Sophie

The fool had laughed when he nearly collapsed.

And now he sat there, his armour—mismatched, you had once expected; harmonious, you had ultimately discovered—stripped piece by piece and laid out across the drying rack. It was strange, you had always thought, how armour fashioned from so many different hands could somehow fit him so naturally. Less assembled, and more like it was inherited.

With one elbow propped against the wood of your table, he watched you work with idle interest whilst the heat of the hearth warmed your back. The room smelt faintly of alcohol and dried lavender, barely keeping out the tang of blood. Boiled bandages stacked beside you as your needle pierced his torn flesh with all the patience you could muster.

The blade had missed his bone—a mercy onto itself, entering just beneath his ribs, carving a narrow path through flesh before slipping free again. But the wound was dirty; whoever had wielded it knew to make the wound troublesome, and did not care whether fever and inflammation would overtake the mercenary sitting in front of you, or the lasting effects of its blood loss would.

He, on the other hand, seemed remarkably unconcerned.

"You would be well advised to hold still or else you will find my needle piercing you in places you would rather not find something sharp in," you muttered, hand flattening against his abdomen to keep him still.

His skin was warm, hot even, and with a look to your drawn in eyebrows and the worry reflected in your eyes, he just smiled, "I am."

"You have moved three times already."

Another move; his shoulders to shrug and you cast a disapproving look. "What can I say? I do enjoy keeping my physicians on their toes."

"I am not a physician."

"Then, all the more reason to learn, hm?"

You pulled the thread through with perhaps a touch more force than was strictly necessary, and a half-hearted hiss escaped him, sharp and pointed, and not for one second as believable as he tried to make it out.

"Oh, you are not a child. You have had worse, Sir Mercenary."

"Cute that you should still call me that. My days as a knight I have long since given up. Nothing more than theatrics to my name. I would grace you with a flourishing bow if a certain apothecary did not insist on keeping their greedy fingers on me. Alas—"

You tied another stitch off. "Who hurt you?"

There was a singular moment of silence as the fire shifted behind you with a soft crackle and the rain outside begged to be let in, and your fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary. The wound lay just beneath your hands, but the heat of him seemed to spread far beyond it, close enough now that each measured breath lifted his chest beneath your knuckles.

"Aw, shame; and here I thought if I talked, it would keep you from asking questions."

"I am asking questions."

He did not answer immediately, just simply watched you. There was always something peculiarly disarming about the way he looked at people; not a stare and not a glance. It almost felt invasive and so your eyes remained fixated on to the muscles that ought to be straining and weren't.

"Different ones." Another moment of silence, and you wondered whether he considered to misdirect you as he had done in the past, "Like how I got into this mess."

You paused long enough to glance at him, to watch the way his eyes seemed to absorb the light from the hearth as though there resided a seemingly endless abyss within them. He did not have any decency to hesitate at your pointed look, and a corner of his mouth lifted. "Terrible luck."

"And so was getting stabbed?"

His face lit with an immediate enthusiasm as though you had finally asked the question he had been waiting for and his eyes caught the firelight once more. "Oh no, that part was entirely recreational."

"… Recreational."

"You see," he continued, entirely pleased with himself, "Making quick of other people has become a bit of a drag. Thought it would be more interesting to give your heart reason to quicken for me."

You had long since stopped trying to understand whether the continuous smile on his face was because he genuinely found the world amusing or because it was simply easier than being honest, but you were not like him—not in the business of lying, not in the business of hiding yourself.

"It already did. I would rather you not make a habit of it or else my heart will refuse to rest at all."

You had watched him appear in your doorway pale beneath the light, and your heart had thundered within your chest, an unbidden fear squeezing it tight for one dreadful moment you had wondered whether he had arrived too late. You did not know what you would have done, what towns you would have set ablaze—

He grew quieter, less triumphant, and for a moment he seemed uncertain what ought to come next. His lips parted, and then closed again.

"… Well," he said at last, a faint laugh escaping him as though to smooth over whatever had momentarily caught within his throat. "I suppose that means I succeeded."

"It is inconvenient, Sir Mercenary," your hand remaining on his abdomen had no intention to move, despite the dressing of the wound waiting on you. "I have invested too much thread in you, and it is expensive. I would dislike wasting it, so—"

His fingers came to run over your knuckles, pressing each of your own tips of fingers closer to his flesh, keeping your touch right there as though to drink greedily from a fountain that offered very little, "I didn't know your affection was measured in coin. I will be prepared for next time, love."

"You misunderstand; you owe me three bottles of alcohol, two salves, six rolls of linen and one night's sleep—"

"Of course, of course."

You tried to pull away your hand, and he caught it just as easily, roughened palm from the grip on his swords, "You do not believe me."

"I do." Another one of those impossible smiles, the lie as sweet on his tongue as the heat trapped underneath your skin and the endearment burying itself in the hollow between your ribs.

