eyes lit like the sky

he didn't like how you so effortlessly caused eyes to fall on you by merely entering a room, even if he was one of those eyes. he didn't like how you always checked up on everyone after a mission to ensure everyone was okay, even if he purposely tried to get injured once before so you'd pay attention to him. he hated how kindly you offered him advice when you caught him training, even though he changed his schedule so that he would train during the times you would train too.

he hated how you were so.. effortless. he hated how natural you were. he hated how authentic of a person you are.

but he would be lying if he said he never realized that he didn't hate you.

sure, he was jealous on how quickly you could adapt to any situation, yet he would still pay attention on how you do it, just so he could train of course.

he was jealous on how beautifully you fought, making such violent acts look like a performance choreographed specifically to put you in the limelight, yet always found himself fighting harder to be able to reach your level.

he was so jealous on how easily you captured everyone's attention, including his. yet he never wavered his gaze from you. he never forgot all of your small habits that no one else seemed to notice. he never found himself not actively seeking you out just to keep him you company.

zanka was busy eating when he realized that he liked you. and safe to say, he almost choked.

because why would he like someone so.. above him? why would he think he had a chance with someone so special and unique when he was just some mediocre guy?

he pushed down those feelings. he recognized you as better than him, so his only goal was to get better than you.

but it wasn't like you were about to make it easy.

—

it's midnight, and you were currently alone in the training grounds, practicing with your jinki. you had come back from a solo mission today, and of course, you did it with ease (to no ones surprise). sleeping came hard since you couldn't shake off the feeling of needing to train though however. so here you are, training. you're too focused to notice zanka quietly watching you from afar, still in his loungewear and slippers.

he had gone out of his room for a walk to clear his mind. he knew you went out today, yet hadn't seen you when you returned, which bothered him for some reason. he noticed some movement in the training area, so he wandered off to see what or who it was.

when he saw you, he felt a frown grow on his face. seriously? you're already super amazing and naturally talented, so why are you here? its not like anyone else (but him) was here to see you, so what was the point?

maybe you knew about how much he loved loathed you, and was trying to prevent him from keeping up. yes, that must be it. and he was surely watching your every move with awe in order to come up with better moves in the future.

despite the quiet, you felt a presence behind you. you let your jinki transform back to its original state before turning around to see zanka. out of breath, you walk over towards him with a smile.

he's definitely not panicking inside. you? sweaty and tired with your oh so addicting scent that he's grown familiar with from fighting by your side surrounding you? while you currently walk over towards him? its a miracle he was able to stand up, let alone keep a straight face.

"hey zanka! what are you doing here? its so late," you ask, pulling up the hem of your shirt to wipe the sweat off your face. zanka definitely did NOT look down to see your stomach. nope.

he (somehow) kept a neutral expression as he looked down at you, crossing his arms.

"could ask ya the same thing. whatcha doin' fighting with the wind at midnight?"

you laugh, which shouldn't sound as beautiful to zanka as it does.

"dunno. just felt an urge, you know?"

"no actually, i don't know."

you hum. "hmm, whatever. wanna spar?" you asked, already pulling out your jinki.

you asked it so casually. like he was someone worthy enough to have a chance at beating you.

while yes, he did bring his assistaff —because why would he go anywhere without it—he still hesitated. he was conflicted with himself.

on one hand, he would probably never hear the end of it if he lost. he could practically hear enjin's voice already teasing him on how easily he got tossed around by you.

on the other hand, if he beat you, it would feel glorious, like a goal achieved by no one ever before him. yet somehow, he still feels uneasy at the possibility of you getting beat and losing to him. would you be sad? would you be happy for him? would you be disappointed at yourself and train harder, which would make the already massive power gap between you two larger than it was?

wait, why did he care if you would be sad or not?

he scoffs, and power ups his staff, cracking his neck in preparation.

"don't be surprsed when i beat 'cha."

"let's not make assumptions now, zanka."

—

you end up pinning him to the ground after 10 minutes.

you're both damp and sweaty, faces dirtied from dust and hair in a tangled mess. your left arm is on his chest holding him down while you basically sit on his torso with both legs on the sides of his body, your jinkies to the side, forgotten. you have one of his arms pinned up and while his other hand is free, he's too tired to fight back at this point.

your face is close to his, practically sharing the same breath as you both pant from exhaustion. you share eye contact, not breaking it for a good while. then he hears you laugh.

you sit up, still on him, and god you shouldn't look as good as you do. the moonlight reflects your features too well, you look like a painting that just came to life.

"what's that about beating me now, zanka?" you tease.

he doesn't know why, but that sets him off.

of course he couldn't beat you. why would he? natural talent beats hard work, he couldn't compete with that even if he pushed his body to breakage. he doesn't know why he's so angry. so angry at you, so angry at himself.

he pushes you off him, not enough to hurt, but enough to mean something.

you were caught off guard. sure you beat his ass, but you thought it was all in good faith. just a friendly sparring. the scowl he has on his face says otherwise.

"the fuck zanka?!" you exclaim, "what the hell is your problem?!"

he looks back at you, so obviously irritated. because he DIDN'T know what was wrong with him. he didn't know why he felt a pang in his heart when looking at your expression, hurt and angry at his actions.

"you already won, no reason to stay on me."

"you couldn't tell me to get off?? so you just HAD to shove me?!"

"yea actually! shouldn't be a problem since ya've been shoving me around for ten minutes! what's one push for ya?!"

you truly can't comprehend what he was saying right now. you thought you were having a good time, now he's yelling at you?

"what the fuck did i do to you?!" you yell.

"everything! everything you do fuckin' pisses me off!" he yells back.

now you were just confused. what did you even do to him??

you're both still on the ground, yet he's already kneeling to look over you, not stopping his yelling fest.

"fuck! you're so annoying ya know?! you're so perfect at everything ya do, even when you're not doing something!"

"it's so annoying watching ya be so perfect!! god i can't even believe i like ya sometimes! because fuck! you're obviously way better than me at everything, how would i even match up to ya?!"

you grab at his flailing arms.

pause.

did he just say that he likes you?

he's panting at the end of his rant, still unaware of his confession. you look up at him with wide eyes, trying to process all of the information he just spouted out while still trying to get him to calm down.

"..what did you say?" you ask.

ah shit.

this wasn't how tonight was supposed to go.

he doesn't pull away, but he physically deflates in your grip. he looks down at his lap, already pondering on what you would say. you would probably laugh at him, maybe even call him stupid to think he could ever match up to you.

and fuck him because how are you still so natural at surprising him with what you do?

you adjust your grip to hold his hands and they're shaking. you rub your thumbs on his hands in an attempt to soothe him.

"is that how you think of me zanka? that i'm better than you?"

he doesn't reply.

you continue speaking.

"zanka, you don't need to try and one up me to prove yourself."

at that, he looks up at you. you with your stupidly perfect face with that stupidly perfect smile.

what do you mean he doesn't have to be better than you? what do you mean he doesn't need to match your skill level in order to be good enough?

you pull him into a hug, and he's trembling. you rub your hands along his back to soothe him.

"..i thought i hated ya."

you snort. "yea, me too."

he pulls back to look at you. "you're annoying, ya know. why'd ya always have to be so.. so good? ya know? it pissed me off for a while."

you smile at him, and fuck if he doesn't wanna see that look on you everyday. "maybe i'm just myself. i don't see myself as the best, i only see myself as it is."

it's here that zanka realizes that his perception of you is that of someone who loves you. someone who can see you as the best version of yourself, and get envious at that.

he suddenly leans forward against you and sighs. you squeak in surprise and hold him up by his shoulders while his head rests on your shoulders.

"..ya don't hate me right?"

"hmm.." you pretend to think, and he brings up his hands on your waist while starting to tickle you.

