#l-a

Your silence was odd.

Not bad. Just odd.

To Saitama, nothing you presented was bad. Your loudness, your quietness, he loved it all. Of course he woud, why else would he be with you?

He loved you like he had loved no one before. You snuff out the utter boredom he constantly feels with the few moments you're by his side. You make him happy. As happy as he could be, at least. 

You've done so much for him, but he can't do the same.

The numbness in him still muffles the emotions-- the words and actions he wants to potray. On occasions, it frustrates him. But you never complained about his lack of reciprocation, you just smiled and gripped onto his hand tighter, leaning further into his arm.

So he lets it go. He doesn't like when things bother him too much, and if it doesn't upset you, why should he worry about it? He can still make you happy, even without grand gestures. Maybe.

Yet as his hands move mechanically to chop the vegtables, his mind drifts to his apprentacse's words from earlier that day. 

Genos, ever the observent, commented on your unfamiliar change in demeanor around Saitama, and the dejected look that befell your features more often. Saitama thought maybe genos was overreacting, and had mistook your tiredness for gloominess. He didn't notice anything strange about your expression.

But now he sees it. That distant look in your eyes whilst you pulled out the dishes from your cabinet, it was so different from your serene expression you used to hold when he's around. How could he not notice? When had it changed? Had it always been like that?

He also noticed the faint disappointement in your gaze when you opened your door to let him in, and he apologized for being late once again. Had you always looked this upset when he was late?

And when you planted a peck on his cheek then glanced at him with yearning eyes, which he returned with a soft smile like he always did. Had your gaze always held that desperate longing? Now that he had noticed it, why didn't he push himself to do more?

He coudln't figure out what was wrong with him. He wanted to do more. He wanted to initiate more, but it was so hard. He didn't understand why this constant heaviness always kept his arms rooted to his sides until you had pushed to move them. Or the weight in his throat that prevented him from telling you more than those simple words he offered.

You probably didn't know how much he thought of you. How much he appreciated you and cherished you. Who could blame you, though? When he made such feeble efforts to relay it all.

'I really do suck.'

He tried to put more effort this time. To hold your hand more. To tell you he missed you. 

Now he noticed the brightness in your features as he did. But he was barely doing anything, why were you so happy about those small gestures? Was he really depriving you from the affection you deserved to that extent?

Next time. Next time he'd do more. Next time he will treat you better. Next time he'll be early. Next time he'll make you happy. No matter how hard the shackles on his ankles tried to drag him down.

As he stood at the doorway, he didn't pull away from your embrace this time. He allowed you to hold him for as long as you liked, hoping that maybe this small gesture could covey how hard he truly was trying. 

He noticed the deep, comforting sigh you expelled as you pressed your face into him. 

This hug lasted longer than he expected.

"I..."

'I'm sorry. I'll do better.'

"Woah- hey, what's all this...?" A wobbly smile etched at your lips as you blinked at Genos. The newly modified, Genos. Your slightly dilated gaze fanned over his arm, eyeing every sharp bump of metal encasing it, installed for the sole purpose of vengeance and destruction.

Genos stood still before you, trying to ignore the small apprehension inside him as he observed you vigilantly, absorbing every movement or faint reaction you let slip.

"New upgrades. I thought I should show you." He simply stated, not wanting to bore you with his long rants, at least not when his mechanical irises were trained so acutely at you, analyzing every twitch and motion. You let out a dry, and painfully strained, laugh.

"So that's what you've been up to." Your arm rose gently to reach for his hand, hesitantly tugging it toward you by cupping his palm.

The tips of his fingers were sharp, the rest of his hand ragged with spikes and slicing cracks, you could only hold him by his palm, but even then you had to be careful with your touch.

Something in you settled as your eyes lingered on his hand, your fingers exploring the cold, smooth surface of his pointed knuckles. You peered up to glance at his shoulder. A large, pointed metal plate covered his side, shielding it completely. The unpleasantness in you bottomed further.

You can't intertwine your hands anymore. You can't lean against his shoulder, or even the whole of his arm for that matter, unless you're willing to be probed and sliced by the knives along his frame.

A bitter taste pooled in the back of your throat as your eyes flickered to his features, eyeing the metal scraps along his cheekbones.

You had to admit, it made him look cool and quite handsome, however, it just made him all the more distant to you.

He fixated on that ghostly crease in your brow. He could read the disappointment in your figure with the way your shoulders fell slightly. There it was again, the same deflated posture you tried to restrain.

A part of him cracks every time he catches that longing look behind your forced content, the craving for something mutual, something warm. He can see the quiet want on your face whilst you're holding him-- his hands, his face. him. He's right there, but you still crave him, a part of his that doesn't exist.

You're so human. So alive. Seeking the warmth of humanity in the way you diligently cup your warm cup of tea on cold mornings, or in the way your fingers loosely comb through your strands. When you think he's not looking, you leer down at your palms, itching with desire. Your hands slowly make contact, fingers deliberately gliding against each other before curling around each knuckle, intertwining together. And as you exhale a soft breath, he holds his own.

His core feels like it builds up with pressure whenever you shiver at his cold being. On the rare occasions when you sleep beside him, he hurts as he watches you shift in your slumber, hands reaching out to seek support. Yet once your skin makes contact with the sensitive metal of his arm, he senses you shudder then pull away. Retreating into your own closure.

