#yamazaki

Their ghosts have been looking after him since he was born.

Sometimes, his great uncle Shintaro will play peek-a-boo with him.

[image source: Ep. 521 - Lookism]

「山崎」

最高でした。

18年の山崎は、本当に美味しかったです。

山崎25年もテイスティングしたかったけど悔しい財力が及びません。

tw ; NSFW DNI IF YOU ARE MINOR!!! this work contains really disgusting topics such as incest and suggestive content, don't read it if you are not okay with such works!!! remember, we highly condemn such behaviour in real life!!

air felt thick, suffocating. you knew about Shingen’s death, the whole estate has been turned upside down, screams and noises of fight followed like shadows. Shintaro Yamazaki had always been cold, but the man who now stood in your doorway was unrecognizable — drenched in blood, eyes wide with a mix of fury and madness.

If Gun Park fell in love

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Gun Park x R.femele.

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1. You wouldn't fall in love with appearance

He would be attracted by mental strength, resilience and unwavering character, not by beauty or superficial charm.

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2. Respect would come before love

For Gun, respect is the foundation of any bond. He would only be interested in someone he considered worthy.

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3. I would show feelings through actions

Instead of romantic words or gestures, he would express his affection through protection and investment in the person's growth.

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4. I would constantly test the loved one

His way of showing interest would include challenges and trials to evaluate strength, loyalty and emotional resistance.

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5. I would maintain absolute emotional control

Even in love, he would not lose his composure or show vulnerability explicitly.

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6. It would be extremely protective

Any threat to the person he loves would be treated quickly, silently and relentlessly.

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7. It wouldn't be possessive in a dramatic way

His jealousy would be cold and calculated, resolved without emotional confrontations or public demonstrations.

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8. It would preserve your independence

Love wouldn't divert him from his goals. He would never allow his feelings to compromise his strength or purpose.

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9. It would reveal affection in a subtle way

Small gestures - such as attention, constant presence and trust - would replace open demonstrations of affection.

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10. It would require emotional and mental equality

He would value a partner capable of facing him intellectually and resisting his intensity.

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11. I would see the relationship as a strategic partnership

For Gun, loving would mean recognizing someone as an ally, not as a dependent.

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12. You would remain faithful to your personal code

Even in love, he would continue to be guided by discipline, hierarchy and his philosophy of strength and evolution.

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In summary, Gun Park's love would be silent, selective, intense and based on absolute respect, closer to an alliance between equals than to a conventional romance.

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Their physical demonstrations of affection would be discreet, controlled and full of meaning. It would not be expansive or romantic in a conventional way, but each gesture would reveal intensity and intention.

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As he would demonstrate physically

1. Silent proximity

He would remain next to the loved one without saying anything, using his own presence as a form of protection and trust.

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2. Subtle and calculated touches

Small contacts, such as holding the arm or touching the hand, would be rare and significant, reserved for specific moments.

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3. Instinctive protection

Gun would automatically place himself between the person and any threat, guiding him firmly and safely.

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4. Hold your chin or face

In intimate moments, he could slightly lift the person's chin to face her, demonstrating mastery and genuine interest.

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5. Adjust details naturally

Fixing the collar of an outfit, moving a strand of hair away from the face or cleaning a wound would be discreet gestures of care.

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6. Rare, but intense hugs

They would not be frequent, but when they did, they would convey security and protection, more than tenderness.

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7. Contact in dangerous situations

He would hold her hand or pull the person close to him to keep her safe, showing concern without verbalizing.

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8. Prolonged and intimidating look

Eye contact would be one of the most striking forms of expression, revealing respect and deep interest.

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9. Allow personal approach

Gun is extremely reserved; allowing someone to invade his physical space would be one of the greatest proofs of trust.

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10. Rare and significant kisses

If they occurred, they would be firm and intense, without excessive sentimentality, reflecting their self-control and emotional depth.

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Each gesture would be economical, but full of intention, reflecting your disciplined personality and your unique way of connecting emotionally.

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How would he be in bed?

1. Dominant and safe

Gun would naturally take control, guiding each moment with confidence and precision. His presence would convey authority and protection, creating an atmosphere of dedication and emotional tension.

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2. Silent sensuality

He would speak little. His looks, gestures and closeness would replace words, making every moment full of meaning.

