#enji angst

But there’s Enji, standing just a few feet away, leaning heavily onto the cane he only brings to places where he’s comfortable being vulnerable. It’s weird to think that her home could be one of those places.

“I know this doesn’t concern you anymore,” he mutters, swallowing. It’s weird to see his Adam’s apple bob, his neck pale and bare without the fiery beard. “I just… I care about your opinion.”

“Enji,” she calls out his name softly. It surprises her how much emotion, how much care she still has left for him. “Just tell me.”

His shoulders slump, his brows unfold. He stares at the ground and fiddles with his cane. Rei can already guess what this is going to be about. She knows how she’s feeling about the topic, but she hadn’t even thought about his feelings. And now he’s here, surprising her.

“I met someone,” he admits quietly. “Well, we’ve been working together, for a while, and I- we’re friends, so to speak. I think there could be more, but I don’t know-”

“We’ve been divorced for a while,” Rei reminds him gently. She doesn’t remind him of the fact that she herself started dating months ago. That there’s a second toothbrush in her bathroom, a second set of sleepwear folded up on the other side of her bed. “It’s okay.”

“Are you sure?” Enji stills. “Not… I know you’re happy without me. Happier. But the kids-”

“What are you worried about?” Rei asks, getting up from the ground. “Just tell me.”

“Do you think I deserve it? To be happy?”

-

Fuyumi stares at the illuminated windows of the traditional Japanese restaurant across the street and wonders which of the women she can see is her father’s new girlfriend.

She doesn’t want to be here, just as much as she feels obligated to be here.

She’s not the only one of her siblings who regularly talks to her father; she knows. But Shouto has never quite learned how to be properly civilian, and she can only assume that his conversations contain a lot of work-related talk, while she makes it a habit to actually ask about Enji’s days, his new job, his health. He does return the questions, seems genuinely interested most of the time… but a girlfriend?

She remembers the call, Thursday night, like usual, the way his breathing catched every few sentences until he finally spit it out.

“I talked to your mother about it,” he added before she could say anything. “She’s okay with it. She doesn’t want to meet her, which I can understand, but she gave me her blessing and that’s what mattered to me. You don’t have to meet her either, if you don’t feel comfortable, but I wanted… I wanted your opinion on the matter before I moved forward.”

“You don’t need my permission to date, Dad,” Fuyumi had reminded him. “And it’s not like I have to like her. You’re the one dating her.”

“I know. But it’s important to me. Your opinion matters to me.”

A little too late, Fuyumi wants to say, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t hold the same grudge her brothers do. She can only imagine what Natsuo would say about the matter. She wonders if Mom is going to tell him.  

-

Shouto pulls into the empty lot on Fuyumi’s right, unsurprised to find her in the car still. He’d been close to cancelling, debating if he should pick up another night shift as an excuse. But it wouldn’t have been fair to let Fuyumi walk into this alone, and he knows her well enough to know she wouldn’t cancel. 

“Hey,” he knocks against her window, waits until she steps out of the car. It’s cold out, spring not yet in full swing. “What do you think she’s like?”

“Mom says she’s younger than him,” Fuyumi points out. “Though not that much younger. So, not our age.”

“That would have been weird.”

“Yeah, but he’s a former Pro Hero,” Fuyumi points out, linking their arms. “Isn’t that the norm? Tossing the wife and getting a new model?”

“Mom left him, remember?” Shouto points out calmly, surprised to see a flash of anger in Fuyumi’s eyes. “I’m not defending him,” he points out, “I’m just stating facts.”

“Fine,” she nods, and Shouto waits for her to continue, frozen on the sidewalk. “What’s your opinion?”

“That it doesn’t matter that much,” Shouto shrugs, eyeing the windows. He can’t see his fathers imposing figure, so he must have taken a booth further away from the windows. “As long as he keeps paying for Mom, he can do whatever he wants with his life. If we don’t like her, we don’t have to talk to her.”

“If only it were that easy,” Fuyumi sighs. “I wish I had your attitude.”

“You can,” Shouto points out. “No one’s stopping you.”