"zanka-! okay okay! i don't hate you!" you exclaim between giggles as he finally ceases.

he bring you closer into a hug and sighs once more.

yes, zanka was an absolute idiot at feelings, but atleast he doesn't have to compete with you anymore. because he knew he'd always let you win. not like he had a chance at beating you anyway.

“mister wonger, finally back, huh? missed you yesterday,”

you say, a little smile tugging at your lips. now that he’s in front of you, it’s a little clearer why he didn’t show up yesterday. his cheeks are a little puffy and flushed, eyes watery. he took a tissue the second the box hit the counter.

“yeah, well..i try.”

he mutters, bringing the tissue up to dab at his runny nose.

“y’know, you don’t have to keep seeing me here. if you’re..allergic and all that. we could always meet somewhe-“

“forget it. i like comin’ to see you. nice lil’ shop..all quiet. little runny nose don’t bother me, you know that.”

“stubborn ass..”

you shake your head as he sneezes a few times. you bite back a smile at his determination to see you.

“y’know, i did get you a gift, since you’re so persistent.”

you say, reaching in a little drawer under the desk. he puts his hands out expectantly, and you place a small box of claritin allergy pills in his open palms.

“splurged on my paycheck, just for you, y’know.”

“awee, really? for me? ya shouldn’t have!!”

he says, exaggeratedly sweet and over the top with his reaction. even though, deep down, he is actually grateful. maybe it was the thought of it. maybe it was the attention to detail. maybe it was the gesture. but something about it, the little box of allergy pills in his hand, from you, it meant something to him.

so to distract himself from that feeling, he walks off into the shop, skimming through every flower arrangement on display. he picks out a little bouquet as he walks around, and even though his hands start to itch, he keeps grabbing more. more whites and yellows and whatever he thinks will compliment the little collection he’s gathered.

he brings them up to the counter all nonchalant, talking about some “how’s your day going?” crap like he’s any old passerby. so? you play along, all chipper and customer service.

“how much for these?” he asks suddenly as you ring the bouquet up, trying to keep a smile off his face. “and is it an extra charge if you could wrap these for me?”

“that will be..$16.45. and no, there’s no additional wrapping charge.” you state as you start to snip the stems. you pick out a nice white tissue paper and wrap the flowers up, tying them with a yellow ribbon to match the florals he picked out.

without paying (rude), Jabber takes the flowers and walks out.

not even a minute later he comes back in, radiating this sunny energy you love to see from him, completely different from the stoic, random customer he was playing before.

he holds the flowers out to you with this adorably dramatic bravado, presenting them to you with a big grin.

“for my favorite botanist ever!!”

he announces, affection laced in every word. before you accept the gift, though?

“…it’s still $16.45.”

you say with a straight face, while his crumples into a childishly disappointed pout.

“oh, come on! i tried to be all nice with it, too!”

The hallway was pitch black and freezing cold. Shivering, you tiptoed down the corridor, making sure to avoid the squeaky floorboards until you reached a door with a tiny, familiar explosion keychain hanging from the handle.

You tapped the door handle, praying it wasn’t locked. With a soft click, it gave way.

Stepping into Katsuki’s room felt like walking into a completely different climate zone. It was incredibly warm, smelling faintly of burnt sugar and his usual spicy body wash. You closed the door behind you with agonizing slowness, holding your breath until it clicked shut.

In the center of the room, buried under a mountain of heavy blankets, was Katsuki. He was a notoriously early sleeper, so he was already completely knocked out, snoring softly into his pillow. His usual spiky blonde hair was a messy, flattened disaster.

You crept over to the side of his bed. Normally, waking Katsuki up in the middle of the night was a death wish, but you were desperate.

Carefully, you lifted the edge of the heavy comforter and slid into the bed. The immediate blast of warmth was amazing. You shuffled closer to his back, trying to be as quiet as a mouse, and gently wrapped one arm around his waist, burying your face between his shoulder blades.

The second you touched him, Katsuki stirred.

He let out a deep, gravelly groan, shifting his weight. For a terrifying second, you thought he was going to blast you into next week. But instead, he slowly rolled over to face you. His eyes were barely open, squinting through the dark room, heavy with sleep.

"The hell...?" he mumbled, his voice incredibly deep, rough, and raspy from sleep.

"I couldn't sleep," you whispered, suddenly feeling a little guilty for waking him. "Can I stay?"

Katsuki didn't even answer verbally. He just let out another long, defeated sigh that huffed against your forehead. But before you could apologize, his large, ridiculously warm arms reached out and wrapped securely around your waist.

With one effortless tug, he pulled you flush against his chest, tucking your head right under his chin. One of his hands rested flat against your lower back, while his legs tangled up with yours under the sheets. It was like being held by a human radiator.

He buried his face into your hair, inhaling deeply, his grip tightening just a fraction as if to make sure you weren't going anywhere.

"Go to sleep, dumbass," he muttered in a thick, half-asleep voice, the words slurring together perfectly.

You couldn't help but smile into his chest, your heart doing a little flip. The anxiety and restlessness that had kept you awake for hours instantly melted away, replaced by the rhythmic, calming thump of his heartbeat against your cheek.

"Goodnight, Katsuki," you whispered.

He just let out a soft, grumbly sound in response, already drifting back into dreamland. Safe and warm in his arms, it didn't take you more than two minutes to finally fall fast asleep.

A/N: I forgot to post this yesterday...

@akira-dragon-archive do not plagiarize, edit or feed any of my works into any ai platforms.

The curtain rustled. You looked up just as Zanka Nijiku stepped in, wiping dust and grime from his cheek with the back of his hand. His jacket was torn at the shoulder, and a nasty-looking scratch ran down his forearm, still seeping a little.

“Yo,” he greeted with that familiar crooked grin. “Got a minute? Need this patched before my next drop.”

You waved him over without hesitation. “Sit. What happened this time?”

“Same old trash business,” he said, dropping into the chair and offering his arm. As you activated your vital instrument, the soft light blooming across his skin, he launched into the story. “Ran into a nasty Abberation swarm near the boundary. Had to kite ‘em away from the rookies. You know how it is—lotta trash, lotta teeth.”

You nodded along, fingers moving with practiced precision. The healing energy knit the wound together cleanly. But Zanka’s sharp eyes were on you the whole time.

Your instrument made your eyes shine with that telltale glow, but he could see the exhaustion underneath—the way your shoulders sagged, the faint dark circles, and especially the subtle tremble in your hands as you finished the last pass.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly once the light faded.

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically, flexing your fingers. “Just… busy. A lot of teams came back rough today.”

Zanka didn’t argue then. He thanked you, ruffled your hair lightly, and left for his next mission. But the worry in his gaze lingered long after he was gone.

Later that night, after yet another endless shift, you finally stumbled back to your small quarters. The door opened before you could even reach for it.

Zanka was already inside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He’d clearly waited for you. Without a word, he pulled you into a hug, then guided you toward the bed. Exhaustion won out quickly. You barely remembered changing before the two of you ended up tangled together under the thin blanket—his chest pressed to your back, one arm securely around your waist.

Sunlight (or what passed for it in the regulated habitat) filtered through the small reinforced window. You woke slowly, warm and heavy. Too heavy.

Zanka had shifted in his sleep and was now half-draped over you like a living weighted blanket. His head rested on your chest, one leg thrown over yours, arms loosely caging you in. His breathing was deep and relaxed—rare for a cleaner who lived on the edge.

“Zanka…” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “I need to get up. The bay’s probably backed up again.”

He made a low, disapproving hum against your collarbone, not even opening his eyes. His hold tightened just enough to keep you pinned.

“Zanka, come on. Work—”

Another hum, this one grumpier. He finally cracked one eye open, amber and stubborn. “Nah.”

You tried to shift, but he simply adjusted his weight, effectively trapping you more comfortably beneath him.