It was only natural for you to want something soft, tender, and reassuring. But then there was him- hard, Mechanical, and indifferent. He can't help but feel he's holding you back from the same serenity you provide with your breathing contact.

As your eyes continue to take in his new look, your strained smile never faltering, your jaw clenches a little.

When you entered this relationship, you knew he would never fully prioritize you, and you were willing to live with that because he had somehow managed to rip out every ounce of care you could possibly harbor for someone with his unrelenting force.

Every time he comes back to you, it's like a little more of the human in him is taken away, the part of him you constantly yearned for. 

You wanted to tell him to stop. Was that so selfish?

He feels his core slightly heat up as he wordlessly watches you chase something he can never give you. As your lips part and twitch, he hears you draw out the syllables he felt from your beating heart.

'I wish you were human. I wish you'd just let yourself be with me.'

"They're sick!" You beam up at him, then turn to walk into your room, carefully tugging him along. "Tell me all about them."

You were an eyesore.

Disgusting, vulnerable, weak, and pathetic. You were everything wrong in this world. Every single flaw that someone could possess you had it, and Speed-of-sound Sonic could do nothing but snarl at its hideous embodiment.

The recoil in his gut intensifies with every glance you give him, and the revulsion in his head yells louder at every smile you offer.

And with your touch, he wants to tear at his skin, the skin soiled by your crud.

But with your everything, he succumbs again, and yet again to the overwhelming spell you've embroiled him in.

And every time, he holds onto it, holds onto you. Loves, cherishes, adores, and promises the better of him.

You were perfect. How could a being be so entrancing in every sense? Your looks, your voice, your strength, and the beauty within you that roamed your presence like an ensnaring scent, how could it be real?

Another night beside you. Another night where the turn of your lips lock onto him. Another night he rests into a soft quiet, and he can love with no regrets.

As soon as that night passes, he is overwhelmed by loathing, at himself and you.

He doesn't want to be this close. He can't be. Letting himself swim in this soft— vulnerable feeling of 'love' made his insides churn with conflict.

And again he'll break his promise and leave for a week or two or however long he can keep himself hauled far away from your skin.

He doesn't care. That's what he tells himself. Despite the jittering within him that doesn't quiet unless in your presence. Despite the ache in his heart that cracks him every time he can make out the despair in your features. Even though every time he says he'll never come back again, that he won't let your filth taint his dignity any longer, he always finds himself being drawn back to you.

And you'll wait for him patiently. Just as you had waited before.

Again you sit in your balcony, the soft breeze of the cool night brushing past you. Your gaze is distant, absent, as your thoughts consume you. How many nights have you sat here, the sorrow in you palpable and the void in you deepening?

You allow yourself to be mistreated, manipulated, and used by that man, depriving yourself of sleep and an appetite just because of the yearning that is never satisfied without him.

Why him? You pondered. Why is the one thing that you love more than anything— why the fuck was it that bastard? Why couldn't your brain choose something else? Something truthful?

"Fuck you."

"Y/n-"

"Why can't you just leave long enough for me to forget you?" You turn away from him and storm into your home, your face twisted in utter hurt and frustration.

"I'm sorry." Sonic apologizes. He suddenly appeared before you and you stumbled back a step as you bumped into him. He tries to hold you by your sides to steady you but you push his arms away.

Damn his speed.

"Like last time?" You hiss, watching his face remain still to the familiar insults. "You're always sorry."

"I meant them all." His brows furrow.

"And how does that help me?" You retort, a resigned laugh mixing with your sentence. You sucked in a shaking breath and placed your hand over your eyes. "I don't—"

His palm clamped around your wrist, softly prying your fingers away from your temple, urging you to peer at him. You could see the turmoil in his gaze and the apology lining his expression, it made you want to pull him into you. To thread your fingers in his hair and console him, give up all the forgiveness you harbored.

You expelled a soft sigh and let your gaze fall.

"Why do you keep coming back...? Why do you keep leaving?" Your voice was hushed.

"Why do you keep waiting?" He replied, his words cruel yet his tone oddly tender. "If you just tell me to leave and never come back, then I will."

He won't

"But why can't you listen to me when I tell you to stay?" You slipped your hand out of his grasp, taking a step away from him. "I feel like every time you're here I'm breaking, but every time you aren't I'm shattering."

"Don't you think I feel the same way?" The faintest hint of desperation lapped his words as his volume grew.

"Then come back to me!" You cried, your hands clutching the fabric of your shirt right above where your heart pulsed. His form visibly tensed. The constriction in his face was unmistakable, even in the dim light of the room.

His frame relaxed as he averted his gaze. You felt the heaviness weighing at you tug harder with the guilt evident in his person.

"I'm hurt. I just want you. Do you even care about me?!" The words came out strained and tottery as you attempted to compose yourself.

Sonic's shoulders rose as he inhaled sharply before firmly trotting towards your crumbling soul.

"I never stop thinking about you. No matter how hard I try." He began, his gaze intense as he stood right in front of you. His irises absorbed every dejected, desperate, longing emotion behind yours. "I'm not going to leave this time. I'll come back the next day. I'll do as I promise.

