ambulance as he picked up the remains of Makima with his bare hands. 

Denji eats dinner alone at his new coffee table, also bought with the money from Aki’s will. He shuts his eyes, and pretends that Power is bickering with him. He can almost hear her frenzied shouts, feel her hands slap his back, and his head, and his chest. Aki should be sitting across the table, sipping his tea mindlessly, or lighting a cigarette and filling the room with nicotine. He shoves Makima’s flesh into his mouth, swallowing without so much as chewing on it. The idea that he is shovelling human flesh into his stomach while fully human makes his skin crawl and stomach flip. He wants to throw up. His eyes water at the grooves and fibres in the meat that etch themselves into his tongue. 

He squeezes shut his eyes even harder now, instead envisioning you beside him. You, who force strings of vegetables into his meals at dinner. You, who speak only when needed, and rarely in sentences that drag on for more than you deem the need to, and showed him how to live on with half a red bean bun and a thermos. He has never known the curves of your body like the rest of his prospects, never thought to try and learn them either. He doesn’t know of your past, or your present either, really. 

Despite that, you know the shrivelled figure of his past, his habit of thumb biting, his fear of sharing a bed, his disdain for spinach over any other vegetable. And when you spat at him, I told you so, you were right. Himeno wanted him to fuel some petty, one-sided feud. Reze ripped his tongue out of his mouth, only to apologise, before snapping his neck and leaving him in the dust. Makima, the one who swore to give him sex, and love, and safety, and purpose, everything he could have ever wanted, binded him in a dog’s collar so he could watch as she tore Power in half from the torso. All Power wanted was to give him a cake. 

You confuse him to no end, but something sits between the two of you for certain. Something that shrouds his heart in a warm glow, one that almost calls out at him to keep it there. A glow that creeps up to his mouth when you can’t speak, threatening to spill out of his lips and into yours so he can heal you, for once. But the glow always seems to turn into poison that leaks back down his throat. He swallows his words, bites his lip, bites his own fingers. He doesn’t know how it feels to die, only because you’ve shielded him from it all along.

The remains of Makima have been consumed. Denji throws the plates and bowls into the sink carelessly, his chopsticks following suit. When he swings open his cabinet to two new boxes of throat medicine, he can’t help but stare at his purchase. He really only had you in mind when he filled the cabinets of his new apartment with the only familiar thing a grocery store could offer. Maybe he should give you a visit soon.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

In the eighteenth winter of Denji’s life, you learn that he is afraid of living. Your backs against the sheets of your hospital bed, the two of you stare at the ceiling light that blinks periodically, just as it has for the past week that you’ve been here for. Its flickers have gradually become more erratic than the days before. You stare at the familiar cracks that spread from beneath the light bracket towards the rest of the ceiling, arms behind your head. 

“Does it still hurt to talk?”

“Just a bit.”

He hums in understanding, continuing his aimless staring. The hospital television whirs in static and vague sounds of people speaking behind the two of you, and you shift in place, the bed sheets wrinkling and shuffling beneath your body. 

“Can I tell you something?”

You nod wordlessly.

“I’m starting to think I can’t live anymore. Like this whole devil thing has made me less…human, I guess.”

“Why?”

Denji clicks his tongue, hissing a sharp inhale through his teeth. 

“I don’t really see the point in touching tits, or having sex anymore, you know? Like, all those things that I thought I wanted so badly, they didn’t make me feel how I wanted to. But then, I’m not sure how to live. Shouldn’t I live so someone can love me? Is that not what everyone lives for?”

You glance at him, the messy blonde hair that presses into the mattress, lousily tucked white shirt that creases around the waist, eyes that once were zealous turned tired, unfeeling. You pull one hand out from beneath your head, the one that doesn’t have an IV drip attached to your index finger. It travels to Denji’s crossed arms, untangling them from each other so you can grab at his hand. His fingers are unresponsive until you give him a squeeze, then another, then a third, and they finally relax against your own. He turns, meeting the eyes that peeked through his knees in his seventeenth winter. Eyes that look at him with worry, whether he is sitting at a dinner table, beaming about some girl whose flirtations have blinded his rationality, or if he is curled up against the glass door of some convenience store at midnight, breath stagnant and frozen in the winter air. 

“Do you think they loved you, Denji?”

His vision travels to the mattress beneath him. He thinks they did, or maybe they didn’t, or it was somewhat in between love and indifference, or whatever that’s supposed to feel like.