“Let’s just get inside,” Fuyumi waves him off, pulling him along. “The sooner we start, the sooner we can get away.”

-

Enji is desperately trying to stay calm, you can tell. He’s playing with the salt and pepper shakers, taking sips from his drink until he has to order a new one, knocks his knee into yours and keeps apologizing for it.

You would love to take his hand, would love to take some of his worries, but you can tell he’s pulled up every wall he has left, determined not to show any vulnerability.

He spots them first, his eyes glued to the door. 

You sense the shift in his demeanor and turn in your seat.

They’re both tall, both clearly his children, their shoulders straight, their heads held high.

There’s an unspoken conversation going on between them, across the room, across the distance they’ve yet to cross.

Enji is eager to greet them, but he holds himself back, waiting until they’ve walked closer to push himself up. It’s awkward to watch, the hunch of his shoulders as he debates offering a hug or a handshake, and pats them both on the shoulder instead.

He turns a little, and you spot the flash of pain at the wrong movement in his features, though he hides it well.

“These are my kids,” he presents them proudly. “Shouto is my youngest, and Fuyumi my only daughter.”

Their gaze is scrutinizing, their breath catches as they realize in unison that you’re heteromorph. It’s always the same with people. Some eyes catch on the scars, some on the snake-like appearance of your eyes. Enji has been the only one you’ve allowed to see more of you, a quiet companionship built on wordless trust.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you offer your hand, and neither of them is afraid to shake it, despite the scales wandering up your arms in irregular intervals. “It was nice of you to make time.”

- 

Enji should have offered to drive, he knows. It would have given him something to do after dinner, would have captured his attention as his thoughts spiral.

“Do you think they liked you?” He asks, hesitant to reach out and touch you. He’s not quite used to it yet, the giving and the taking.

“I think they’re at least accepting me being there,” you answer, your voice quiet and thoughtful. “It could have been worse.”

Enji laughs dryly. “It could have, yes.”

“You wanted more?” 

“I want all the things I cannot have,” he admits, eyes catching on the streetlights flickering on your scales. “I thought you knew that already.”

“That’s not exactly true,” you correct him softly, pulling into the parking lot outside his apartment. “I’ve come to find you’re a man grateful for every crumb he’s given.”

Enji swallows harshly, blinking away tears when your hand folds around one of his, cool against his warmth, soft against his harshness. “I cannot give you anything,” he points out, like he has done before. “You should take your leave now.”

“You’ll come to find I’m just as grateful for every crumb given,” you add, leaning in to press your lips the palm of his hand. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow, Enji. Do you want me to pick you up?”

He nods, tired and heavy, wishing to be able to lean in and kiss you properly, and afraid to do so at the same time. “That would be nice.”

- - -

Their wedding is a quiet affair.

Keigo’s their only witness, his signature not really needed, but his presence welcome.

He always imagined weddings to be more festive, even those at the registry office. The costume you wear looks like you could use it for a work event later on, and the flowers in your hands are barely noticeable, their tiny cream buds mixing well with the dark green.

It’s a sad sight, especially for someone who was once so well-known. 

Keigo wonders what the papers will write tomorrow. The assistant looked like she was already bursting with the need to tell the news. 

Pro-Hero Endeavor remarries in an intimate circle. Who’s the new woman by his side?

“Champagne, anyone?” He bursts the bubble of quiet that’s been filling the room slowly, threatening to suffocate them. “It’s on me.”

“You don’t have to,” Endeavor tries to talk him out of it, a little wobbly on his feet without his cane. 

“It’s my pleasure, really,” Keigo assures him, sending you a wink. “There’s a nice place down the road. Why don’t we get lunch together? Or do you have places to be?”

They share a look, shake their heads. “No plans,” Endeavor explains quietly. “It’s just us.”

And how sad is that, really, Keigo wonders. The guy gets married, and not one of his children is there to attend the celebration.

-

Your apartment is bigger than his, has more personality, too. It’s warmer, closer to work, filled with memories already.

Enji moved in a while ago, though he’s yet to make it his home.