I hate that I can't stop loving you." His voice grew vulnerable upon uttering that last phrase, and all you could do was glower at him with every bit of anger you had left in you.

"I hate..." a trembling sigh escaped your lungs as anguish pooled into your features.

"Why can't I hate you?" You muttered, then pulled him into another desperate kiss, your body portraying all the words you hadn't allowed yourself to speak. Every 'I miss you' that clouded your brain and each 'I love you' you begged yourself to deny.

His touch charred and sizzled onto your skin, and you hoped the burns that were left in his wake would stay longer than he would. Maybe the searing pain could give you the closure that he could never fulfill.

⋆

"I'll be back." He whispered, his palm pressed gently against the side of your face.

"Will you, really?" Your gaze pleaded for empty reassurance as you leaned into his touch. He enveloped you into a hug which you melted into immediately.

"Yes." He muttered into your neck. Both of you could sense the sincerity in his voice, though how long would it last?

Once he pulled away and his warmth was stripped away from you, disdain was quick to itch at the back of your throat whilst your despaired eyes watched him disappear in a blur.

Again he won't come tomorrow like he promised.

Adrenaline coursed through your system, the muffled sound of your furious heartbeat did little to drown out the gruesome sound of ripping tendons, bending and cracking of bones, and the splatter of blood.

Your brain frantically attempted to piece together the events a moment prior to your current situation. You were walking in the streets, beside Zombieman, then—

Then what? Everything happened so quickly. Everything was so loud. You just remembered being pushed back by something-- or someone,  and falling onto your hind.

You propped yourself up by your elbows as you opened your eyes slowly, blinking rapidly as you tried to make out your surroundings. You coughed as dust and debris particles tethered in the atmosphere encasing you. Your nose crinkled at the smell of sweet iron, more in confusion than anything.

There was something wet and cold on your face, almost getting into your eyes and obstructing your vision. You wiped at your eyes with your fingers, then looked down.

It was red. So were your clothes. You were completely soaked with blood.

Were you hurt? You couldn't feel anything. It was probably the shock stopping you from sensing your wound. Wounds? Maybe?

You frowned as you finally felt the heavy weight pressing down on your stomach. You moved your palm away from your view to get a good look at your body. There was something— you blinked again, your view starting to become static.

It was a irregular cylinder of black cloth, wrapped around something. No- it was leather cloth? Your brows knit together as your disoriented gaze trailed to the side of the object, locking onto something grey at the end of it.

A hand.

It was an arm.

His arm.

Your airway narrowed and your pupils trained at the limp hand you were tenderly grasping only a minute ago. The ringing blared louder against your ear, the chaotic noises around you now muffled as blood rushed through your brain faster. You blinked a few times, mouth agape as you took in rapid, strained gasps, you then whipped your head to the opposing side of the arm: The amputation site.

It wasn't a clean cut, there were long, thin pieces of tissue hanging from its end, coloured with different shades of red, some pieces even sticking to the side of your thigh. The pigment engraved itself into your head.

Dilated pupils watched as the crimson liquid slowly poured out the vein and soaked into your already scarlet uniform.

Your stomach lurched at the sight, your mind screaming and scrambling for solutions, or directions or answers or anything!

After who knows how long of silently, not quietly, leering down at the mass atop you, your gaze caught a shift at the corner of your eyes.

Your neck rigidly craned up, eyes locking with a blurry silhouette of a dismantled, large build standing before you.

Your eyes kept focused for a few seconds, your brain adjusting to the sight.

You could barely make out the outline of his black, leather coat as you stared up at his back. Your gaze first settled onto the socket where his arm was supposed to cling from, blood squirting out but thankfully the noise was muted by the incessant ringing in your ear, lapping with your ragged breath and your pulse.

Something kept you from looking away, despite the utter revolution in your gut.

Your pupils dragged up onto the side of his face. You couldn't make out much, except for the missing half of his lower jaw, the skin once tethered to his face now torn off. It was all a tangle of blood and tissue and bones and teeth and wan skin.

The stinging bile rose further when his head moved to the side, at you, showcasing more of the grotesque scene. Your body is entirely overwhelmed with horror, your stare blows wider as it takes in the view of the eyeball just dangling from his head, somehow having wrung out of its socket.

The next thing you knew, you were hunched over a public toilet in a nearby mall, completely crowded with people who were also escaping the chaos, some hurt and some simply in mental shock.

If you were injured, you wouldn't be able to tell. You lurched forward again as more vomit seared up your esophagus, burning with unrelenting loathe. Tears pricked the rings of your eyes, knuckles painting white as your quivering hold tightened on the sides of the cold toilet cement.

Every time you thought you had already expelled everything there was to possibly expel from your system, the images flash against your closed eyelids then the metallic smell of fluids drenching you stirs inside your nostrils, and your stomach spasms once more. At some point, you were simply just dry-heaving in pain.

Another mental blur. Head exhaustedly pressed against the head of the toilet, murmuring answers to the frantic medic workers, checking you for any wounds so they could know whether to deem you a priority or not.

Then you were home—your home—his home. Then you were in the shower, your clothes from earlier, absolutely marinated in blood like a canvas of filth, discarded carelessly on the bathroom floor, tainting the clean tiles. You just scrubbed.