Not in that melancholic, emotional way that would tug on your heartstrings and would make you miss the comfort that such a home could bring.

No, it felt like an inconvenience.

So it was clear: You had needed a place to stay. Perhaps something permanent, or maybe even something to bridge the time until you had something more permanent.

“Is this one the one with the toothbrushes and pajamas?”

You're ripped out of your thoughts by a voice and when you look up, you've already made your way inside the empty apartment.

Well. Empty, save for the mess of half-emptied boxes, folded clothes and pieces of stray furniture.

“Might be. I told you, we should have at least labeled them,” you tell him and he laughs.

“The marker was empty!”

“Because you decided to add useless doodles to everything. What's supposed to be in a box that has…,” You check the drawings. “Horses and flowers on them?”

Yoichi raises a brow at you, big brown eyes shooting you a judgemental look. “Those are giraffes. That's the box with the cleaning supplies.”

You're speechless.

“Where in the world…” Squinting, you look at the sketches and smears again. There are some spots on them and their necks do look a little too long to be anatomically correct, if those were horses.

“Right… Giraffes… Cleaning supplies. Of course.”

Putting the box down, you give an exhausted sigh before popping down into a pile of clothes. Must be his, mainly, judging from how they smell like sweet dessert and his expensive perfume that he has been using since your JCC days.

Your eyes trail along the lines where the walls meet the ceiling, following the lines of the big windows before trailing along the pre-installed cupboards.

It's strange, you think. Yoichi has multiple places he inhabits, you know that, but this doesn't fit into the sort of housing he usually takes up.

Spacious, open, too large to feel lived in, modern and sleek. None of which are adjectives to describe the cute little apartment he had found for the both of you to share, once you'd told him about your predicament.

“Let's live together then. I'll protect you~” he had told you in that aggravatingly playful tone of his.

There have been many offers like that over the years. Some seemingly more serious than others. He'd thrown them at you, sometimes worded like a most generous offer, only rivaled by a god's mercy, sometimes whispered as you laid tangled beneath the sheets.

You'd declined them all.

And you were able to tell that this time around, when you finally took him up on his offer, he'd been surprised.

Glancing at him, your eyes meet his. His hands are pushed deep into the big box, rummaging for god knows what. But he's looking at you. Intently. As if he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I'm just resting,” you tell him. Trying to make it sound less like an excuse and more like reassurance. You're not leaving. Not this time.

“Lazy bum,” Yoichi offers with a shake of his head and a smile that is entirely too fond. Your breath stutters on its way out of your throat. You look away again.

The rest of the evening is a blur and somewhere between the feeling of dry carton against your hands and warm instant noodles filling your stomach, the exhaustion catches up to you.

It's too late to start building the bed together. So you make do with the mattress.

When Yoichi exits the bathroom, you're already under the blanket you've decided to use as an interim solution. It's a scratchy, old thing, meant to be used more as a comforter if anything, but it's warm and it makes you feel a bit better about the instability of your surrounding circumstances.

The mattress is big enough to fit at least three people, so there is no reasonable explanation as to why Yoichi finds his way into your personal space, his leg slipping between yours, his chest against your back.

He's warm, you note. You don't remember the last time you got to cuddle like this. Must have been years ago. Back before you'd left the assassin's life behind.

As if the time between then and now has never passed, your fingers find his underarms and they trace his tattoos. Save for what the moon is offering in terms of light through the windows that are still missing their curtains, the room is dark and yet, you find your way along the map of his body with ease.

Truthfully, you think you'd be able to trace his tattoos in your sleep. You've probably lulled yourself to sleep thinking about the patterns, that stretch across his body like overgrown ivy on an old house, more times than you can count.

“This is the first time I'm living with someone,” he mumbles, nuzzling his face into the junction where your neck meets your shoulder. His arms squeeze around your middle, interrupting your hands' task of reacquainting themselves with something they never managed to forget.

Your brows furrow, in spite of him not being able to see. Not to demonstrate your confusion, but because your face decides to make room for your sleepy irritation. “Did you birth yourself then?”

Yoichi snorts, his fingers inching along your sides for a short moment that makes your breath hitch. As if you're preparing for him to tickle you, but he immediately relents, seemingly not wanting to disturb you or end the moment.

“Of course, I've lived with my family many years ago. But this is different. I've never chosen to live with someone else.”

The room grows quiet and his words linger in the air for a little while. Your hand finds his, where it's resting on your tummy. “I should count myself lucky then,” you hum. “Now you're even getting all sentimental about it with me. You're growing soft, Yo- ouch!”

His teeth leave your shoulder, where they've just bitten into the exposed skin there. You whip your head around with more energy than you knew you had in store this late tonight.

Before you can complain, he cups your chin and moves in to press his lips against yours.

Embarrassingly enough, it works well as a distraction tactic and you melt into it, your limbs heavy and warm.

“Our first kiss in our first home,” you mumble when he pulls away and Yoichi makes a face at you. Half cringing and half trying not to show that your words affect him.