His clothes hang next to yours, his cane has a resting place next to your shared bed, but his books are still living in boxes, and the pictures he’s kept are a wild mess, all living in a shoe box he keeps by his bedside table, looking through them every few days.

The day of your wedding, he picks the box up in the morning, going through the pictures one by one instead of getting ready. 

You take a seat on his right, half-dressed, your “hair” undone. The snakes are barely awake, curling around your head in curious clumps, sniffing the air, surprised about their prolonged freedom. You lean into Enji’s space, careful not to scare him. He’s yet to be afraid of the Medusa-reminiscent aspect of your Quirk, but you don’t want to spook him, especially when he’s this thin-skinned.

“What are you looking at?” You ask, keeping your voice low.

“Touya,” Enji explains, his voice tired. “I just-” He trails off, his thumb brushing over the glossy paper.

You slide a little closer, until your knee presses into his. “How old is he in this picture?”

“Three,” Enji says, before pulling out another. “Here he is with Fuyumi. You’ve met her.”

“She’s got such a cute smile.”

“She does,” he agrees, smiling through tears. “God, I kept having to separate them. Touya wanted to play with her so badly, always interrupting her naps.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he sniffles, going through some more pictures. “This is Natsuo.” The boy is big, even as a baby, fragile arms struggling to hold him. “Rei’s carrying him in the picture,” Enji adds. “He’s… He looks most like me.”

You give him space to talk, leaning into him all the same. You’re here, even when there’s no one else.

In the end, you leave home with barely any makeup on, your hair hidden under a scarf, picking up your bridal bouquet while Enji obsessively checks his messages in case any of his children have decided to attend. They don’t.

“It should be different,” he claims bitterly, just minutes before it’s time for you to enter. “I should be able to give you more. A proper wedding.”

You smile and point at the empty hallway behind you. “You’re not the only one without a wedding party, love. Aren’t we happy the way we are?”

And then, just as you’ve accepted the empty hallways as your companion, Keigo Takami shows up.

-

His shoebox filled with pictures still sits on his bed when they return.

Enji carefully puts it away before slipping out of his suit and into more comfortable clothes, picks the cane up from where he’d put it away, weighing it in his hands. He should go back to physical therapy. He knows it would do him good.

His eyes move back toward the box, then up to the framed painting on his bedside table. He commissioned it around the end of his first marriage, all four of his children smiling back at him, unblemished by his sins. 

Enji slips it out of the frame with a sigh and drops it into the box below. It’s a figment of his imagination, a dream that will never be real. Among the photographs in his box is one from decades ago, Shouto in his arms, and the other kids cuddling close, not yet afraid of him and his temper. Rei must have taken the picture, though he can’t quite remember when it was taken. It doesn’t quite fit in the frame, a little too small for it. He slides it into the corner and leaves the rest bare, making a mental note to print out one of the pictures taken today, the past and the present all fitting into one frame.

From down the hallway, he can hear you rustling around in the kitchen. 

It’s been a quiet day, so different, and yet so similar to his first wedding.

Back then, he had no family to attend, no friends he’d been willing to invite, and for Rei, it had been the opposite. 

Enji can’t exactly blame his children for bailing on him. You’re not their mother, and they have no place for him in their life, not after what he’s done for them so far.

He can’t blame them, but it’s days like this where he wishes you would have picked someone else to love, someone fit to give you the world.

“Enji?” You call from the kitchen. “Do you want tea?”

He hesitates at the door, the ring on his finger glistening in the evening sun. Guilt still consumes him, but he cannot let it pull him under.

“I’d love to,” he answers, walking toward you, his cane creating an almost calming rhythm. “Let me help.”

- - -

The migraines have been getting worse.

You wake up drenched in cold sweat, or throw up from the pain before retreating to the bed for hours, with only the darkness as your companion.

Enji helps as much as he can. He takes care of your share of the work, both at home and at the office. He lights himself aflame to warm you and endures the freezing temperatures you put yourself through for a week as you resort to experimental treatments in despair.

Finally, he drives you to the hospital, one hand on your thigh as if to keep you from drifting away.

Shouto calls just as you reach the registration desk. 