The water burned your skin as your hand scratched it aggressively with the loaf, reddened by the harshness. You stayed there for hours, constantly applying, rinsing, scrubbing, inhaling, and holding back a heave.

By the time you had finally stepped out of the bath, your fingers resembled raisins. Yet you still felt soiled.

You tip-toed around your clothes, refusing to let the mush red ruin you again. You wrapped your body with a towel and gloomed out.

"Sweetheart?" A familiar voice hums from behind you as you are about to step into your room. Every muscle in you reacts adversely, straining against itself. Your eyes enlarge and your breathing halts. "I was starting to get worried, you were taking concerningly long. I already asked, but you're not hurt, are you?"

How long has he been here?

You stood frozen for a few seconds, then slowly turned your head to glance at Zombieman.

Your body recoiled further, eyes widening as you took in his complexion. He looked completely fine like none of the previous events ever occurred. He was cleaned up with a new change of clothes. Yet while you stared into his red irises, your mind flooded with recollections. The stench hit you again like a wave.

He frowned at your odd behavior and stepped forward, as soon as he did, however, your face morphed into one of utter horror, and you flinched back.

You felt like screaming, you were about to scream but something else blocked your airway instead. You doubled over, your shoulders shaking as you gagged out nothing but saliva. Your neck hurt. You sucked in a few frantic breaths, your eyes screwed shut then another lurch jolted through you.

You were too busy trying to get yourself to stop throwing up, that you only realized how close he was once his palm connected gently with your shoulder. You sucked in a sharp breath and yelled, slapping his arm away as you jumped back, shriveling into yourself as tears began to run down your face uncontrollably.

"Go away!" You wailed, governing your running face with your arms. "Please, please-! Just get out!"

In the middle of your turbulent state lapped with sudden gags and coughs, you couldn't see the absolute hurt on his features. After a pause, with his lips parted but his words coiled in his throat, he retracted his hand and clamped his mouth shut. He was quick to rise to his feet and leave the apartment.

He sat, his back against the door of your home, a cigarette pinned against his index and middle finger. He sat there for hours, his heart cracking with every pained gasp of yours that was dulled by the wall between you. The one thing stopping him from completely losing sense of his sanity was the sweet sting of nicotine scrapping against his trachea.

If it wasn't for the large open window, the hallway would've been a mess of smoke and the essence of sizzling lungs.

His face wrinkled as he recalled that repulsed twist on your face. It made him feel inhuman, the one thing he never felt around you. He brought the bud to his mouth, sucking in a deep puff, his chest rising as the smoke in his lungs wreathed around his anguish. He drew out a long breath,  letting the cigar lightly hang between his teeth.

Another breath escaped his lungs as he shut his eyes and pressed his head back. He tried to remember you. The you from yesterday that gleamed at him so fondly, that looked at him with nothing but sincerity. You made him feel so alive.

He would be lying if he said the way people looked at him for the first time didn't even slightly sting him. He'd grown accustomed to it: The lingering gaze on his skin, or the paused stammer as they stared into his eyes, prominent against his pale skin. But you? You looked at him with every unspoken whisper he had hoped to hear, to consume, to feel.

Sitting there, with the knowledge that you were wracked with agony because of him? It destroyed him. He just wants to hold you and rock you in his arms, to whisper that he's sorry and he will always be there to keep you safe. But he knew he couldn't even do that. You could barely even stand to look at his face.

His eyes slowly fluttered open and he pulled out the cigarette from his mouth, silently listening for any sounds from the house. It had been silent for a while now. No shuffle, no sniffle, no ungovernable panting.

He was vigilant as he stepped into the apartment once more. He steadily made his way to your shared room, his gaze softening as it fell on your form, sprawled onto the bed with little care. Half your legs were off the bed.

He carefully hoisted you up comfortably on the bed and draped a blanket over you. He held his breath as he did so, afraid he might wake you up. But it seemed like the exhaustion from the whole day had completely spent you.

He cleaned the blood trail on the floor that you had absentmindedly left behind. He cleaned up the bathroom and carefully got rid of your soaked and battered clothes.

After a few solemn moments of gazing at your sleeping form, heart clenching at the puffed-up state of your eyes, he left.

He sent you a message, telling you he cleaned the house and took care of everything for you. That he's sorry. That he'll give you space. That he loves you.

The next day when he had seen that you'd replied to his messages, he felt a small sense of ease wash over him.

'Thank you,'

His shoulders sagged for a moment, then rose and readjusted as he started typing away at his phone.

He wrote that you needn't thank him, and he'd do much greater things for you. He followed that by asking how you were feeling and then stating that he was going to be staying somewhere until and unless you were ok with him coming back. He wrote that if you needed anything, just text him.

The shame clawing at your stomach was unbearable. You frowned as you peered down at his tender words, the side of your face pushing further into your pillow. You could hear his voice simply from the soothing tone in his messages. You wanted to hear his voice, to melt against his touch, to seep into his warmth.

Seep.

Your eyes wrinkled shut and your features crinkled as a roll of images flashed in your head. An exhale made its way out your nose as you slowly opened your eyes again to gaze over the texts.

You sent him a few, snipped messages then closed your phone and flipped it so the screen was pressed against your mattress.