“You’re overworking yourself,” he muttered, voice still husky from sleep. “Saw it yesterday—hands shaking, eyes dead tired even when your instrument’s blazing. You’re gonna burn out if you keep this up.” His fingers traced lazy circles on your side. “And today’s my free day. Means you’re taking one too. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’m the healer here,” you protested weakly, though the fight was already leaving you. The warmth of him, the solid safety of his presence, made the idea of leaving the bed feel impossible.

“Exactly. So heal yourself for once.” He nuzzled closer, pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. “Stay. That’s an order from your favorite cleaner.”

You lasted maybe two more minutes—lightly pushing at his shoulder, murmuring half-hearted complaints—before the exhaustion pulled you under again. With a defeated little sigh, you let your arms wrap around him instead, fingers threading through his messy hair.

Zanka let out a satisfied sound, settling heavier on top of you like he planned to stay there all day.

“Good choice,” he whispered, already drifting back off with you.

for a brief moment, tamsy went quiet. it was rare for him to stop joking, but a confident smile soon appeared on his face. “a jester,” he said simply, as if he had already known the answer for years.

you blinked in surprise. “a jester? really? i thought you’d want to become a knight or maybe a royal advisor.”

“why would i want to be those?” he laughed. “jesters are much more interesting. people think they’re only there to entertain, but they have the freedom to say things no one else can. they can make a king laugh one second and expose someone’s ugly side the next.”

you looked at him carefully, noticing the confidence in his eyes. “you sound like you already know you’ll become one.”

“because i will,” he replied without any hesitation. “i’m good at reading people. i know how to make them trust me, how to make them laugh, and how to make them reveal things they don’t want others to see. i have the potential for it.”

you could only laugh softly at his confidence. “you really do think highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“someone has to,” he said with a playful grin. “and besides, when i become the greatest jester this kingdom has ever seen, you’ll be able to say you knew me before everyone else did.”

you smiled at his words, not realizing that behind his childish jokes and charming attitude was a boy who had already learned how powerful a mask could be. but to you, he was only tamsy — the one person who looked at you as yourself rather than the forgotten royal standing in someone else’s shadow.

and years later, tamsy had become exactly what he said he would be, the kingdom’s jester, but not in the way people usually meant it, since his presence no longer felt like entertainment alone but something closer to control wrapped in laughter.

something the court grew used to without ever questioning it; he moved through royal halls with bells on his sleeves and an easy smile that made even the most careful nobles relax their shoulders around him, and yet you noticed how nothing about him was truly careless anymore.

and how every joke seemed placed with intention, how every pause in his speech gave people just enough time to reveal more than they meant to.

and how he never forgot anything he heard even when others laughed it off, as if his mind was collecting pieces of everyone slowly without them realizing it was happening, and when you finally saw him after one of his performances.

standing alone in a corridor where the sound of the court couldn’t reach, you called his name softly and he turned with that same familiar grin that used to feel comforting but now felt like it was being worn rather than felt.

“you were watching me again,” tamsy said, leaning back against the stone wall like he had nowhere else to be, spinning a small charm between his fingers as if even silence had to be occupied when he was around, and you frowned slightly because he always said things like that so easily now, like observation was just part of breathing for him.

“i wasn’t watching you,” you replied, though it didn’t sound convincing even to you, and he laughed under his breath like he already knew the answer before you gave it, tilting his head as his eyes lingered on your face a little too long for it to feel casual.

“you always say that,” he said, voice light, almost teasing, but there was something steadier underneath it now, something that made it feel less like childhood teasing and more like testing a reaction.

“but you never look away fast enough to actually mean it.” you crossed your arms, trying to ignore the way he had started doing that more often, speaking like he was reading things that weren’t being said out loud.

“you’ve changed,” you told him again, softer this time, and for a moment the charm in his hand stopped moving entirely before he smiled wider, almost politely, like he had prepared for that exact sentence.

“everyone changes,” he answered simply, “i just stopped pretending i didn’t notice things.”

there was a silence after that, not heavy but not comfortable either, and tamsy pushed himself off the wall slowly as if deciding whether he wanted to stay or leave, though he never truly looked like someone who was in a hurry anymore.

and when he spoke again his voice lowered just enough that it felt like it belonged only to you instead of the empty corridor.

“do you think i became this by accident?” he asked, and you blinked because the question didn’t sound like a joke, which was rare now, and you hesitated before answering, “i think you chose it,” you said carefully, and he hummed like that was an interesting response rather than a correct one.

stepping a little closer but not enough to make it obvious to anyone else who might have been watching from a distance.

“i chose it because it works,” he said quietly, “people trust jesters more than they trust knights, more than they trust advisors, more than they trust royalty,” then he smiled again, softer this time but sharper underneath.

“they lower their guard when they think someone is only meant to make them laugh,” and you felt something uneasy settle in your chest as he said it so casually, like it wasn’t something he learned but something he had always known.

when you tried to speak again, he raised a finger lightly as if stopping you wasn’t rude if it was done gently.

“don’t worry,” tamsy said after a moment, tone shifting back into something lighter, more familiar, like he was placing the mask back on just enough for you to recognize it, and he stepped back again as if distance itself helped him stay composed.

“i’m still me,” he added, though the way he said it didn’t fully answer anything, and you let out a quiet breath because part of you wanted to believe that more than anything else.

even if another part of you had already stopped trusting how easily he could switch between warmth and calculation in the same conversation; he glanced toward the end of the corridor where voices from the court echoed faintly, then looked back at you with a small grin that almost resembled the boy you used to know.

“besides,” he said, lightly tapping your forehead the same way he used to when you were younger, “if i ever become unbearable, you’ll be the first one to complain.” you rubbed your forehead, trying not to smile, “you already are unbearable,” you muttered, and he laughed for real this time, bright and effortless.

like nothing had ever changed at all, but as he turned to leave and the bells on his sleeves chimed softly with each step, you noticed how even his laughter now felt like something performed perfectly enough that no one would ever think to ask what was underneath it.

the next day, the royal meeting is held like usual.

with the same cold room, the same polished floors, the same nobles sitting like they already know what they’re going to say before anything even begins, and you can feel it even before your sibling speaks, that strange kind of tension that comes when someone has decided they’re going to change how they’re seen.

even if the whole world has already decided what they are.

your older sibling stands in the center of the room, hands folded tightly in front of them, and for once they don’t sound like they’re trying to earn approval, they sound like they’re trying to take back something that was never really given to them in the first place.

“i won’t be the kind of princess everyone expects me to be,” they say, voice steady but tight at the edges, “i don’t want to be perfect anymore… i want to be myself, even if that means i fail at it,”

and for a second, the room actually goes quiet, not the polite kind of quiet, but the kind where people don’t know what to do with honesty when it doesn’t come wrapped in praise or tradition.

and tamsy is already smiling before anyone else reacts.

he doesn’t interrupt right away, not at first, because he knows timing better than most people in the room know truth, and he lets that silence stretch just long enough for it to start feeling uncomfortable, like a breath that hasn’t decided whether to end or continue.

then he tilts his head slightly and steps forward like he’s only there to make things easier for everyone, like he’s doing what he always does, being the harmless jester who keeps the room from getting too heavy, “oh,” he says lightly, almost amused, like he’s reacting to something small instead of something important.

“that’s a dangerous thing to say in a room full of people who decide what ‘you’ means,” and a few nobles shift in their seats, not fully laughing yet, but already unsure whether they’re supposed to take it seriously or not, and that’s where it starts to fall apart.

he keeps going, not directly against your sibling, never directly, because tamsy never needs to be direct when he can just bend the atmosphere around someone instead.

“it’s funny,” he continues, pacing a little as if he’s thinking out loud rather than performing, bells on his sleeves chiming softly every time he moves.