“You're sleep-deprived,” is his conclusion. He lets go of your chin and moves back to his original position, burying his face against the back of your shoulder.

Slowly, you relax again. The pillow under your head is a bit too soft for your liking. You sink into it a touch too much but right now, you're not too bothered. You'd have to go buy a new one eventually. Priorities first though. Bed, then pillows. Maybe a different blanket. New bed sheets too.

“Does it feel like home to you?” Yoichi interrupts your thought process. There's an edge to his voice that another day, you would have been happy to dissect, if only to put him on the spot and see him squirm.

Tonight, you lack the energy to do so. On top of that, there is something crackling between you that feels so fragile, it might snap if you press on it too hard.

“We're sleeping on a mattress on the floor. Doesn't get any more domestic than this,” you joke, your voice flat and your tone dry. That gains a soft laugh and a gentle squeeze. Good. No need for a heavy mood.

“Maybe it'll feel like home once we fill it up.” You think out loud. “We can put up new furniture, make it colorful too. Maybe add some pictures.”

A yawn leaves your lips and Yoichi’s hold on you tightens ever so slightly. As if he's not ready to let you slip away yet. “What kind of pictures should we hang up?” he asks you, his tone soft. Hopeful, almost.

“We took some back at the JCC,” is your thought. “Maybe some of those. We have some from the festival the other day.”

“We have to take more pictures together. We don't have that many.”

"That's true…” Your voice is a soft exhale. The weight of your eyelids becomes a burden too heavy to bear. You think about it. Yoichi is right. You don't have that many pictures together, which is strange, considering how much time you've spent together.

But then again – you've spent more time apart than with each other.

“Do you think we'll get enough to fill our entire home with them?” Yoichi asks softly.

“We'll need to move into a bigger house eventually. I'll make sure of that.”

That is the last thing you manage to promise before sleep claims you, momentarily borrowing you from his world.

A breathless chuckle leaves him and he moves to rest his forehead against the back of your neck.

He's giving you his first ever experience of sharing a home with someone else and you're already thinking about taking the next round for yourself as well.

Yoichi presses his lips to your skin and thinks about what box he'd put the old camera in. Perhaps the one with the jellyfish doodles on it.

"It is a storehouse of all their memories and all their teachings. Everything they have ever thought worth preserving ends up here: artefacts, all the books your heart could desire. Manuscripts, genealogies, even some music notations if you wish to serenade me," he had said to persuade you to get you to scale down the outer wall under the cover of dusk with him; a knowing look over his shoulder, "They keep everything."

He had been right, for it had worked. Bewitched for the rare opportunity to walk amongst centuries of careful retention of history, to read what few hands had ever been permitted to touch—a certain perversion in the eagerness caressing your perception, and he knew it; always had known exactly which temptation to place before you.

And now, predictably, half the monastery was looking for the cause of the crash whilst you were afforded little dignity.

One of your knees was drawn awkwardly against your chest, whilst Nagumo had somehow folded himself into the opposite corner with an ease that was maddening; the toe of his boot caught beneath the hem of your clock beneath your legs. Every breath brought the front of his coat brushing faintly against yours as outside voices drifted from two corridors over.

A tilt of his head as he listened, "I think that's the same guard who—"

You sent him a sharp look through the clouded moonlight, warning and betrayal alike, and in response: the brief glint of teeth.

"—keeps clearing his throat. Oh, don't look so annoyed with me. It almost makes me want to—"

A hiss escaped you before you could stop it, sharp whispers, "Shut up, idiot. They'll hear us!"

"I can't make it out," he murmured, altogether too pleased, too jovial about the outcome of events, "but I know you are blushing right now."

"I do not."

"You do."

"It starts here," Two gloved fingers lifted, brushing lightly along the curve of your cheek until they settled beneath your eye; the touch so absurdly gentle and fleeting, the warm leather suddenly entirely too cool on an even warmer skin. "And then—"

The words had barely left his mouth before another voice echoed somewhere closer; much, much closer. Undeterred, there was a glint in his eyes and he drew breath to continue, when you reached for him without thinking to press your hand over his mouth, dissolving the words right at your flesh.

Footsteps receded, their speaking growing more distant, and he laughed, muffled. Feeling it against your palm as his shoulders shook once, the warm breath gathering against the centre of your hand before slipping away between your fingers in amused exhalations and your pulse stumbled for reasons you refused to name.

His knee had wedged in between yours, realising far too late that he was keeping you upright; the fabric of his leather gloves smooth on your skin, his other ended up against the wall just beside your waist. Warmth trapped between you and your traitorous body noticing it all when he leaned closer.

The cloud passed by, and within the illumination, there it was. The familiar mischief dancing in the dark depths of his gaze, yes, but beneath it—that, which you looked forward to seeing: something quieter and something searching, as though he, too, had only just realised how impossibly close the two of you had become.

And then, his eyes smiled at you with an unmistakable delight that you had to look away.