You retracted your hand and pushed it under your cheek, the guilt within you coiling further. You wanted to see him, even if it was just to catch a glimpse of him, to see if he really was doing ok, but even the mere remembrance of his eyes made your quenched throat flex. You felt the unpleasant sensation of acid rising once again, which you hurriedly swallowed down.

The rest of the day went by on autopilot, the only way you could physically function without any disturbed thoughts or reactions: with your mind somewhere far and distant from your present.

When you finally decided that you'd like to see Zombieman again, an agonizing few days had passed, slow and unrelenting to you, but nonetheless had given you enough time to process everything. You thought you had, anyway.

Yet as he stood before you in your once comforting abode, where you cradled each other and shielded yourselves from the judgmental whispers of the world beyond these walls, you felt yourself sink into another pit of dread.

A grin, far from reaching your eyes, held up as you gazed at him.

He looked clean, he smelled nice, and the scent of his signature cologne embroiled itself in you. At the familiar smell, your muscles almost allowed themselves to relax but your sight did well to remind you.

His hands were jittering aimlessly at his sides, whilst his hesitant gaze kept fixated on you. He held back the eagerness within him. All he desired was to pull you close and have you cry all your heartache to him, but he knew better than to act rash. He had so much to tell you, so many things he wanted to apologize for.

And so did you. You had rehearsed what you wanted to say as you paced around the room, waiting impatiently for his arrival.

His stare held nothing short of warmth and his soft, riant smile coudln't match more perfectly. It always befogged you how someone with such an intimidating build could look so gentle in your eyes.

but just like sand, the admiration and love you tried to grasp onto slipped between the cracks of your fingers.

Your smile was no longer a smile but a taut tilt, the resigned and shaken look on your temples betraying any little calmness you tried to portray.

You swallowed hard, blinking a few times.

You couldn't keep looking at him. Not his face. Not his eyes. You tore your gaze away and trailed down to his torso. Again he wore black. He enjoyed dark colours. You knew this.

By the time your eyes locked onto his gruff hands, your grin had long been replaced and remolded.

You couldn't stand it.

Your eyes bulged as the grey colour of his skin consumed your vision like blotches slowly spreading and hindering your ability to think.

Grey, red, black.

Grey, red, black.

His skin, blood his eyes, his coat.

The weight of his amputated arm on your abdomen.

Your brain screeched with memories of crimson, so bright against the ashen cells. It was immediate. The deprivation of blood to your dread-filled face. The dilation in your pupils. The rapid thumping of your heart.

The air felt heavy as you gasped to suck in enough oxygen. You shook your head, hands quivering as you slowly lifted them to clutch at your face and turn away from him. You retreated into yourself with a weak tremble and stepped away from him. His brows creased inward at your state and his lips parted in an effort to help.

"I can't look at you." Your voice was strained as you pushed the words out your lungs, as if fighting a battle between your past self and your new corrupted one. "The skin. I can't do it. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Just please leave."

You're not looking at him, too engraved in your own muddled mind to catch the sorrow in his own as he turns to leave without another word.

You suppressed the sounds of your wails with your pillow, your face pressed suffocatingly hard against the cushion. Guilt chewed at every part of you.

You felt like a prisoner in your own being, chained and shackled down by the unfortunate sights your mind could hardly absorb. You didn't feel like yourself, and nothing you tried to do helped.

In the two weeks that passed, you had kept contact with your lover through texts. It came easy talking to him through the phone, and it was frankly the best part of your day.

Eventually, Zombieman came back to settle in your shared home. You mostly co-existed than you lived together. You didn't look at him much, at least you'd try not to, despite the way you felt his gaze sear your back as you faced away from him in bed. He'd leave early for his job and would come back late, notably extending his work.

You spoke, though. Well, he did. He knew you didn't mind him speaking, as long as you weren't looking at him. In the rare occurrences where the both of you were awake and present at home at the same time, he would speak about everything and anything, even complimenting you between topics. You chuckle, hum, and smile to yourself in response.

Those few moments helped in easing the twinge of discofitense you felt in his presence. But it did little to dull it out after.

Desperation, perhaps. Maybe yearning. Maybe that is what made him do it. He had always been level-headed and calculated, but that didn't mean he was immune to weakness, not when for weeks he'd been kept at arm's length. So close yet so unbearably distant. Quelling back his aching and the vacancy within him for your sake. He didn't regret it, but he couldn't deny that it had taken a light strike to his own self-consciousness.

You stood before the window, light filtering through and outlining your figure. Your eyes were fixated on your clothes as you ironed out the wrinkles along them, your focus elsewhere as you think of your day's schedule.

Your thoughts screech to a deafening halt as you choke back a yell. There was no mistaking the firm arms encasing your waist and the soft breath against your neck. You froze, pulling the iron off your outfit and gripping it with every ounce of strength you had, trying to ground yourself in any way possible.

Your breath paused but your heart beat with furious intensity and your mind raced with too many thoughts.

He didn't know what he was doing. He just held on, waiting for something. For some sort of receprocation. For anything. He thought maybe if he held onto you for a little while, your mind would quieten and you'd ease into him. And you'd come back to him.

You hoped so too, as you stared straight ahead with slightly widened eyes. For a moment, your eyelids relaxed, and you thought maybe this time you were the one controlling your body.