“how everyone suddenly becomes very honest right when they realize honesty doesn’t come with instructions,”

and now someone actually laughs, just a little, too early, too uncertain, and that laugh spreads in the wrong direction, not because it’s funny, but because people don’t know where else to put their attention anymore.

and slowly, the weight your sibling tried to build in the room starts to get pulled apart in pieces, not destroyed loudly, just loosened until it can’t hold itself together.

you can see it happening from where you stand, the way your sibling’s expression changes slightly when they realize people aren’t holding onto their words the way they were supposed to, the way the court starts drifting back toward tamsy without even noticing it’s happening.

because he’s already turned the moment into something else, something lighter, something easier to digest, something that doesn’t demand reflection, and he keeps smiling the entire time like nothing is wrong, like he’s just doing his job, like he’s just making sure the room doesn’t get “too serious.”

and by the time your sibling finishes speaking, it doesn’t feel like a statement anymore, it feels like something that passed through the room without landing anywhere at all.

afterward, when the meeting moves forward like nothing happened, tamsy falls back into place beside the others like he didn’t just reshape the entire moment, like he didn’t just decide what people would remember and what they wouldn’t.

when his eyes briefly find yours across the room, there’s that same familiar softness for half a second, just enough to feel like the boy you used to know is still somewhere under all of it, before it disappears again behind that calm easy smile.

and later when you finally catch him alone, he’ll already know what you’re going to ask before you even open your mouth, and he’ll answer it the same way he always does, like everything he did was harmless.

like everything you saw was just you thinking too much, like nothing important was ever taken away at all.

you’re in your room when the noise of the court finally stops echoing through the castle, but your thoughts don’t, because even now you can still see the way the meeting ended.

the way your sibling’s words didn’t settle the way they were supposed to, the way people smiled in the wrong places and laughed at the wrong times like the moment had been gently pulled out of shape without anyone agreeing to it.

and it makes your chest feel tight in a way you can’t fully explain, because it wasn’t loud enough to call it an argument and not clean enough to call it a success, it just felt wrong in a quiet, lingering way that stayed with you longer than it should have.

the door opens without a knock.

tamsy steps in like he’s always been allowed to, like your space is just another stage he can walk onto whenever he wants, and he closes the door behind him gently, almost politely, as if nothing about him ever has to be rushed.

when he looks at you, he’s already smiling that familiar smile, the one that never quite matches what he actually means, “you look like you’ve been thinking too hard again,” he says lightly, tilting his head as he walks further in, letting his gaze drift around the room before settling back on you like he’s already decided what this conversation is going to become.

you sit up a little straighter, trying to hold onto the feeling you had in the meeting, the discomfort, the confusion, the part of you that still didn’t like how easily everything shifted when he started speaking, “you didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice quieter than you intended, and he pauses just slightly, like he’s considering the shape of your sentence rather than the meaning of it.

“do what?” he asks, even though you both know exactly what you mean, and that alone already feels like the first step away from honesty.

“you know what i mean,” you continue, a little firmer now, “they were trying to say something real. you didn’t need to turn it into a joke.” for a moment, tamsy doesn’t respond, and the silence he leaves behind doesn’t feel empty.

it feels measured, like he’s choosing where to place his words before he speaks them.

then he smiles again, softer this time, almost patient, as if you’re the one who missed something obvious, “i didn’t turn anything into a joke,” he says calmly, stepping closer, hands behind his back, “i just made sure the room didn’t misunderstand what they were seeing.”

you shake your head slightly, because that isn’t what it felt like, not even close, “you made them laugh at her,” you say, and there’s a small pause after that, the kind that would normally invite correction, apology, anything softer—but tamsy doesn’t soften, he just studies you for a second longer, like he’s watching you try to solve a puzzle he already finished.

“no,” he replies gently, almost kindly, “they laughed because they were relieved,” and he tilts his head a little, as if explaining something simple, “people don’t like honesty when it doesn’t come with permission.”

your fingers tighten slightly in your lap, “you always say things like that,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him, and for a moment his expression changes just enough that it almost feels like something real is about to show through.

but then it settles again, smooth and controlled, and he walks a little closer until he’s just near enough that you can’t ignore him, but not close enough to feel trapped.

“you’re too kind,” he says softly, like it’s not an insult but a fact he’s observing about you, and you look up at him as he continues, voice lowering just slightly.

“you think people are speaking to be understood,” he says, “when most of them are speaking to be seen,” and there’s something unsettling in the way he says it, like he’s not guessing, like he’s already tested it too many times to doubt it now.

you stand your ground anyway, “that doesn’t mean you had to make it worse for her,” you say, and this time there’s a sharper pause, because that’s the first time you’ve actually named it directly.

tamsy’s smile doesn’t disappear, but it changes—becoming thinner, more deliberate, like something being held in place rather than felt.

“worse?” he repeats quietly, almost amused, and he lets the word sit there between you before continuing.

“i didn’t make anything worse,” he says, “i just showed what was already there.” then he looks at you for a longer moment, like he’s trying to decide how gently he needs to explain something you’re refusing to see.

when he speaks again, his voice softens in a way that feels almost intimate, almost wrong in how calm it is.

“tell me, my dear,” tamsy says, stepping just slightly closer now, enough that the air between you feels different, measured, “can a heart still break once it’s stopped beating?” (hehehe corpse bride reference..)

the question doesn’t land like poetry the way it would in a storybook, it lands like a conclusion he’s already reached long before you asked anything, like he’s not asking you to think, but to accept, and for a moment the room feels too quiet.

like even the walls are waiting for your answer that he doesn’t actually need, because his eyes already tell you he believes the answer is no.

and then, as if the question was never the point at all, his tone shifts again, lighter but no less certain.

“you still look at people like they’re what decides your worth,” he says softly, almost disappointed, “you shouldn’t,” and he tilts his head slightly, watching you with that same calm focus he had in the meeting, like you’re the only thing in the room he actually needs to understand properly.

“i’ve always seen you differently,” he adds after a pause, and the way he says it isn’t warm in the way it should be, it’s final, like he’s stating something that’s already been true long before you were aware of it.

“not like them.” he steps back just enough to give you space again, as if he never took it in the first place, and his smile returns fully now, easy and familiar, “i always saw you as the real princess,” he says simply, like it’s not a compliment, not a manipulation, but just reality finally being spoken aloud.

and even after he leaves the room the same way he came in, without hesitation, without disruption, you’re left sitting in the quiet that follows, realizing that the worst part isn’t what he did to your sibling in the meeting.

even what he said to you just now, but how easily he makes his version of the world sound like the only one that makes sense.

later in the day, after the meeting has already dissolved into its usual routine of quiet footsteps and distant voices, but the air still feels wrong in a way you can’t quite settle.

like something was said earlier that never fully finished existing, and you’re still trying to place where it went, when your older sibling finds you alone in one of the castle corridors, their expression tighter than usual, not angry at first, but unsettled in a way that doesn’t hide itself well anymore.

“you’re always around him now,” they say immediately, not even bothering with greeting, and you blink slightly because it sounds less like a question and more like something they’ve been holding in for a while, waiting for the right moment to spill out.

“the jester,” they add, as if saying his role makes it sound less dangerous, but it doesn’t, not in the way they’re looking at you.

you shake your head a little, confused, “i’m not always around him,” you answer, but they don’t look convinced, and that alone makes something in your chest tighten, because it feels like they’ve already decided the shape of the truth before you’ve even spoken it.

“people are acting strange,” your sibling continues, stepping closer now, voice lowering slightly like they don’t want to be overheard, even though there’s no one else around.

“they look at me differently after yesterday,” their jaw tightens, and for a second their voice cracks just slightly, “like i said something wrong just for wanting to be myself.”

you hesitate, because you want to tell them it wasn’t like that, that it wasn’t their fault, that the room just shifted, but the words don’t come out cleanly, because you remember the meeting too clearly, and tamsy standing there like he was shaping the air everyone was breathing.

your sibling watches your face for a reaction and takes your silence the wrong way.

“did you tell him something about me?” they ask suddenly, sharper now, and that question hits harder than you expect, because it isn’t just suspicion—it’s the beginning of connection being questioned, of trust starting to crack in a direction you didn’t prepare for.