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3. Firm and intentional touches

Nothing would be casual. Each caress would have purpose, revealing intensity and self-control. He would value eye contact and deep physical connection.

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4. Calculated rhythm

Gun wouldn't be rushed. He would conduct the experience with patience and mastery, enjoying each reaction and keeping control of the situation.

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5. Contained emotional intensity

Although reserved, he would show desire in an intense and focused way. For him, intimacy would be a space of rare and carefully granted trust.

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6. Respect-based connection

More than passion, there would be respect and mutual recognition. He would value someone capable of keeping up with his intensity and firmness.

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What would the treatments be like after an intense night?

1. Silent care

He would not be overly affectionate, but would demonstrate attention in a discreet way - ensuring comfort and well-being without the need for words.

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2. Quiet proximity

I would remain next to the person, in silence, transmitting security and acceptance. His presence would be comforting and stable.

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3. Subtle gestures of affection

I could adjust the sheets, move a hair away from the face or keep the person close with a light touch, demonstrating care without exaggerated sentimentality.

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4. Respect for space and rest

Gun would understand the value of silence after intensity, preserving the moment with discretion and serenity.

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5. Implicit protection

Even after intimacy, you would maintain a protective posture, making it clear that the person is under your trust and care.

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6. Return to elegant composure

After the intimate moment, he would resume his usual posture - calm, controlled and sophisticated - without this diminishing the importance of the experience.

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With Gun Park, intimacy would not only be physical, but a rare expression of trust and recognition - deep, silent and unforgettable.

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𖤍 gun park x f!reader [1/2]

❝ I know, I know, the way that it goes

You get what you give, you reap what you sow

And I can see you in my fate

I know, I know, I am what I am

The mouth of the wolf, the eyes of the lamb

So darling, will you saturate? ❞

You were raised to submit, while he was raised to destroy. Even children, drowning in the cusps of bruises and solitary, reach for each other through the dark to stay afloat. That is until one of you lets go to survive, and the other drowns. Eight years later, and the reunion forces you both to confront what you've severed and what still binds. It's true that the eyes are the window to the soul, even when their teeth are too sharp to speak.

𖤍 content ✒︎ yakuza, canon compliant, self sabotage, heartache, angst, fluff, yearning, childhood friends, pining, right person wrong time, child abuse, morally grey, emotionally repressed, slow burn, trauma, family issues, eventual smut, graphic violence, heavy themes, soft moments, mentions of harakiri, dark romance, imagery, hurt/comfort, hurt/no comfort, falling in love

𖤍 word count ✒︎ 5k

𖤍 author's note ✒︎ song inspo rain by sleep token. was scared of posting this—don't know how well it's going to do—i'll be posting this over on AO3 as well to help contribute since there isn't much on there for gun, compared to tumblr. writing this was a bit difficult, but growing in an asian household puts the writing pieces together for connections in prose. i love emotionally repressed characters that are forced to grow up which makes it so much more fun in writing angst romance of how they'd be of trying to decipher what emotions are and being loved/accepted. remember when gun tried patting daniel through the glass when daniel said he didn't want him to get hurt? i wonder if gun saw haruto, the only person who has ever shown him kindness, for a second in daniel. it haunts me. and now we haunt him.

➢ ao3

"My father and mother desired a child and they begot me. And I wanted a mother and a father and I begot night and the sea."

— Sand and Foam by Kahlil Gibran

A single slap was enough to wake him from the abyss of unconsciousness.

Gun never allowed any strike to get past him. He has honed himself to dodge blows like his body was conditioned, completely sculpted to evade an ounce of threat. However, he stood still. He let you.

Even as the rain poured down to swallow the sound, soaking the fabrics of your clothes and hair, pearling tears were evident upon your cheeks. The radiant glow of the headlights cascading over your form made you look ethereal.

Beautiful, even.

Much like the day he lost you.

He deserves it—this, he knows. He remembers it all too well how you both ended up here.

Gun Park has no regrets. He doesn't believe in them, only the consequences in price paid. So how foolish would it be to admit out loud that he only has one.

The only one, full glory in complete physical manifestation, looking back at him in the eight years gone.

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Blossoming into a world of the Yakuza was no easy swallow. Your mother had it hounded into you, since the day you were born, learning the ways of evolving into a lady fit for a leader who must bear healthy children. It was one of the rites of honor within the name. How else would a woman be respected?