Then, at the faint un-tensing of your shoulders, his grasp slightly tightened around your waist.

You sucked in a sharp breath, the whole of your frame growing rigid.

The weight. the stomach-- Your stomach, it's crushing you again.

Don't look don't look don't look don'tlookdon'tlookdontlook

You tried to force yourself to shut your eyes and to push away every memory. But you couldn't.

The sound of his breath made your ears ring.

"I'm sorry, ok? I miss you. I miss you so much." His voice vibrated into your skin, but you could hardly focus on his confession as the heavy drag of blood clung onto you, and the scent flushed into your nose again.

You swallowed hard, and he pressed his arms firmer, and you looked.

Your eyes blinked down. His sleeve was black and his hands were grey.

This time, your breath came in a screeching gasp. Your face awashed with horror and you flinched, your hands frantically and sloppily pushing away his arms and pulling away from him.

He quickly let go of you, stepping back in dread. Your petrified gaze fell on his face, and for the first time, you finally saw that sting of hurt lining his features. You didn't know if the jolt that wracked your body was a painful reaction to realizing how much he's been holding in, or if it was your stomach again.

Your hands tremble uncontrollably and you gasp in air. Your mouth opened for a moment. You didn't know what you were about to say- if you were going to yell, apologize, or tell him something else. The words missed the finish line again, however.

You think you bolted? Your mind was in too much of a haze to really process anything right, and the familiar convulsion of your body only made your thoughts ink together in deeper disorientation. Your head was over the toilet again, retching out the contents in your system.

You wanted to sob. You were so exhausted from everything. You strained out an incoherent curse between heaves.

"Easy." The words echoed soothingly beside you. They were quiet, almost hesitant, And so was his touch as he pressed his large palm against your back.

The smooth circles he traced made your scrunched face relax slightly, de-knotting a tad bit of tension in your hunched posture.

Your mind, wracked and exhausted, didn't piece together who the radiating presence beside you was, the one it associated with grotesque clarity.

But you could.

At that moment, where you were in such a vulnerable and feeble state, was the only time you could finally rekindle that small thread of connection you shared with him.

He felt it too. It gave him hope. Maybe things could go back to how they were.

Yet as he kneeled to your aid, tentatively watching your shoulders shake as you gagged and coughed, he rethought his hope.

He was willing to wait. He was willing to let you push him away and cry at his mere touch, and he would ignore the sharp impale he felt, every sting and burn you shot with your conflicted gaze. If it was for you? He'd endure a thousand times more.

Love is tragic. When you've never been loved before. It's difficult. It's confusing. It's simply a hassle. 

But you were beautiful. You were love to him. You radiated everything he never knew he yearned for. You made him pause and ponder. You made his confidence halt and coil into a skittish knot. You were everything to him.

And you were just tragic. 

You were numb. You believed you were broken. You never understood why you could never reciprocate all he showed you. You cared about him, more than anything. But all that care you have for him could never compare to the stark devotion he bore. 

There was nothing to you: You were a lone college student, trying to pay off your loans and putting your all into studying and working. You were a shell of your past self, sacrificing what you once knew as content for the sake of your future. Everything you felt was simply muffled.

Yet somehow he had found something even you couldn't fathom. The sheer love he portrayed baffled you. It didn't make any sense.

"You're my world." Came his silky voice, pooling within you as he pulled you into an embrace. His features were loose. A soft, unguarded smile lined his face whilst he stood in your cramped, sheltered room. 

He was acting more affectionate than usual. He must've been happy since you didn't leave his messages on delivered for hours today.

An audible exhale aired out your lungs as you eased into him, hulling your hands to lightly wrap around his torso with your weight supported against him.

Probably because you had called him to walk you home, instead of him showing up on his own.

He melted into your aroma and relished in the foreign sentiment you were gifting him. 

In the eyes of the public, he was sharp and composed. Charming with his striking features and stone-cold expression, and he tried to uphold that image with you.

But no matter how vigilant he was, he couldn't hold back that ardent flow of affection that consumed him when he was with you, or the anticipation, or the desperation. So once you two were veiled beneath the walls of your room, no matter how hard he tried to hold on to that unbothered, cold domino of his, it always managed to slip away.

"You're so cheesy, flash." You meekly muttered into his chest.

"Only for you," his lips moved against the top of your head, before pressing a soft kiss. 

In truth, Flashy flash was like a deprived puppy. He would inwardly wag his tail and fawn over the littlest of declarations. Every time you'd push yourself to do more, force and forge a new part of you for him, no matter how insignificant it seemed, he would clasp it close to him and smile every time he remembered it, losing himself in a state of reverie. From a small peck on his cheek, to an 'I missed you', to a fleeting compliment.

You had held his hand voluntarily and stood close to him today, and even told him he looked nice. 

You could tell how much those little gestures meant to him.

"I love you." He spoke. As if the way his slim fingers tenderly trimmed across your cheek couldn't already speak in his stead. Your gaze kept locked with his for a few moments.

"I love you, too." You murmured, subtly leaning into his touch.

And with that, you've exhausted yourself. Again you're reminded why you're always strained with him. He yearns, needs too much, and you simply have too little to offer.