“no,” you say quickly, almost too quickly, and you see their expression flicker like they’re trying to decide if they believe you or not.

“then why does it feel like everything changed after he started paying attention to me?” they ask, quieter this time, but more dangerous in its honesty, and you don’t have an answer that makes sense without sounding like you’re defending him.

there’s a pause between you both, heavier now, and your sibling looks at you for a long moment like they’re trying to find something familiar in your face, something that used to make sense to them.

“you don’t see it,” they finally say, voice lower, almost tired, “you think he’s harmless because he smiles when he does things.”

you open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out fast enough.

and that hesitation is what stays with them.

they step back slowly, not fully leaving yet, but already pulling away in a way that feels more emotional than physical, “just be careful,” they say finally, though it doesn’t sound like advice anymore.

it sounds like a warning they don’t know how to aim properly, and then they turn and walk away before you can fix anything that already started to bend.

and you’re left standing there longer than you meant to be, realizing that for the first time, your sibling isn’t just upset with what happened in the meeting—they’re starting to connect you to it, even if they don’t fully understand how or why, and somewhere deep down, you already know this is going to get worse before it gets clearer.

when the next royal meeting arrives with the same heavy quiet it always carries, the kind of silence that feels practiced rather than natural, like everyone has already decided what kind of day it is supposed to be before anything is even said.

your older sibling stands among the court again, but this time there is something different in the way they hold themselves, not confidence, not exactly fear either, but a carefulness that wasn’t there before, like every word they might say has to pass through a filter first before it is allowed to exist.

tamsy notices it immediately.

he is already there, of course, already in place like he belongs to the room more than anyone else does, leaning slightly to the side as if he has all the time in the world, bells on his sleeves still, that same easy smile still resting on his face.

but his eyes are quieter than usual, sharper in a way that doesn’t match the tone he uses when he speaks, and when your sibling begins to talk, trying carefully to continue what they started days ago.

trying to reclaim the space they lost in that earlier meeting, tamsy lets them speak just long enough for the room to start listening again.

“i only meant that i want to be seen as myself,” your sibling says, voice steadier than last time but not as strong as they want it to be, and for a moment it almost works, almost settles into the room properly.

but tamsy has already decided otherwise.

he shifts slightly, just enough to be noticed, and lets out a soft laugh that doesn’t sound loud, just perfectly timed, like it slipped out by accident.

and that small sound is enough to pull half the attention in the room away from your sibling instantly, because people here are trained to follow him without realizing they’re doing it.

“ah,” he says lightly, tilting his head like he’s amused rather than involved, “it’s interesting how people always say they want to be seen as themselves,” and he starts walking slowly, circling the edge of the space like he’s thinking out loud rather than performing, “but the moment someone actually looks at them closely, they call it unfair.”

your sibling stops speaking mid-sentence.

not because he told them to, but because the room already stopped listening—and that’s the difference.

you can feel it immediately—this isn’t the same as before. it’s not careless interruption or playful distraction. it’s precise. controlled. like he’s reacting to something only you and he know exists.

your sibling tries again, a little sharper now, forcing their voice back into the space, “that is not what i meant—”

but tamsy is already there again, gently stepping into the gap between their words and the room’s attention. “see?” he says, smiling faintly, “even now, they correct how they’re being understood instead of why they aren’t being understood.”

a few nobles shift, some uncomfortable, some amused, but all of them listening to him instead of your sibling, and your sibling’s expression tightens, not because he insulted them directly, but because nothing they say is landing anymore unless he allows it to.

and for a brief second, tamsy’s gaze flicks—not to the court, not to the king, not to anyone important—but toward you. just for a moment, then he looks away again, still smiling.

“it’s not easy,” he continues casually, “wanting to be seen,” and his tone softens just slightly, almost like sympathy, almost like understanding, but there’s something underneath it that twists it the wrong way, “especially when people are already used to seeing you as something else.”

your sibling goes still. because that doesn’t sound like a joke anymore, it sounds like a conclusion the room is being guided toward.

and slowly, without anyone directly agreeing to it, the atmosphere shifts again—the same thing that happened before, but more refined this time, less accidental, more intentional, like the idea of your sibling being “unsettled” or “overthinking” is being gently installed into everyone’s perception one sentence at a time.

and tamsy never raises his voice once, never needs to.

he just keeps smiling like he’s doing nothing at all, like he’s simply watching a conversation unfold, while quietly deciding what it will become by the time it ends.

the room goes completely quiet after he says it, so quiet that for a moment you almost think you imagined the words yourself, because leaving is the kind of thing people joke about when they're frustrated, the kind of thing children whisper during bad days before forgetting about it the next morning.

but tamsy doesn't look like he's joking, doesn't look amused, doesn't even look particularly dramatic for once, and somehow that's what unsettles you the most.

he simply sits there across from you, watching your reaction with the same patient attention he gives everything else, as though he already knew exactly which part of you those words would reach before he ever spoke them aloud, and you stare at him for a moment before letting out a small laugh that sounds much weaker than you intended.

“you can't be serious,” you say, shaking your head slightly, but tamsy only tilts his own head in return, bells softly chiming as he moves. “why not?” he asks, voice calm, almost curious, as if you're the one saying something unreasonable.

you open your mouth to answer before realizing you don't actually know where to begin, because there are too many reasons, too many responsibilities, too many expectations tied around your life like chains you've worn for so long that you've stopped noticing their weight.

“because people don't just run away,” you finally say, and tamsy immediately smiles, not because you've convinced him, but because you've given him something to work with.

“people do it all the time,” he replies smoothly, leaning back into his chair as though this is the most ordinary conversation in the world.

“they run away from responsibilities, from expectations, from marriages, from wars, from themselves. they're constantly running. the only difference is that most of them lack the courage to admit that's what they're doing.”

you frown at him, because somehow he always manages to twist things into shapes you weren't expecting, and you hate that part of you understands what he means even when you don't want to. “that's not the same thing,” you argue quietly, and he shrugs one shoulder.

“isn't it?” he asks, his eyes never leaving yours.

“tell me, what exactly are you staying for? the people who ignore you? the court that barely remembers you're in the room until you speak? the family who only notices you when they need something from you?”

his words aren't cruelly spoken, which somehow makes them worse, because there is no anger in them, no obvious malice, only certainty, and certainty is much harder to fight against.

you look away from him after that, your gaze drifting toward the window where moonlight spills across the floor, because it feels easier than looking directly at him when he's talking like this, and for a moment neither of you speak.

then you let out a small breath and pull your knees closer to yourself. “it's not that simple,” you murmur.

“maybe not,” tamsy replies immediately, “but it's also not as complicated as you've convinced yourself it is.”

and there it is again, that feeling that he's slowly pulling apart every excuse you've built over the years and laying the pieces in front of you one by one, examining them until they stop looking as solid as they once did.

he rises from his chair then, crossing the room slowly until he reaches the window, resting one hand against the frame as he looks out over the sleeping kingdom below, and when he speaks again his voice is quieter than before, softer in a way that almost sounds sincere.

“do you know what i think?” he asks, though he doesn't wait for an answer. “i think you've spent your entire life waiting for permission.” you blink. “permission?”

“to be happy,” he says simply. “to be selfish. to choose something because you want it instead of because everyone expects it from you.” then he glances back over his shoulder, and there's something strange in his expression, something almost frustrated beneath the usual smile.

“and the worst part is that they don't even deserve that loyalty from you.”

your chest tightens slightly at that, because despite everything, despite how unsettling he can be sometimes, despite the things he says that leave you questioning yourself for hours afterward, he is still the one person who always notices when you're hurting, and tamsy seems to recognize the hesitation crossing your face because his expression softens almost immediately.

“you don't have to decide anything now,” he says lightly, stepping away from the window again, and just like that the intensity fades enough to let you breathe.