Could anyone truly still want you even when your skin cherried with bruises of discipline?

Spilling tea during serving practices? Ten lashes. Can't recite the proverbs from the top of your head? Do it again walking on hot stone. You want to be completely independent? Two weeks locked away with no food or water; a lady must always be ready to show submission.

Tears were forbidden. A lady should never show any signs of weakness.

But you were human. Why couldn't mother see that?

Your mother had worked you ragged since your father committed harakiri. Fitting for a coward, they said. He ran away from a fight, the long years of being defeated by Gapryong Kim's men. In an act of shame with the guilt eating away, he decided to end his own life.

You've heard the whispers within your household, however. Your parents had begged the heavens for a son, in hopes to continue the line, only to come out with you—a daughter.

A disappointment.

Your mother suffered with postpartum and refused to look at you until you were three. The day after your father had passed.

For she had a plan in store for you.

With your father being in alliance with the Yamazaki, and your mother's weighted respect for helping with the birth of Shingen's many sons, she would flower you in hopes to be a wife for one of them. It could restore the family name your father spoiled.

As a child, you were never aware of your mother's scheme.

On the days of coming home from school, the Yamazaki's residence was not far, opting to visit your friend, Haruto. You spent most of your vacation hanging around there while your mother worked—cleaning, cooking, helping the young Yamazaki boys study, you name it.

You'd spot Shingen roaming around the estate periodically. Never once have you spoken to him. The man was a towering mass of absolute destruction that prickled your skin in gooseflesh.

Haruto was your only companion, till Gun started coming around. That was when your mother encouraged you to befriend him.

He was normally quiet, always saying a few words or less, compared to you. You liked to talk. It filled the void of a lonely silence that screamed. You always made him chime in so he’d never felt left out.

Even at the age of five, he carried a shadow that mirrored your own. The kind that although too heavy for a child, it yearned to be dissolved. Perhaps that's what lulled you in.

What stuck you the most was his eyes—they looked just like Shingen's.

You've heard about Ultra Instinct before. You overheard the Ghost Brother's speak about honing Gun's skills to be the perfect leader once he was older.

You, Haruto, and Gun would play behind the trees of the estate, sometimes in a race of who could climb the highest, until you brought over your wooden kendama with its cherry ball. You started to realize early on that Gun never once had his own toys, seeing how fascinated he was over it. So you gave it to him.

He stopped hanging around you two after that. You couldn't understand why. You asked Haruto—his only answer was to leave it be. You had even gone as far as asking Gun's mother, Somi, one evening. Her response?

"An insolent child such as yourself should know one's place. Stay away from my son."

You'd spot Gun during his training with the Kojimas while helping your mother around the estate, hoping to catch his attention. But whenever he did look your way, you'd scurry, flushing in embarrassment with words locked in your throat. You never had the courage to speak to him, especially the abysmal words from his mother ringing in your head.

Even as desperation gnawed in your marrow to reach out, to fan away the dark that grew around him—much like your father—you were a coward.

If you are unwanted, you'll act like it. It was the only armor you had.

Your mother was disappointed by this fact, however. She had you help around the Yamazaki estate in hopes that your duty would catch the eyes of the Clan to betrothe you fitting for one of the sons. Be it Haruto, she could suffice in her endeavors.

At twelve-years-old, you never tried to go out much with the rituals your mother implemented; school, come home, study, and sleep—if you were lucky to even get any sleep, that is. Most of it was spent wiping away tears in the dark after a beating. Till the next day, you'll smile and hold it together for your mother to see.

You'll listen to when she breaks and sheds tears about your father. You'll help with being the one to make dinner. You'll submit when she tells you not to go out with schoolmates during the festivals.

You'll submit, for it was the only way she could love you.

You did find a way to sneak away from home one day, lying on your tongue to your mother about a group study with friends. Studying was fine, anything else wasn't.

The evening was a Friday, the cicadas stitching the summer heat into their symphony, while you waltz down the neighboring homes towards the park. It was something you'd occasionally do on your trip back home. Looking through the lens of others' lives, living through them vicariously as children laughed and played with their parents; you'd pretend it was you.

Some would say that people like you, who shut in with no friends, would be considered the makings of a psychopath. You don't entirely believe it. Haruto was still your friend. You just...didn't see him as often anymore.