A strange sense of apathy and guilt riddles within you as you drift off to sleep, unseen fragments of his presence still hanging in the room.

Amidst the eerie quiet, the shuffling of fabric and the soft clinking of keys and coins could be heard throughout the empty restaurant. The chairs were flipped symmetrically on the wiped-down tables, the precision of your work evident with the air of cleanliness encasing the space. 

Your eyes moved to glance at the cold cup of coffee on the counter. Flashy flash had dropped by earlier in your shift and snuck in the back, handing you the beverage. You gave him an abrupt 'thank you' and a nod, before trotting back to your work, ignoring the tick of dejection he let slip past his tentative mask. In the middle of the bustling job, you had completely forgotten about it. 

You walked out the back and through the drink in the large garbage disposal, the sounds of it hitting a few rotten bags and the contents within it splashing all over the container following you as you headed back inside.

As your finger pressed on the home button on your phone, revealing the string of untouched notifications left by him, you bit the inside of your cheek. You didn't bother scrolling through them, fully aware that your cruel self wouldn't be as kind as you had been yesterday.

After making sure all your tasks had been intricately completed, you headed out of the restaurant, locking the doors and giving the knob a curt tug.

Two familiar back-to-back clicks against the concrete floor were all the indications you needed to expel a worn-out breath.

"Hey. Sorry I didn't text you, you saw how busy it was today." You dragged your head to turn to him, his face holding a solemn exterior, emphasized by the illumination of the street lamps and shading his complexion perfectly. The metal plates shaping him glistened under the lights, and your eyes fanned over them for a moment before going back to search his stoic face.

He briskly shrugged, his features still, and let out an unamused hum. "It's fine."

You forced a quick smile, your eyelids heavy with your day's load, energy noticeably depleted. His eyes surveyed your posture. He knew you hadn't drank his coffee. He cleared his throat, then went to press a hand to the small of your back. 

You shuddered, your brows denting for a blink before your quick reflexes smoothed them out. Your legs moved forward, pushing you to walk ahead and escape his touch. He paused for a moment, his eyes betraying his composure. 

He pulled his hand back to his side and joined you, taking him only a few strides to catch up to you.

He walked you home as always, but the tension pressed heavily in the atmosphere, and the gap, the actual gap you left between you and Flash as you walked, only made the deprivation in him sting further.

"Goodnight. See you tomorrow." You yawned, not waiting for a response as you went to close the door. But before it could click shut, his hand flew up to push against it. You blinked, allowing him to push the door open, revealing the deep lour pinching at his expression, once painted with a calm, unfeeling look only a moment ago.

"What is it?" His voice rasped desperately.

"Huh?"

"What did I do? Just tell me what I did." His pupils searched yours for those answers he constantly chased. Your jaw clenched. You let go of the door and took a deliberate step back, letting him step inside.

"You didn't do anything. Listen- I'm just tired, ok?" You tried to reassure him with another strained smile as if he couldn't see through every empty grin you plastered for his sake. "You know how things can get for me, right?"

His lips pursed and he shook his head.

"I don't get it." His restless hand ran through his long hair, pushing a few strands back. "You were fine yesterday. We- we were good! Why are you acting like this?"

"I'm not trying to act like anything, flash." You state.

"Then what is it!? I've done everything for you, I got you gifts, I told you I loved you, I missed you, and I still have no idea what's going through your head." He looked defeated as he spoke, longing eyes staring into your jaded ones. Your brows furrowed, and you looked away from him.

"I never asked for you to do anything... don't make me feel like I owe you," Outwardly, he didn't react to your words, but even without looking at his face, the silence told you enough. It stayed like that for a few seconds, the awkward sounds of inhales filling the quiet space.

"It's not about you asking. I do these things because I want to show you how much you mean to me." He took a step forward, pressing his hand over his chest. "We're a couple. Shouldn't that mean something?" 

You couldn't handle the uncharacteristic crack in his voice. 

"Yes, it does-"

"Then what am I doing wrong?!" He cut you off.

"Nothing- You're doing nothing wrong!" You raised your voice, a little panic rising in your chest. He could see it too. He took a step back, his gaze averted to the ground.

"I thought it would get better." He whispered, and his nose scrunched as he looked back up at you. "But it just feels like I'm with a corpse."

You sucked in a sharp breath, something in you constricting at his statement. However, you knew there was nothing false about what he said. You both looked away from each other, the deafening silence taking place once again between your proximity. 

After a few agonizingly long moments, he breathed out a sigh, his form visibly deflating.

"Why do you keep pushing me away?" his voice was hardly audible.

You gave him a quick glance then looked elsewhere as you responded. "...You're just too much for me sometimes. I'm sorry."

You could see his fist clench from the corner of your eyes. 

He stood there, your words eating away at him. You hesitantly looked up at him, just in time to watch his features mend to their standard front. He nodded and turned to leave, muttering a faint farewell under his breath.

A mere few seconds was all Flashy Flash needed for his heart rate to slow back to its steady tempo, the rhythmic sound of his breaths fading along with it. A slow exhale breezed past his lips, his undone muscles pressing further into the mattress.

Your inhales on the other hand echoed faintly in the expanse of the dim-littled room. Your heart drummed dully in your ears and your body lined with sweat as you slowly caught your breath.