“i'm merely offering a solution.” his grin returns, easier now, familiar enough to almost feel comforting. “besides, imagine it,” he continues, spreading his arms dramatically.

“no royal meetings. no nobles. no endless ceremonies. no standing behind someone else while they collect all the attention.” he pauses, watching you carefully.

“just you.” and for some reason, those two simple words linger in the room longer than everything else he's said tonight, because nobody has ever really offered you a future built around you before.

everyone else talks about duty, legacy, responsibility, expectations. tamsy talks about escape.

and that's what frightens you most, because as impossible as his idea sounds, as ridiculous and reckless and unrealistic as it should be, you find yourself wondering what it would feel like. just for a moment.

just long enough. and tamsy's smile widens slightly the second he notices the thought cross your face, because of course he notices, and he doesn't push any further after that.

he doesn't need to.

instead, he walks toward the window once more, preparing to leave the same way he always arrives, and before climbing out, he glances back at you one last time.

“think about it, my dear,” he says softly, almost playfully, though you know him well enough now to recognize when something matters to him more than he's pretending. “the world is much larger than this palace.”

then he disappears into the night, leaving you alone with the silence, the moonlight, and the dangerous realization that for the first time in your life, the idea of leaving doesn't sound impossible anymore.

so that night, after the meeting finally ended and the palace halls began emptying, you returned to your room with a strange heaviness sitting in your chest.

because no matter how hard you tried to stop thinking about it, your mind kept replaying the expressions from earlier, the whispers between nobles, the sideways glances, and the way your sibling looked when they realized the room was no longer listening to them the way it once had.

you were sitting by the window when it suddenly slid open and a familiar figure climbed inside without warning. “you really should start locking this,” tamsy said casually as he stepped into the room, brushing off his sleeves before making himself comfortable like he belonged there.

“and ruin your favorite hobby?” you replied, earning a grin from him. “fair point,” he laughed before immediately leaning forward with visible amusement.

“you should've heard everyone afterward, though. honestly, they practically did all the work for me. one noble spent half an hour talking about your sibling's confidence, another wondered if they were always this dramatic, and there was even an advisor trying very hard not to agree with any of it while agreeing with every word.”

he laughed to himself, clearly entertained by the memory, while you could only stare at him. “that's not funny, tamsy.” “isn't it?” he tilted his head. “people are fascinating. all it takes is one little crack and suddenly everyone starts staring at it.”

his tone was light, playful even, but you found yourself looking away, because the longer he spoke, the worse you felt.

for a moment, neither of you spoke. tamsy noticed immediately. he always noticed. “what's wrong?” he asked, and when you muttered a quiet “nothing,” he only sighed dramatically.

“you've never been a convincing liar.” you let out a tired breath and rested your chin against your knees.

“i don't know,” you admitted. “i'm just tired.” his expression softened slightly. “of what?” and the answer escaped before you could stop it. “everything.” the room grew quieter after that.

“i'm tired of this place. i'm tired of always standing behind someone else. i'm tired of feeling like nobody actually sees me.” your voice dropped lower with every sentence until you were barely speaking above a whisper.

“everyone looks at my sibling. everyone talks about my sibling. everyone remembers my sibling. sometimes i feel like i could disappear tomorrow and nobody would even notice.”

the words hurt to say aloud, but once they started coming, they wouldn't stop. “i just want a normal life. i want people to know me because i'm me, not because of my title, not because of my family, not because i'm standing next to someone more important.”

tamsy was completely silent. no jokes. no teasing. no clever comments. he simply watched you with an intensity that made your chest tighten, like he had been waiting years to hear those exact words. then, after a long pause, a slow smile spread across his face.

“then let's leave.” you blinked. “what?” “let's run away.” he said it so casually that it almost sounded ridiculous. almost.

“tamsy, be serious.”

“i am serious.” and somehow that was what unsettled you most. he stepped closer, bells softly chiming with every movement. “why stay somewhere that makes you miserable?” he asked. “because this is my home.”

“is it?” he replied immediately, and before you could answer, he continued.

“a home is supposed to see you. a home is supposed to know you. a home isn't supposed to make you spend years begging for attention that should've been yours from the start.” you looked away from him, unable to answer, and his smile only softened.

“they don't see you,” he said quietly. “they never have. but i do.” something about the certainty in his voice made your chest ache.

“come with me,” he continued, lowering his voice as though he were sharing a secret meant only for you. “we'll leave this place behind. no meetings. no expectations. no standing in anyone's shadow. just you.” his gaze never left yours.

“isn't that what you've always wanted?” and for the first time since he entered your room, you couldn't think of a single thing to say.

so when the night felt strangely quiet, almost as if the entire kingdom had fallen asleep just for the two of you. your bag sat beside your bed, already packed long before tamsy arrived, and when he climbed through the window and noticed it, he stopped mid-step.

for once, there wasn't an immediate joke waiting on his tongue. he simply stared at it before looking at you, and slowly, a smile spread across his face.

not the exaggerated grin he wore in court, not the teasing smile he used when he wanted to annoy someone, but something smaller. softer.

“well,” he said quietly, “look at that.” your heart was beating so hard you thought he might be able to hear it. “i can't believe i'm actually doing this.” tamsy's eyes never left yours. “i can.”

for a moment, neither of you moved. suddenly the reality of everything felt crushing. leaving meant abandoning the only life you had ever known.

it meant leaving your room, your family, the gardens, the familiar hallways, all of it. doubt crept into your chest so quickly that it almost made you freeze.

tamsy noticed immediately. of course he did. he always noticed.

“hey,” he said softly, stepping closer. “look at me.” when you did, his expression had lost most of its usual amusement. “if you didn't want this, you wouldn't have packed that bag.” his hand slowly reached for yours.

“you don't have to keep asking for permission anymore.” your throat tightened slightly. “what if this is a mistake?” tamsy's smile returned, small and confident. “then it'll be our mistake.”

the climb down from the window felt unreal. every movement made your stomach twist with nerves, but the second your feet touched the ground, tamsy immediately grabbed your hand. not loosely. not casually.

his fingers slipped between yours and held on tightly as if he had absolutely no intention of letting go.

“come on,” he whispered, and before you could even process it, he was already pulling you forward. the two of you broke into a run through the darkness, laughter escaping him the moment the palace walls started disappearing behind you.

your heart pounded in your chest, your legs burned, and your hair whipped around your face as you ran beside him, but for the first time in years, you felt lighter there was no meetings, no expectations, no nobles, no one watching your every move.

just you and him racing into the unknown.

“we're actually doing this!” you laughed breathlessly, nearly tripping over your own feet. “we're actually doing this,” tamsy echoed, sounding far too delighted about the situation.

he squeezed your hand tighter and pulled you around a bend in the road. “try not to fall behind, my dear. i'd hate for our grand escape to end because you tripped over a rock.”

“you're impossible.”

“and yet you're still running away with me.” “unfortunately.”

“see? you're already happier.” his grin was impossible to miss, even in the darkness.

eventually the palace became nothing more than a distant shape on the horizon.

the kingdom that had once felt so huge now looked strangely tiny from where you stood.

both of you slowed to a stop at the top of a grassy hill, breathing heavily from running so far. your hand was still in his. neither of you seemed eager to let go.

below the hill stretched roads you had never traveled before, forests you had never explored, and towns you had never even heard of.

the entire world suddenly felt open.

for a while, neither of you spoke. then tamsy glanced toward you and smiled. “so,” he said, squeezing your hand once more. “where should we go first?” you opened your mouth to answer, but before a single word could leave you, a distant voice suddenly echoed from somewhere behind the hill.

“there they are!”

both of you froze.

tamsy's eyes widened, while your heart immediately dropped. and then, to your horror, his grin somehow got even bigger.

“oh,” he said, sounding far more excited than concerned. “this just got interesting.”