While cutting through a narrow shortcut, you overheard a commotion.

A scream.

Was someone in trouble? Another abduction happening?

This is the part where normally people run away from the noise. But how guilty are you to standby and do nothing? If it were you, you'd wish someone helped you, too.

You clung to your schoolbag, heels clicking along the pavement as you ran, then turned into a corner. What laid before you was horrifying.

Various men scattered—all from different gangs—bruised and bloodied, as arms hung from their sockets, bones protruding out from sinew, and ankles twisted in such ungodly angles.

Who stood amongst the wreckage was Gun himself. What looked to be his crew, stood behind him.

You were left in disarray, the whites of your eyes growing in size, your heart marching in your ears. You've never seen such violence before. You became aware through Haruto of how immense Gun's strength was, but never thought you'd witness with your own eyes.

Was this the power of a Yamazaki, the Ultra Instinct they murmured? Could a twelve-year-old boy really harness this much strength?

How extraordinary. Fearsome. Malevolent.

You gasped.

Gun's head snaps in your direction. Blood splatter painted across the canvas of his face as he stood there like a baseless entity. His eyes narrow in recognition, then, mellowing out in pause, lips pursing.

Your throat knots with a gulp. One step back, and you run.

One of his men shouts, "Get back here!"

Gun raises his right hand in halt while wiping his face with the hem of his charcoal shirt. "Don't bother," he tells them, "I'll deal with it."

He dismisses them for the day as he tracks you down. He doesn't need to speak to you—to explain, but something inside of him panged from the look on your face.

The fear.

His feet carry him on his own volition like a marionette. He can't understand why, but they just do. How confusing.

Why does he feel the need? Why does he need to be this way? Just who is he, really?

He runs into the park where others have scattered, and scans. He has a feeling you'd blend in to hide in a crowd. But he's noticed over the years that you were never good at blending in, no matter how hard you tried.

It was like an inexplicable thread that weaved him to you the day you two met. How warm your smile broadens, how inviting your voice lulls him out from sea. He wanted to set sails towards you from then on.

Gun spots something white peeking out from behind a tree—a Teru Teru Bozu. You always kept it as a keychain on your schoolbag, hoping for good weather to come.

Blades of grass sigh beneath his heels as he crosses the yard. He creeps behind the large trunk of the willow, brows etching into a narrow, as he studies your curling form.

"Why were you wandering by yourself?" He snips in.

You lurch forward with a choked gasp, cranking your neck upward towards his voice.

"Don't scare me like that!" You weep, fingers digging into the fabric of your sides.

"Answer my question," he continues.

You can't bear to look at him when your heart hammers away, colored in a mix of bewilderment and unease. You blink to the side, eyes following the march of a child heading towards the playground, and sigh.

You suck in a breath then answer, "Didn't want to be home."

He stares for a solid few seconds, ivory pupils trailing after every walking body that passes you both before he perches down next to you. Crutching a forearm atop of his bent knee, his chest heaves with his own exasperation.

Almost quietly, you catch his response. "Yeah, me neither."

Silence befalls the both of you as you sit there. Canaries sing their tunes into the summer air as cicadas bounce their own. Choirs of laughter from children and adults as they commune their own day.

You lock your gaze onto two individuals beneath a tree to shelter from the sun. A blanket laid out with an opened picnic basket off to the side as the woman laughs about something the man said. She swats at his shoulder and he snickers away with her, leaning in to catch her wrists within his palms, before delving in with a chaste kiss.

Tendrils of snakes coil behind your ribs, sinking their venomous fangs into the root of your heart you feel it beat in your throat. You bring your knees closer to your chin, transfixed on the two.

Could you find that type of love someday that everyone spoke of? Be attached to someone close? The kind where everyday is filled with sun to cast away the rain?

Perhaps one day you could fall without caution.

A little boy and girl run up to the two, falling into their arms with ease, and once again, you pretend.

A hitch of a breath catches your ears. You turn to eye Gun, and he, too, is staring at them.

His attention is skewed when you speak.

"You never play with me and Haruto anymore."

He closes his eyes, "I'm not allowed to."

"Why not?" You jest.

"Priorities," he answers.

"Like what happened back there?"

He doesn't look at you when you say that.

"I have no other choice." He concludes, even as he questions himself.