“It’s okay,” you reassure him. “I have my phone with me. Come find me when you’re done.”

“I’m sure he can wait.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth, a rare show of affection for the two of you, neither of you used to showing this much in public. 

“It’s okay,” you repeat. “I quite prefer doing this on my own.”

You don’t have to wait long for someone to call you up. The exam room is small, but full of light from the afternoon sun, and you let it warm your face as you wait.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” a voice interrupts your daydreaming. “I’m going to be with you in a second.”

You turn to the door, your mouth drying at the sight.

Natsuo Todoroki is tall, filling out the doorframe with ease. He’s using the disinfectant by the door, sending you a polite smile with just a hint of mischief hiding in the crooked corners. 

There are faint scars on his temple, visible only in the sunlight. He does not know who you are.

“I’m sorry,” you stutter. “I didn’t know you worked here. I will explain-”

“What?” He furrows his brows, taking a step toward you. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m- yes,” you nod, the movement hurting your still sensitive head. “This hospital is closest to where I live. I wasn’t aware you worked here. I’m sure we could call for a different doctor-”

“There’s no need for that, I think,” he promises softly, his voice reassuring. He picks your chart up from the table, his eyes flickering over the words. It takes him a second to take it all in, he’s probably looking at the stats first, the name second, but when it hits, you can see it all.

“Todoroki,” he repeats slowly, his voice cold. “Your last name is Torodoki.”

“Yes, I’m sorry-”

“Are you related to an Enji Todoroki by any chance?”

“I-” You feel like a kid again, facing the principal despite being almost twenty years his senior. “His wife.” You lick your lips, though your tongue is dry as well. “I’m sorry. As I said, I wasn’t aware-”

“You weren’t aware?”

“That you worked here. It’s not my intent to push myself on you.”

There’s a moment of silence as Natsuo clearly battles with the decision he has to make, to be professional or emotional instead.

“I wouldn’t hold it against you, you know,” you explain quietly, “if you asked a colleague to cover for you.”

Natsuo pushes himself away from the table, goes noisily through the equipment he has before settling on a flashlight that he shines into your eyes. The pain is quick and intense, and you gag, memories of worse treatment flashing before your eyes.

“Sorry,” he’s quick to say, a cool hand on your elbow. “Sorry, that was- Sorry. Give me your arm, I’ll get you something-”

“No needles,” you insist, pulling away, eyes closed. “No needles.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem. Just a painkiller, okay? You can put it under your tongue.”

The relief is subtle at first, but then strong enough to let you open your eyes, the sunlight comforting again.

“Have you had this before?”

“Yes.”

“Head injury?”

“Yes.” You point at the scars. “As you can see.”

“We’ll need an MRI scan,” he concludes. “Can you undo your headscarf for me, or do you want a female doctor?”

“No, it’s okay,” you answer, tired of the pain and the situation.

-

“I’ve got you an appointment for Friday this week,” Natsuo tells you as soon as you’re out of the MRI, still feeling guilty. He’s always thought himself the good guy, especially compared to his father, but he’d been less than professional today, and you’d have all the reason to have him written up, if not worse. “Our neurologist already has your chart, and until then, the painkillers should tide you over.”

“Can I work?” You ask, putting the headscarf back on. Some of the snakes are refusing to be put away again, hissing and sniffing the air, eyeing him curiously.

“What?” Natsuo asks, momentarily distracted. He thought he knew his father, but this is just-

“Can I work?” You repeat, finally succeeding in putting the snakes away. “There’s not that much movement or exercise involved. I can take the elevator at work and focus more on meetings and ground work until Friday.”

“What do you work?” Natsuo asks, curious against his will.

“I work at a non-profit organization giving aid to children with dangerous Quirks and Heteromorphs.” You’re quiet for a second before adding. “Your father and I met there. He started working there right after retiring as a Pro Hero.”

Natsuo carefully keeps his features neutral. “That does not sound like my father at all.”

You don’t react to that, just grab your stuff and stand.

“Thank you, Todoroki-san, for your help.”

“Don’t mention it.” He takes a step to the side, expecting you to leave. You don’t.