He shifted to lay on his side, his eyes marveling at the sight of you, so beautiful and ineffable in his temple. A smile stretched across his features, woven with uncharacteristic warmth, something that he would rarely ever let loose in more open circumstances. The wash of reverence that followed the former ecstasy was overwhelming, and he, despite his stoned facades and reputable means, was still human after all. He couldn't help but relish in it.

Your eyes fluttered open to stare ahead at the ceiling, your pants growing quieter. Your eyelids weighed heavier all of a sudden, and ghostly exhaustion ebbed in you. You let out a final, long exhale whilst his feathered touch traced aimless lines on your arm. 

You glanced over at him, prompting his grin to stretch and his eyes to squint in glee. Your thoughts paused as you took in his mien. He looked flawless, as always, except maybe for his vaguely tossed hair.

His other hand rose to brush back his bangs and his hair fell behind him in sleek, smooth waves. You blinked.

Ok, now he looked flawless. His fair skin was as soft and delicate as usual, with no marks to taint its beauty- unless you bring up his scars, but in your opinion, it just made him look all the more ‘him’. Blonde strands and lashes making him gleam beneath the faint light, and his eyes, looked as ensnaring as can be.

You didn't have to look at yourself to know you were in a completely opposing state to his. Probably disheveled, ragged, lined and riddled with exhaustion. A complete contrast to him.

The more you let your mind muse on your situation, the more strange and unbelievable it seems. You two were immersed in completely alternative worlds, in every sense. And yet, somehow, you've found yourselves entangled with each other. You weren't sure if it was truly a good thing.

You gave him a quick, small smile, then turned back to stare at the ceiling.

He shuffled closer, his arms enclosing your waist and pulling you slightly.

"You're incredible." He nuzzled his face into the side of your neck, his breath scattering over your skin. Your limbs kept unmoving, even as he pressed himself further against you. 

"hm, more than you?" You smirked, pressing your cheek against the top of his head.

"hundred times more." A shudder prickled across your spine as he brushed his lips against your pulse. Gentle and tentative, just as he always was with you. Yet your arms still laid rooted onto the mattress. 

"What's this? Did I break you?" You let out a short chuckle.

"Guess you did." He hummed into your skin.

His pecks continued to travel across your neck, jaw, collarbone, occasionally lapping over past declarations. With each kiss sealing a new promise and rewriting his devotion.

But, still, your arms didn’t move.

He paused, his head motionlessly tucked under your chin. You felt that grating discomfort settle in you once more as the quiet stretched, probably serene to him yet suffocating to you.

You gave him a few light pats on his back and shifted slightly, prompting his grip to loosen and his head to move away. Once your gazes locked, you flashed him another half-hearted grin then quickly wrung out of his gentle hold.

He didn’t attempt to hide the dejected frown on his features whilst his eyes watched you waste no time to shuffle off the bed and pick up the clothes discarded on the floor.

“You’re leaving already?” He asked as he sat up, disappointment evident in his voice.

“Yeah, my lectures start early tomorrow.” You replied. 

Of course. After the moment had passed, your mind was already back to its routine, thinking of nothing except your work and studies and your oh-so busy schedule. 

He was busy too. His frown deepened.

"Can't you just watch the recording later?" He suggested

"If I have a chance to attend the lecture, then I'm going to attend it. I have no excuse to skip."

Your tone was firm as you spoke. You paused when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror of his dresser, moving closer and lifting your chin up to inspect the small bruises trailing your neck. You let a small pout set in as you tried to remember if your buttoned up shirt was still in the laundry or if it had been cleaned yet.

"You could..." He muttered, “have an excuse.”

You sighed and stepped away from the dresser.

“What? Is the S-class rank 10 hero not good enough of an excuse for you?” He leaned his back against the headboard and crossed his arms.

“You know I don’t bend like that.” You knelt down beside the bed, on the side he was seated, to pick up your socks that had been tossed carelessly under it.

“Much to my misfortune.” He mutters. You stood up and peered down at him, his face faintly creased with a frustrated glower as he averted his gaze from yours. You tucked the small pile of clothes in one arm while your other hand reached out to caress the side of his face, urging him to look at you. 

Slowly and almost reluctantly, his head moved to your view, and he found himself loosening up a bit; his features softening and shoulders sagging upon gazing at the apologetic smile you offered.

A ghostly constriction stung in him following the vague comfort. 

Your hand started slipping away from his face, with your legs turning to step away, and he felt the constriction in him tighten at that.

He grabbed your wrist before you could completely slip away from him.

“Come on, just for tonight.” A charming smile masked his yearning. “I promise I won’t bother you that much.”

Your eyes screwed shut and you expelled a long breath before turning to look at him. Your brows were drawn inward and your features crinkled in exhaustion.

"Don't do this now, flash." 

His expression grew taut at your words, smile instantly faltering.

Did you really have to say it like that? Why did you have to say it like he was inconveniencing you? Rather than he was trying to adore you.

The pleading sheen that glassed in his eyes met immiscibly with your remote gaze, shouldering a different beg than his.

Faith retreated from his posture, his flingers letting loose around your wrist but still faintly ringing around them, urging you to tug at him this time, instead.

But why would you.