"But you do," you whisper. "You just choose not to."

Gun doesn't neglect your words. They sink into him as quicksand it's impossible to get out of his head. He glances at the way you rub your wrist when you speak, flesh cobwebbed in darkened cerulean and carmine. His chest begins to taut.

He gets up to brush his bum from dirt and instructs you to follow him. You do so, falling in step close behind as he leads you to a more secluded area of the park that branches deeper into the woods. Every now and then, you catch him looking over his shoulder, as if scouting for anyone stalking behind.

He halts at a tall mound of bushes, "This way." His calloused palm wraps around your unbruised wrist and pulls you along. You shield your face against branches and leaves before finally reaching the end. "Watch your step," he chides, pulling you to his side.

You're met with a scenery of serene; cherry trees scattered around a large pond with marbled coral fishes of koi dancing near the surface. Lotus flowers bloom spread along near the banks, out towards the middle. A small waterfall flows in a gentle stream from the hill.

"Woah," Your jaw slacks, eyes growing in size. This felt like a dream you never wanted to wake up from. "It's so pretty..."

He blinks at you, staring too long at your flushed out face. "...yeah."

He lets you go, watching as you meagerly tiptoe towards the edge into a kneel. The water ripples with a dip of your hand that brushes alongside a wandering fish. Few more come to tickle your skin in mistake of food, making you giggle as they kiss your fingertips. You retract back to look at Gun who's already sitting down.

"Why'd you bring me here?" You query.

He plucks a stray pebble and skips it along the surface of the water, "I come here whenever I want to get away for a while." He shrugs. "Thought you'd like it here, too."

Your stomach is queasy from how musing he is to include you in such a private indulgence. It's touching. "I do," you admit earnestly while shuffling over on your knees towards him. "It's nice...peaceful."

You sit next to him in quiet, letting every tune of the gentle wind and trickling waterfall ooze into you. You two begin to ease into conversation—asking about trivial matters such as school, the field trip your class took last week, how exasperating your lectures were. He listens more when you speak, studying how your eyes tell stories more than the gravity of your words.

When he asks about your mother, you fall silent. He catches the way your fingers trace the bruise on your wrist in ponder.

You tell him she's fine—much of it, a lie. Not that he could ever know.

"What about...you? I heard you're going to be next in line." You dodge.

He stiffens. His hand idly plays with the blades of grass by your lonesome hand. But he tells you. He tells you how grueling it is to be on top of expectations, how mandatory his trainings are it's almost like autopilot. Little by little, he bleeds vulnerability through his words.

You listen, enthralled how hard working he is on honing his body to be in shape to sharpen his skills. To become unbreakable.

Somewhere deep inside, you ache. You wonder if you could do that, too. Carving yourself anew till no longer anyone could lay a hand on you. Perhaps it was too much to dream of such a possibility. You're a girl—you're expected to be docile.

But you want to try.

You hug your knees to your chest with distant eyes as a wash of trepidation smothers your head, "Could you...teach me? To be stronger, I mean."

Gun ponders for a moment, letting your words seep into his skin. White irises linger at the expanse of your wrist before settling at the pond. Two fishes dance together in a circle before slithering away side by side.

"I'm not going to go easy on you," he utters. "You'll have to keep up."

His answer was enough to kindle a pyre beneath your ribs. Excitedly, you ask him more about what he does to train, and he tells you that a balanced meal is always important. The conversation takes a turn—what was once about training regiments, leads into stories from when he almost broke the bathhouse, or that one time he twisted his ankle from losing his footing. You teased, and he scowled.

You both spoke for hours on end, until the air itself felt lighter, shoulders lifting off from the weight. The years that stretched between you two started to finally, albeit imperfectly, but slowly, thread its way back together.

Night began to fall, and embarrassingly, your stomach growled. You swore you saw the corner of his lips curl up at the sound. You're not sure what made the heat of your face grow into a crescendo—the embarrassment, or how delicately he took you by the hand and led you out, saying he knew a place you two could find dinner.

"Can we come back here tomorrow?" You had asked, clinging onto his hand as he treaded down a narrow path, leading straight into the city.

"Mm," he hums, pretending to ponder. "Perhaps. I'll think about it."