You’d watched him spar with Enjin earlier—easy, fluid movements, that calm mask he wore like armor. When Riyo clapped him on the shoulder afterward, something vicious twisted in your chest. She gets to touch him so casually. Your brain supplied a hundred worst-case scenarios in seconds: what if he realized how much easier it would be with someone stable? Someone who didn’t swing from “I need you more than air” to “I hate how much I need you” in the same breath.

By the time he found you sitting on the edge of a ruined rooftop, knees pulled to your chest, the mood had already flipped twice.

“…You’re upset,” Zanka said quietly, lowering himself beside you. His voice was even, almost gentle, the way it always was when he tried to navigate your storms. His navy eyes flicked over your face, reading the tension there like a battlefield map.

“I’m fine,” you snapped, then immediately regretted it. Your fingers dug into your arms hard enough to leave marks. Attachment issues were a bitch—you wanted him closer, wanted him to prove he wouldn’t leave, but the second he got too close you pushed. “Actually, no. I’m not. You looked like you were having fun with them.”

He didn’t flinch. Zanka rarely did. That composed exterior of his was both a comfort and a trigger; it made you feel safe and terrified all at once, because what if underneath it he was tired of this? Of you?

“I was training,” he answered simply. “You know that.”

“Yeah, well, training looked a lot like flirting from where I was standing.” The words tasted bitter. Jealousy burned hot behind your eyes. You knew it was irrational. You knew, but knowing didn’t stop the spiral. “Riyo gets to laugh with you. Touch you. And I’m just… here. Waiting for the day you realize I’m too much.”

Silence stretched. You hated the quiet almost as much as you hated the noise in your head.

Zanka shifted closer until his shoulder brushed yours. He didn’t crowd you—he’d learned that much after the last blow-up—but he stayed within reach. “You’re not ‘too much.’ You’re… intense. Like the currents down here. They pull hard, sometimes they drag you under. But they’re real.”

Your throat tightened. Mood swing incoming—you could feel the crash from anger into desperate longing. Tears pricked your eyes. “I hate this. I hate feeling like if you even look at someone else I’m going to fall apart. I hate clinging to you one second and wanting to run the next. What if you get sick of it? What if one day you just… leave like everyone else?”

His hand found yours. Long fingers, calloused from the Lovely Assistaff, wrapped around your trembling ones with careful strength. “I’m not leaving.”

“You say that now.” Your voice cracked. Attachment fears clawed up your throat. “But I push people away. I test them. I get jealous and mean and then I hate myself and—god, Zanka, why do you even put up with me?”

He turned to face you fully, that slicked-back mullet catching the dim light, blond streaks glowing faintly. For once, the calm cracked just enough for you to see the turmoil underneath—the same internal chaos he carried from his family expectations, the pressure of being the “perfect” Nijiku who chose the Cleaners instead. He understood fractured pieces better than most.

“Because I see you,” he said. “All of it. The swings. The fear. The way you light up when things are good and burn everything when they’re not. It’s not easy. But it’s you. And I chose you.”

You surged forward without thinking, burying your face in his chest. Arms wrapped around him too tight—too much—but he let you. One hand rubbed slow circles on your back while the other stayed laced with yours.

“I’m scared I’ll ruin this,” you whispered against his uniform.

“You might try.” There was the faintest hint of a smile in his voice. “But I’ve survived worse than your storms. And I’ll still be here when the rain stops.”

Later, when the swing settled and the exhaustion hit, you curled against him on the rooftop, head on his shoulder. He didn’t move, even when your grip on his shirt stayed white-knuckled. Jealousy still simmered low, attachment issues whispered that this was temporary, but for now his steady heartbeat drowned them out.

Zanka Nijiku—calm on the surface, turbulent beneath—had chosen the chaos of loving you.

And for as long as he kept choosing it, you’d keep fighting to believe him.

Bonus scene

You woke up at 3 a.m. convinced he was pulling away. He wasn’t even awake—just breathing evenly beside you in the safehouse bunk.

You shook his shoulder. “Zanka.”

He stirred instantly, alert even half-asleep. “What’s wrong?”

“I… I don’t know. I just needed to hear your voice. Tell me you’re not tired of me yet.”

It started off with nightmares—dreams of an angel-like being with white feathered wings, long blonde and blue hair, pale skin and iridescent eyes.

They aren't the kind of nightmares that wake you up in a cold sweat, breathing shallowly, but they haunt your mind. The being in your dreams is eerie, and almost uncanny. It's stare...oh the stare. Those cold eyes. Something tells you this angelic being is anything but an angel.

When you wake up, you feel watched, especially in the dark room. Ever since those dreams started you feel like you're being stalked, like someone, or more so something is watching your every move. You do your best to brush of the feeling—to forget about that angelic being in your dreams. But its proves itself difficult when the dreams are recurring and that...thing is just so ethereal.

You feel drawn to it, despite how much your logic tells you whatever it is isn't truly angelic—that it's simply not real and a figment of your imagination.

Well, thats what you believe until one night. It's the same dream, that thing just watching you in your dream, it's eyes, beautiful but horrifying simultaneously. Though, this time something different happens. It smiles—slow, creepy and near disturbing. The kind of smile you'd see on a demon in a horror movie—not on an angel. You hear faint music, muffled and inaudible.

Then you wake, your eyes flick open but somethings different, something is off. You can't move, your limbs feel too heavy to move and the air is thick. Immediately, you panic, just like anyone else would realizing they're awake but unable to even lift a mere finger.

Your gaze drifts around frantically, breaths growing shaky before your eyes pause on something. Something that shook you to your core. It was that thing, that angelic looking being was right there, at the foot of your bed—unmoving and just watching. You couldn't do anything, can't move, can't scream, and can barely even breathe. Then it whispers something, something unintelligible. Its voice was quiet, almost gentle.

Then it was gone and your inability to move finally let up. You scramble up quickly and flick on the lights. Your heart is practically in your throat, beating at what feel like a thousand beats per minute. Your ears are ringing and your breaths are fast paced, making you dizzy and lightheaded.

It's not even morning yet, but you know you're not gonna be able to sleep after that. You get up, stumble to the kitchen to make coffee as you try to reason with yourself once more.

It's not real, just your imagination, you tell yourself. Sleep paralysis is a thing, thats what it is, nothing more. Just the cause of your over active imagination.

———

A few weeks pass and the dreams don't stop, but fortunately for your sanity that...thing doesn't show up in your room at two in the morning again. But everything else gets worse. Your apartment feels haunted, it's cold all the time and you constantly feel eyes on you everywhere you go—even out of the house. You start to feel crazy, telling your friends about these dreams and experiences. They tell you it's just dreams that are getting to you, and you're just freaking yourself out over nothing.

The dreams get worse, more consistent and more uncanny. You've been hearing this song in your dreams, when that angelic being appears a song plays. Slow, almost distorted but not muffled anymore. It's an old song, one of those eerie romance songs from the 1950s. "We belong together", by Ritchie Valens.

You dread going to sleep at night in fear of the dreams, in fear of it. Tonight you lie awake, shoulders tensed and squared like your ready to fight someone if needed. You're growing exhausted, the heavier your eyes feel the thicker the air feels, the more you feel like it's watching.

You ignore it, that is until you feel a tug at your blanket. Just a light, almost playful pull at the fabric. You jump up and look around.

Nothing. There's nothing there. Thats at least what you think.

... "y/n..." Something whispers, right into your ear, feel someone breathing against your neck. Cool puffs of air hit your skin and you freeze up. It feels like someone has their limbs curled tightly around you, holding you in place as they breathe against your skin. While this happens you can faintly hear the song you hear in your dreams, its quiet, just barely there yet it scares you.

Eventually the feeling fades, but you don't sleep. You remain wide eyed in a daze for god knows how long. Just staring at nothing and horrified. Something is haunting you.

That day, you're running on no sleep, fear and coffee. You try leaving the house, but that feeling follows you. The eerie chill, the occasional feeling of someone touching you, and the sound of muffled music again. Someone that isn't truly there. It's all in your head. Right?