“Would you like me to keep this from your father?” You ask. “Or should I tell him? That you work here, I mean. It’s your choice.”

“I-” Natsuo trails off. “I don’t know.”

“You can let me know by Friday, then.” You walk off now, your steps a little off-kilter.

It’s only when you reach the end of the hallway that he moves, catching up to you easily.

“He didn’t accompany you up here?” He asks, pressing the call button for the elevator.

“Shouto called,” you say to the closed elevator doors. “And I’m capable of doing this on my own.”

“He could have called Shouto back.”

“Shouto might not be able to pick up then,” you say, and it’s hard to tell what you’re thinking or feeling as you say it. “Thank you for calling the elevator for me.”

“I’ll take you to your car,” he adds on a whim, glad that none of his supervisors are around to hear him. “After all, one can’t be too careful.”

You eye him for a second. “Right,” you agree then, stepping into the elevator.

He could have explained himself better. Or pretended to be worried about your health instead of wondering if you’ve lied. If you’re really married to his father, of all people.

But Enji is there, sitting in a car that’s much too run-down to be his, on the phone with Shouto, probably.

You wait for him to step forward, out of the shadows, into the fluorescent lights of the parking garage, into the open where Enji can see him.

But Natsuo has no real interest in being seen by him. He’s got no real interest in seeing him either, he realizes, walking back into the elevator. 

“I don’t care what you tell him,” he says before he can rethink his words. “Have a good day.”

-

“I have an appointment for Friday,” you explain as you slide into the passenger seat and buckle your seatbelt. “With the neurologist.”

Enji nods and offers his right hand for you to hold, his call winding down. 

Shouto’s call had been quick, followed by a much longer ordeal with Tamashiro from HR. He’s ready to go home, where the dishes are waiting in the sink and the bathtub needs a good scrub.

“How was the appointment?” He asks, once he’s put his phone away. “You redid your scarf. Is there a problem with your hair?”

You send him a grateful smile, and he’s proud of himself for noticing. 

“Tension headaches,” you agree. “But they don’t think that’s the only reason. Still, I should keep them open more often, since I can’t very well cut them.”

“So?” He nods toward the scarf. “Do you want to take it off now?”

“Right,” you nod after a second, hesitating a little longer before you take off the scarf. “I should also mention that I’ve met Natsuo inside.”

Enji freezes, careful not to react until he’s got a good grip on himself again.

“You did?”

“Yes. I realized it before he did, but he insisted on treating me. He’s been mostly polite, but distant.”

“Mostly polite?” Enji echoes, thinking back to his son, now his oldest, living son. The one who is most like him. “Did he hurt you?”

“Why don’t we drive home?” You change topics seamlessly, the snakes on your head stretching in every direction, curious about this new environment. “I’d love to rest for a while.”

“Did he-”

Your hand circles around his, your grip strong and warm and reassuring.

“I am fine,” you promise. “Are you okay driving us home?”

- - -

“You’ve changed your name,” Shoji points out politely. He hasn’t been in for a while, and it’s not the only thing he notices, though he thinks it rude to mention your missing head scarf, the mass of snakes now weaved into a complicated braid over your shoulders.

“I have.”

“But your email address has stayed the same?”

“Well, yes,” you grimace slightly. “It’s been a whole ordeal with HR. Apparently, it would be too confusing, since our company Email uses only the first letter of our first name, and we have two Todorokis now.”

“Ah,” Shoji nods. “Less confusing than expecting you to have a different name.”

You shrug. “It is what it is. Tea?”

“Please.” He watches you work. Through the milky glass walls separating your office from the others, he can see Enji’s broad-shouldered body, bent over his desk. 

He’s known him for longer than he’s known you, though more in passing. 

Shoji’s eyes drift to where you’re pouring the water into cups, sees the shadows haunting the angles of your face. “You’ve been sick?”

“Migraines. I have an appointment with a neurologist on Friday, but until then, I have good painkillers to keep me afloat.”

“And you’re allowed to work?”

“The doctors didn’t say I couldn’t,” you explain with the flicker of a smile on your lips. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

Shoji follows you out of your office an hour later, notes tucked under one of his many arms.