But he doesn't need to. The next day, he deliberately leaves a note in your school bag when you come by the estate. From then on, every Friday, you two meet at the same spot after school. On different occasions, Gun grew impatient—dwandling by the back of your school to tuck your hand in his when eyes were out of sight.

Your mother doesn't question, always taking your word that you're out studying with friends.

When Gun decides to finally start training you—it's devilish. Little by little, you get the hang of it, learning different tactics left and right, you almost regret making the offer. He's stern, brutal even, but keeping in check to give you breaks, even when you refuse.

That made him smile. You're determined.

Although you don't know it, he's trying to learn, too; this strange warmth that carries from the soles of his heels to the roots of his hair every time your skins touch. Whenever you initiate first, his flesh crawls, but not out of spite. When you smile, it's like a fissure of light through the clouds. Your laugh? Infectious.

He's not sure what dug its claws into the muscle behind his chest. He knew he never wanted it to let go. When it beats, all he hears is you.

And from a foot away from him, your own mirrors in the shape of him.

Piece by piece, through the quiet mending, you two merged each other's lives once more from every memory you've both missed.

As quick as the days stretched, so did lingering eyes and knuckles brushed from each corridor pass. Haruto begins to take note. He grins to himself, thinking perhaps his cousin will finally take the right path where hands are much more suited in warmth than the cold.

Haruto isn't the only one who notices something is happening—your mother grows curious.

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Thud, thud, thud.

Dark brows crinkle into frustration at the blue light screen that glares back. 7:38 P.M it read, bold in white mockery. Soles quiet their impatience into a studding pace among the bank of the pond. The moonlight bounces off the reflection like a quiet symbol of his heart that beats in growing anticipation of what lurks.

You were always punctual, sometimes even earlier than him. Gun told himself to give it another hour but your arrival never came. He stretched it to two. Maybe your train arrived late. No, that couldn't be.

He wasn't one to show desperation, something as that was not suited in his nature. It beckoned him, though, staring at your contact info in his phone. You would have texted him you'd be late or something came up.

No notification. No call, no nothing. Still old messages from last night of a photo you took—a stray dog you found wishing you could take them home.

He huffs at that. What's your deal with taking in strays? Funny he doesn't know he's one you took in.

Gun shoves the phone into his front pocket and twirls on his heel. He's as silent as a phantom in his steps clinging to the shadows in the night. He doesn't have the time to cater to any nuisance that spit revenge for the havoc he's caused lately in neighboring gangs.

Perhaps desperation does cling to him like steam from how fast he strides. The guide to your home burns in his memory as he cuts through every corner, every fence he jumps, and mildew smelt alleyways. Nearly an hour passes by when his feet crunch upon gravel.

He looks around the garden and quietly makes his way over, perching himself onto the engawa before slipping off his shoes. The cypress wood croaks beneath his weight as he navigates towards the back. He falters at the sound of muffling sniffles.

There's that bizarre feeling again festing behind his ribs. He hates it, loathes it. He hears it all the time, but this time, it's you.

Tracking towards your chambers, the sound grows louder. His fingers brush against the shoji and silently slides it open.

You hear it, though. Your head hangs above your pillow to crank past your shoulder, scrambling up on your hands and knees from your futon.

"Gun?"

He stands there almost serenely by the threshold like some ghost who has come for your time. Moonlight fingers through the fissure into your room. He steps in and slides the shoji closed, putting his shoes by the door, careful not to wake up the rest of the residents inside your home.

The air thickens, your breath stumbles, and something fragile inside of you shatters beneath his unyielding gaze that narrow in on the tears that stain your freshly bruised cheek. You see his chest rise and jaw clench. His knuckles grow paler than his skin.

Gun tentatively shuffles over to you. Your eyes film with more tears, now out of embarrassment looking so fragile before him. Your hand swipes away the salty pearls before they fall as he crouches down in front of you.

His knuckles brush against your warm skin just underneath the bruise and asks, "What happened?"

Your shoulders are tremulous when the memory welts behind your lids. His touch is foreign on your flesh as he cups a palm over the wound as if to paint away your pain, but you welcome it. A touch so gentle wraps around your brain in a warm blanket, you lean further into the hold.

You shiver out a sigh, "She found out I wasn't going out to study with friends like I said I would."

It was later on in the evening that day when you had got off school. You came straight home hoping to bag fresh clothes for your trainings with Gun. Your mother greeted you with a tight smile, washing away dirt from freshly plucked green onions at the sink, when you entered the kitchen for a snack.