You begin to think you're genuinely having a psychotic break, and experiencing hallucinations.

———

The next couple of days are literal hell, you feel it following you everywhere, you hear it whispering everywhere. Outside. In the hall. In your room. In the shower. The whispers continue, you hear more things. Not just unintelligible sounds, not just your name, not just the music, but soft laughter when you're startled and soft in tune hums when you're concentrated on something.

And don't forget the way it touches you. Its touch is cold and ghostly, like something that's barely there. When you walk it touches your back, and when you're eating dinner it tugs at your hair.

It's almsot like this thing is playing with you and your sanity.

When it's around, you hear the music, quiet yet audible—"you're mine...and we belong together. yes, we belong toegther. for eternity"—sometimes it even hums the tune.

The house has a faint scent, not anything bad but almost like clean sheets and a very soft cologne—one you don't recognize whatsoever. You know it's real now, you can't just be hallucinating. It feels so real, too real to be just part of your imagination.

Despite the fact that this entity is literally stalking and terrifying you, you begin to feel almost curious about it. Your fear mixed with curiousity excites it. It begins to show itself in more ways once again.

It'll show up in the corner of your eye, a pale, iridescent eyed silhouette with an uncanny smile. You notice more about it, like the scar over the right side of it's face, and how despite the softer, almost feminine facial features it has, he's male.

Eventually, he stops hiding himself altogether. It's late at night, you're unable to sleep like usual. You hear a soft whisper again. "y/n..." You feel his breath against your left ear, and you turn your head that way on instinct. Nothing is there. Your heart rate spikes, and as you turn to face forward again, there he is—right at the edge of your bed staring at you silently.

You scramble back and he smiles, watching your face contort with fear once again. He gets a kick out of it, hearing the thump of your heart and the shake of your breath when he scares you.

He tilts his head at you and drifts closer to you till he's back in front of you, and your back touches the wall. He can hear you panting and it only eggs him on further.

"oh, y/n. don't hide from me." He coos, voice softening up just a bit, trying to soothe you and make it seem as if he's innocent.

Manipulative bastard.

You back further into the wall, like your trying to disappear into the wall away from him. His expression shifts to a pout when he sees your still trying to get away. "don't be scared, I won't hurt you." He says, arms curling around you as he pulls you closer to him.

His touch isn't ghostly anymore, like he's barely there. It's firm, like the touch of a human. You don't push him away or try to touch him back, you remain frozen, still fearful.

"shhhh, it's okay." He murmurs soothingly, fingers running through your hair as he begins to hum that tune. It's just a song to other people, but to you? It's going to haunt you forever. You can't even listen to him humming it without getting the chills.

He laughs softly when he feels the shiver go through, and the sound of your racing heart. "so pretty when you're scared."

He pulls back slowly and runs his hand along the side of your head, feeling the strands of your hair. It's like now that he's here physically like this, he's glued to you. "but I'll protect you, y/n. nothing will hurt you. I'll be with you for eternity."

His words make you shiver and you don't know what to do, yet you feel drawn to him again. Your gaze lifts to look at him fearfully—taking in his pale skin and how his figure seems to glow slightly. He looks human, but at the same time he's completely otherworldly. He's too perfect, too ghostly, it's uncanny.

"that's it, good job." he murmurs again, watching the unease and curiosity on your face.

Before he can speak again, you do first. "What are you?" The question comes out with slight trepadition in your tone, like you don't trust him.

"something." He says vaguely, brushing off your question as soon as you ask it.

"Who are you?" You ask, hoping for some sort of valid answer and not just 'something' again. "Tamsy." He answers. "Tamsy?" You repeat back, brows furrowing as you watch him closely. "Is that your name?"

In response, he nods quietly. His name means immortality and eternal life. It's sort of ironic.

You don't know what else to say to him or to ask him. Part of you knows he'll give vague answers that give you absolutely nothing. Another part of you is still afraid of him and what he's truly is.

He inches his face closer to yours, till he's in your space—giving you no room to move. "I've been watching you for a while, y/n." He murmurs, his words sending a cold chill down your spine. "I watch you do everything. sleep, clean, bathe, get dressed...I've even watched you touch yourself." He leans over you, whispering in your ear. Your eyes widen at his words, not expecting something so perverted to come from his lips.

His words further prove he's not as angelic as he looks.

He reaches out to place his hands on your shoulders, running his palms down your skin.

It doesn't feel like he's just touching your arms, it feels like he's reaching into you and touching your soul—as if he'd somehow managed to merge himself with you.

"you wouldn't understand how badly I need you, y/n. when I watch you, I can't stop." He whispers, his body completely surrounding you—suffocating you with his touch and words. Those feathered wings on his back that make him look even more ethereal outstretch and curl around you as well. He may as well have been swallowing you whole with nothing more than his words and touch.

It was terrifying, your body shaking with fear and trepadition as he traps you there, whispering about how he's been watching you and how he feels as he's connected to you in a way he can't break.

Spiritually, maybe. That explains the dreams, the feeling of his presence around like he's otherwordly. Is he a spirit? A demon, maybe? But why would such a thing grow an attatchment to a human?

———

His promise to protect you proved true, and you couldn't help but notice how real all of this was. When you were out with your friends, whether it be drinking at a club or going to a party you could feel him with you. That eerie presence, the cool thick air, and the smell of clean sheets and a deeper scent that was like a soft cologne that you couldn't quite figure out.

When a guy would approach you to hit on you, he'd suddenly stare at you like a deer in headlights—startled by something, and apologize profusely before scattering away. You wouldn't have say a word and guys would steer clear of you. You knew it was him, Tamsy, the being that continued to follow you like a lost puppy. You were equal parts grateful and slightly mortified.

While it was nice to have guys not hit on you constantly, you also wondered just what he was doing to them, what he was possibly showing them. Was it something violent? Something uncanny? Or did he just surround you with a bad aura that made men feel like something was off about you?

You'd even see him there with you, like at the club in an empty corner of the room, just staring and watching you. You were the only one that could see him too. It was like he was some kind of morbid guardian angel that liked you a little too much.

And when you were alone, whether you were in bed or sitting down eating dinner he'd watch you, sit by you. He didn't speak too much, he just...watched. But when he did speak it was always short, needy sentences that felt like they were engraved in your soul. "I want you y/n." "only I can have you." "let me have you, please" "you look so pretty when you're frightened".

Tamsy was becoming a very normal part of your days now, hearing his whispers, feeling his stares, and seeing him in the flesh. His touch was cool, and his tone was gentle—even if what he was saying wasn't always pleasant to say the least.

You find yourself in bed at night feeling the mattress sink beside you as if someone laid behind you. Then you feel it, his arms curling around you from behind—his wings outstretching and wrapping around you like a blanket to keep you close. You don't question it anymore, you don't try and push him away. But you don't touch him back either. You hate to admit it, but you feel that connection now too. It's something deeper, something that shouldn't be there but is.

It doesn't feel like love. Or does it? Is it the fluttering in your stomach when you feel him around that makes you think it's something so meaningful like love—is it curiosity, maybe infatuation?

Does he love you? He never said he did. But he's clearly gone and got himself attatched to a human. A human he could tear apart if he wanted to. But he doesn't—this weird, warm part of him wants you all to himself, to keep you safe and close forever. For eternity, because your his, and you belong together. Don't you?

Maybe something that shouldn't be capable of love...can love.

He's angelic, looking like an angel sent from heaven. But you know better. He's not an angel, not a demon. Something else, something you may never know—something you're likely better off not knowing at all.

I told yall i was gonna write it 😛 I'll definitely do a part 2 :)

I'm not quite sure what kind of entity or being he is yet.. but he's creepy as fuck. Honestly i wanted to give this a more horror aspect to it, maybe more psychological but i was kinda scaring myself while writing this. LMAOOO