“I don’t know. They all wanted chainsaw man’s heart. But nobody wanted mine, you know? Nobody ever wanted Denji’s.”

You give his hand another squeeze, and he feels another pang in his chest. This is what it feels like to die, Denji thinks. Not blood gushing from his chest, or being frozen solid as people walk past his crouched body, but knowing that his efforts to become worthy of appreciation have only amounted to being used for his power. This is what it feels like to die, a hollow boy with nothing left in his chest but a devil that pumps blood for him. Even his heart is a contract that he has to follow. 

“I didn’t save you a year ago today for you to think that, Denji.”

Your weak elbows try to prop your body up to look at him from above, before they collapse back into the mattress and elicit a hiss of pain from your mouth. It’s by some miracle that you’re even alive right now, and that your throat has healed enough to make out short sentences. Short proclamations like this, that you’ve waited so long to make. Denji catches your fall, a palm cushioning your elbow. His hand is still in yours as he shifts to look at you properly. 

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to know?”

He opens his mouth, and his scrambled words get caught in his throat. So, he nods, the bags beneath his eyes relaxing. You let go of his hand, instead running your fingers along his chest and laying your palm flat on his heart. It beats in rhythmic thumps, steadily pulsing on the lines of your hand. 

“What are you feeling right now?”

Denji’s mind is a jumbled mess, yet he can clearly tell what he is feeling. “Warm.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No.”

Your hands move to the back of his head, scratching and rubbing at his scalp with the pads of your fingers. Denji leans into your touch, eyes still trained onto your own. His heart continues to beat steadily, and he feels something building up around it. Something that has his breaths getting heavier, and his vision of you becoming even clearer than it already is. 

“What does this feel like?”

“Nice.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

Your hand makes its advance to his cheek, cradling it gently. Dusty pink scatters across his face, and Denji has to remember to breathe. In, out, in, out. Your thumb swipes across the dark bag beneath his eye. He thinks this is bliss, so unlike the drooling, panting mess he used to be for Makima, or the bumbling, fake persona he played up for Reze. He is more sober than ever, and his hand hovers over your body. He doesn’t want to just cop a feel. He wants to touch every inch of skin that you inhibit, trace over whatever scars you might have accumulated from the trials of time, plant kisses wherever you want him to, whenever you want him to. 

“What does this feel like?”

“Can you stay like that?”

“Sure.”

He reaches for your wrist, holding onto it like a lost boy in a crowd. His fingers feel for smoothed scar tissue in your palm, around your knuckles, on your wrist. He pulls your hand away from his face to take a look at the lines that etch themselves into your skin, lips hovering just above your fingers.

“Can I kiss you?”

You nod. He starts on the scar of your palm, one that you earned during a fight in the early days of your work. He kisses the fleshy scar that slashes across your hand, peppering along its length. 

“Can I keep going?”

“Yeah, keep going Denji.”

His head dips to the faint white lines that decorate your arm, from your wrist to the connection between your forearm and bicep. His hair tickles the sides of your arm as fluttering kisses plant themselves into each poisoned, torn open line of your skin. You squirm, hospital gown coming loose on one shoulder as the cool air of the room hits the scar that reaches from your shoulder to the dip between your collarbones. Denji notices, and pulls your arm away from him.

“Can I?”

You wince, the scar beginning to itch and throb.

“Please, do it.”

His fingers trace along the jagged scar, before he nuzzles his face into your shoulder, and moves along to the centre of the dip just above your chest. You roll your head back to give him space, and he kisses up your neck and onto your jaw. He’s inexperienced, nose bumping into your flesh when he comes up to look at you again. His eyes flicker to your lips, and you answer his question for him as you pull him into you. The glow in his heart rushes from his chest to his mouth, but his teeth bump into yours, and you pull away. It tastes like your blood, the blood that has saved his life more times than he can count as you rip your throat open for him. He wants to taste it again as much as you want him to.

“What does that feel like?”

Denji knows what it means to die now, but he thinks he’s starting to understand how to live too. If this day, in the eighteenth winter of his life, is what dying and being reborn feels like, he would rather die in the winter when his time comes.

“I think it feels like love.”

author's note:

guys this took SO LONG i really do not have what it takes to do a longfic in 2 days anymore after that tsukishima one... but im so proud of this tho like i had so much fun writing it and i love my baby boy denji so much omg also wishi i am so sorry it took this long to come out but i hope you like it sososoosososososos much

anyways tags!!