“I’ll just let Enji know where we’re going,” you say, knocking softly against his office door. “It will be just a minute.”

Shoji nods, but keeps his ears peeled. 

He’s familiar with abuse, not just through his own experiences. He’s seen the signs of it in his classmate, just like he saw it in you. And while he’s never had a reason to mistrust Enji Todoroki, one can never be too careful.

“Are you sure you’re up for that?” Enji asks, his voice deep and gravelly against your much lighter one.

“Shoji will be driving, and I haven’t felt any pain all morning. I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”

“If you say so.” A pause, but he cannot hear any movement. Then, Enji’s voice turns softer, surprisingly so. “Don’t come back to the office, okay? I can take care of everything. Go home and rest. There are leftovers in the fridge from yesterday, and I’ll make you fresh congee when I return.”

A sigh. The telltale sound of skin brushing against skin, like a kiss, or a hand tucking away a strand of hair. “Very well. I feel a little guilty about you doing all the work, both at home and in the office. I don’t know how to make it up to you.”

“Get better,” Enji quips, and you laugh. 

“I’m doing my best. Maybe you should go out with Keigo tonight. Have some fun. I can order something if I get hungry.”

“I prefer being home with you,” Enji admits, “It feels… safer.”

Shoji pulls away, suddenly feeling more like an intruder than a worried friend. He’s heard enough.

When you return a few moments later, there’s a warmth in your eyes he’s not seen there before. 

Shoji wonders if you’ve ever truly felt cared for before.

-

It’s a pure coincidence that Rei spots you, walking past the windows overlooking the street, her eye catching on something flickering in the sunlight.

She recognizes your companion first. Shoji’s not a stranger to her house. 

Rei thinks back to the contents of her fridge, wonders if she’s missed Shouto calling ahead, when you turn a little, and she can see your face, recognizes it despite seeing it only once before, printed on the front page of some magazine Fuyumi had brought along.

Here, in motion, you look so much different than on the day of your wedding. 

Younger, maybe, but worn down as well. Your hair glitters in the sun, ever-moving. It takes her a second to realize that it’s alive, almost laughs at how fitting it seems. 

Rei watches, curious despite not wanting to be. You follow Shoji down the street and up the path to a neighbour's house, listening, nodding, holding your face into the sun.

Do you know who’s living just across the road? Do you wonder about her, like Rei sometimes wonders about you? Do you feel resentment toward the children she loves, for distancing themselves, for not tripping over their feet to welcome you? Or are you fine with having Enji all to yourself?

Has he changed at all? Or are you secretly desperate to get out of a relationship you thought better in your dreams?

She’s so transfixed by her own thoughts, she almost misses your return.

But it’s easy then to walk outside into the cool autumn air, to wave until she has your attention.

“Shoji,” Rei greets him first. “I thought I recognized you. Don’t you want to come in for a cup of tea?”

His eyes flicker. Poor boy, caught in the middle of it all.

“You’re welcome as well,” Rei addresses you politely. “Please. We haven’t had a chance to meet yet.”

You are reluctant to agree, she can tell. But your manners seem to win out in the end, quietly following inside.

Rei takes it all in, the best she can.

From the way you pull off your shoes by the door, stabilizing yourself with a hand, to the way your eyes stray over all the pictures and keepsakes she can’t bring herself to throw. Shouto’s jacket hangs by the door, and a picture of her and Fuyumi sharing dessert sits framed on the side table in the hallway.

Rei tries to look at it through your eyes. All the love her children still show her. 

How lonely might your life be?

“What kind of tea do you prefer?” Rei asks, offering up various kinds. Enji had always been a little snobby about that, she remembers, only choosing the expensive brands and pretending to be able to taste the difference.

“I’m not much of an expert,” you admit quietly, hands folded in your lap as you look at Shoji for help. “Please, you choose.”

You’re not much of a talker either, Rei finds. Or maybe you’re hesitant to show much of yourself in her company. She still worries, her curiosity not yet satisfied.