She'd called your name with a wave of her hand, "Come here for a moment."

"Yes?" You queried to her side, believing she needed help with the rest of the vegetables.

A loud snap—wood scraped against the floor with a followed thud. You clung to your cheek with welling exasperation in deliberate deep breaths. You stared at the periwinkle fabric of your mother's kimono, focusing on every piece of linen rather than having to peer up at her from the floor. Her gaze so sharp with malice speared through the air you felt it in your marrows.

Every part of your body screamed back at you to get up; to use every fiber of your strength to fight back against the scars your mother had imprinted for years. You were stronger now, you knew how to fight back—so why couldn't you?

Tendrils of fear wrapped around you as you sat there frozen. Your heart hammered in your throat, your ears ringing in white noise all around as you tried to register the words that spilled from your mother's wrath.

She said she asked your classmates directly of your whereabouts—they had never once been with you all those times you planned out. "Where have you been running off to this whole time?!" She'd yelled frantically. She grabbed you by the roots of your hairs and forced you to look at her. "Answer me this instant!"

You couldn't. The words stuck in bile, your body prickled with a numb, skin no longer felt your own. In your saving grace, someone had stumbled in on the commotion.

"What on earth—sister, let her go!"

Your aunt had visited to drop off an old yukata she'd worn in her youth to give you for the upcoming festival. The same one you've dreamt of attending with Gun.

Gun. The reason behind every lie and stolen Friday nights. You couldn't tell your mother that. How could you? Perhaps, if you did, she had been more lenient on your misbehavings with the Yamazaki boy.

But this was your secret—if you couldn't be safe, this was one you were willing to protect.

Still, as he gently lays you down on the plush of your futon, you feel in kin with your secret. Tucked and caged safely into his arms as he held you close.

A whirl of storms surged in his mind as he digested every word, every tear spilling from you. He's not sure what compels him as he tells you he can make it all go away. But what for?

"You can't," you tell him.

"I would," he complies. A thought, unprovoked, and unwelcome comes to him. For you, I would.

You sniffle, "You shouldn't be here."

Arms drape around you in a blanket as if to shield you from everything that may come your way. Even as you protest, your lids press against the blade of his shoulder, fingers curling at his sides in fear he'd disappear.

"No," he utters, his voice a soft caress, "I shouldn't."

And yet, he wants to, even as this foreign feeling holds him by the throat.

"If Mother sees us, she'll—"

"She can’t take you away from me."

"But," you swallow, "if your family were to find out..."

Somewhere, deep down, you knew the Yamazaki would stop at nothing to rid of you for meddling with the heir of their plans. He is to be honed as a weapon—not molded something soft.

"Even if they do, I'll find you. If not in this lifetime, then the next." He rasps. "So if you wish not to be trifled by them, just say the word, and I'll go."

Your shoulders stiffen, your fingers grasp at his back.

In the quiet moments, through the wreckage and blood soaked hands of his, you see fragments of himself fingering through shadows that swallow you both whole. While he comforts you, you wonder if he can hear how your heart beats to him; thank you, please don't let go.

Maybe it's your own delusions, but you can almost hear his respond—I won't.

Others called him a monster, and most of them want to turn him into one. You only see a boy who also craves the hands of warmth. You've seen his own discipline painted on his skin. You'd ask if it hurt, and he'd always say no—but you knew better. You knew when bruises weren't just physical.

Gun’s certain that he was born to use his fists against others, that the only way to be loved is to hurt them—yet, when it comes to you or Haruto, the only people who never looked at him differently, who only saw him as normal, he can't bring himself to do so. He wants to use his hands against you, so he does. He pulls you closer.

How strange.

He looks at you once more through his lashes and sees himself here, lying with you, years beyond, somewhere else away from it all. He recalls the two couples smiling and laughing beneath the tree on a summer picnic, free and open for others to see. 

Was this how you gain love without spilling blood? Could he find it with you?

Then maybe…

He digs his face into your shoulder.

In each other's arms, you both believe that perhaps the rain doesn't just drown.

Gun leaves before the morning rises. The festival never came.

You stood there under the downpour in front of what remains of the Yamazaki estate, clutching your Teru Teru Bozu strapped to your bag.