“I’m-” She almost laughs at the absurdity of it all. “I’m sorry if I ask so rudely, I know it’s not any of my business, but how are you? Is everything okay at home?”

Your eyes, vibrant in color, snake-like, catch hers. Your hair moves, hundreds of tiny heads raising at something, turning her direction, tongues tasting the air. 

Rei feels something like fear washing up in her. For overstepping, maybe. For being curious about things that shouldn’t interest her any longer.

Your words, however, surprise her most.

“Are you worried about me?” You ask, sounding unsure, as if not quite believing. 

“I…” Rei hesitates. Wishes for Shoji to say something, but the boy is in over his head. “Well, yes. A little, at least. I know, Enji’s changed, but-”

“Thank you,” you cut her off calmly, your words falling softly into the room, like snowflakes. “But shouldn’t you worry about him, instead?”

-

The hallway light is on when Enji returns, calling him home.

His knees are stiff when he slips out of the car, reminding him that it’s never a good idea to sit behind his desk all day. 

He stops at the door, the key small in his hand as he slips it in. Sometimes, he still can’t quite fathom that this is his life now.

That he can come home to someone again. 

That the warmth in his home is real, not manufactured, not play-pretend.

It’s quiet inside, the leaves of the monstera in the entryway brushing his shoulders as he passes it, a silent greeting. He needs to cut it, soon, lest it overgrows, but you’re so fond of its touch, he can hardly bear it.

“Love?” He calls out, surprised again, at how easy the pet name slips out of his mouth now. It used to be harder, like a foreign language, his tongue not used to words coated in sweetness.

“I’m in the bedroom,” you call out softly, and he moves to find you, despite the groceries that need to be put away or his growing hunger.

You look small, tucked into the pillows, dressed in his sleepshirt despite the still early hour.

“Did you rest?” Enji asks, leaning in for a kiss, your breath fanning over his face as he waits for an answer.

“Yes.”

“You don’t seem rested.”

Your lips quirk into a smile, though it lacks humor. “Today was… a lot.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

You blink. “Not yet.”

He pauses. Allows himself to be disappointed even as he gives you the space you ask for. “Did you eat?”

“Oh, no.” You shake your head. “I wanted to wait for you. We had tea, and I wasn’t feeling up for much.”

“It’s alright. Do you want to join me in the kitchen?”

He can see it in your eyes, that pause. He knows you prefer staying in bed for as long as possible, but you nod and slip out of bed, curl into his warmth despite your own preferences.

Is this what love feels like, Enji wonders once again. Putting the needs of your partner above your own, always?

He wakes later that night, unsure of the time, his face covered in your hair.

Enji’s gotten used to it by now, to the snakes seeking his warmth, the younger ones resting right below his nose to bathe in his warm breath. 

But that’s not what woke him. It’s your hand, curled into his chest, your nails digging half-moons into his skin.

“Love?” He calls out to you, curls his hand around yours. “Are you dreaming?”

You shift. You suck in a breath. You dry your tearstained cheeks on his shoulder, staying still for a long moment. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Is it?” Your voice is heavy, your grip on his hand the same. “You left.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know, I-” Your body moves against his, closer still, ever closer. “Life’s not fair sometimes.”

He lets you talk. Gives your words and feelings space, imagines them floating above your heads, colorful and reflective like your scales. 

“I’m not surprised Rei wanted to get to know you,” he admits quietly. “Maybe she saw you getting out of the car.”

“I would have liked a warning.”

“You could have said no.”

You huff, and he laughs, surprised by how at ease he feels with it, here, now, with you. 

“She cares about me,” you say after a while, after the silence has settled over your conversation again. “Or at least, she’s worried.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did you say?” Enji asks, thinking back to past conversations. “Thankful for every crumb given?”

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “Thankful for every crumb given. But I’d still prefer it if they didn’t treat me like a damsel in distress. I could kill you if I wanted.”

“I’d let you,” Enji says, aiming for a teasing tone, though it hits much harder, feels like he’s handing you his heart on a silver platter.

But he doesn’t take his words back, and neither does he take back his heart.

I'm open to write a part two to this

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