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SYNOPSIS: Sukuna sends letters to his wife after he angers her.
Trueform!Sukuna x Wife!reader
Word count: 5k
AN: Inspired by tiktoks I saw of letters he’d write you. I love love love simpkuna. This also took wayyy longer than I thought it would. - J
TAGS: Heian Era Sukuna x Reader, Fluff?, Big simpy Sukuna
• • •
The frames of the heavy, sliding fusuma doors rattled as they slammed open with force. Despite the CRACK! of the wood, the low but brazen giggles that echoed slightly across Sukuna’s central hall continued uninterrupted. Only the soft biwa music faltering as servants snapped their heads towards the entrance. The two that trailed behind you quickly sliding it shut before scrambling to follow you with lowered heads. The attendants that lined the sides of the large lantern-lit room quickly plastered foreheads lower from their already bowed position as you entered, sensing the waves of anger rolling off your form.
The air was thick with a mix of heavy, floral perfumes, spilled sake, and incense. The combination of strong scents only irritating you further as you marched across the hall. Your bare feet slapped across the polished wooden planks towards the dais, the bottom of your kimono whipping against your ankles from strong strides.
Surrounded by screens decorated with depictions of himself was your husband, still oblivious to, or blatantly dismissive of your presence. He sat lounged on tatami mats and soft cushions. Three women draped over him in revealing silks with breasts spilling out almost in competition—young tributes from nearby provinces, offered in an attempt to gain the King of Curses’ favor.
One of the women worked his muscular form from the back, rubbing oils onto his tattooed skin, arms around him like the front of a cape. Another kneeled by him to press a saucer full of sake to his lips. When some dripped down his chin, she would wipe it away with a small cloth, giggling into his ear as she moved unnecessarily close.
The last woman pressed her whole body against him, strewn on his lap with one of his four arms lazily around her waist. She held a half eaten persimmon in her hands, juice sticky as it dripped down her arms and onto Sukuna’s chest, closer to the mouth of his belly. Her head lay on his shoulder, smiling up at him with eyes full of adoration.
“Sukuna.” You called out firmly when you reached him. He finally turned his head to you before the women gently pouted and sulked, his arrogant smile widening as they fought for his attention before turning back towards them.
You tightened your fists at the lack of acknowledgment in an attempt to control your already flaring temper.
“I believe,” you started, your voice calm but dripping with annoyance, “I explicitly told you I do not enjoy finding my home turned into a playground for every ambitious court stray looking to elevate her status. My patience runs thin.”
The women snapped their heads at you, offended by the insult aimed towards them. You ignored their glares, waiting for your husband’s reply. Sukuna barely shifted, only one pair of his ruby eyes drifting towards you, smirk still pulled at his lips.
“They were offered. And it is a ruler’s right to collect his due. Why let a feast go to waste because my wife has a delicate temperament?” The women giggled and nestled themselves closer to him. He continued, voice dismissive, “Do not try to dictate what enters my halls.”
You stepped closer to him, servants backing themselves towards the walls like mice. “I am your wife. If you wanted to enjoy a harem of pathetic whores, akin to the dreams of a common young boy, you should have killed me with the rest of my clan instead of dragging me here.”
Sukuna’s smirk vanished. The music stopped abruptly as the temperature in the room dropped, cursed energy now flooding the space and heavy enough to choke on. Sukuna slowly sat up, all eyes on you now and narrowed in a glare. The women frowned as his movements displaced them from around him.
“Careful.” Sukuna’s voice dropped, losing it’s earlier arrogant tone. “It seems you forget who you are speaking to. You are my wife because I allow it. If I desire to fill this estate with a hundred women, I will do so, and you will sit quietly and watch.”
The women around him didn't flinch. In fact, one of them leaned closer to his ear, whispering something that made a dark, arrogant chuckle rumble in his chest, smirk reappearing as he moved to lean back down, four arms opening to welcome the women around him to resume draping his chest. They felt untouchable under his shadow. You were the only living creature who looked at the King of Curses and saw only an infuriating, stubborn man.
“Next time you dare to insult me, I’ll have your tongue ripped from your mouth.” He threatens with a chuckle, turning his head to take a bite of the fruit held up to his face.
“Do it, then.” You challenged coldly. He froze. In shock? In fury? But you continued, “But since I am clearly entirely unneeded here among your collection, I will be residing in the secluded Northern Estate from now on."
Without waiting for his response, you turned on your heel. Your robes swept across the floor as you walked away, your spine perfectly straight, chin high, refusing to look back. A beat of utter, suffocating silence fell over the hall when the doors shut behind you. Even the cicadas that chirped outside in the morning warmth seemed to quiet. The servants stopped breathing entirely waiting for the pin to drop.
“INSOLENT WENCH!”
He surged upright in one fluid motion, the girl on his lap tumbling to the cushions with a yelp. All four arms flexed. The tattoos across his chest and shoulders seemed to writhe in the low light. The mouth on his belly bared its teeth in a snarl that matched the one on his face.
“Of all the wretched women in this miserable era!” The entire estate shook from the boom of Sukuna’s voice, “I shackle myself to a disrespectful viper, a sharp-tongued plague I call my wife!”
His chest heaved. Painted screens and tapestries now lay flat next to trembling servants as they pressed hard against wood to avoid Sukuna’s wild slashes. Teeth chattering as Sukuna paced like a caged tiger.
One of his offerings, the one who had assumed herself to be his favorite, crawled toward him and placed her hand on one of his lower forearms. “My Lord…” she purred. Her voice delicate and purposefully sensual. “Do not let your wife’s temper sour our time. You have us now to—“
“Get off me!”
Sukuna shoved her away with the arm above the one she held. The force sent the woman tumbling off the elevated platform and onto the wooden floor. “Let her freeze in that rotting estate. See if I care! She'll come crawling back on her knees!", Sukuna let out a final grumble before he stormed away, his women scrambling to follow after.
You demanded to leave immediately, servants rushing to prepare your journey, a day’s worth at least. Before noon, your palanquin waited in the courtyard. Strong bearers stood ready beside polished deep crimson and sheer black curtains. Along with them stood a small group of guards and servants.
Behind them, wooden chests and lacquered boxes were loaded into carts: your belongings. Silks, jewelry, scrolls, perfumes and oils, and the heavier chests containing more… personal items you refused to leave behind for mere indulgences to use.
He hadn’t come to the courtyard to see you off, the engawa standing empty—not that you had noticed. Your nose pointed high towards your entourage as you waited to leave.
With a nod from the head attendant, you stepped into the palanquin. The interior was plush; thick tatami layered over cushions, a small low table for tea or writing during the journey, and soft pillows arranged exactly as you preferred. The faint scent of your preferred incense lingered inside.
You settled in gracefully, arranging your robes around you as the curtains were drawn closed. The world outside muffled slightly. You heard the bearers lift the poles, the creak of wood, the shuffle of the procession forming up.
“Move,” you commanded quietly. The palanquin swayed as they began the long journey away and the main estate faded behind you.
—
For the first three days, Sukuna made a show of not caring. In fact, he acted as though your departure was a great victory for him. He declared the main estate liberated from your incessant nagging before he fully indulged in the hedonistic excess he claimed to deserve.
He spent days crueler towards the village heads and provincial governors, demanding more offerings—food, treasure, or virgins—to keep him from razing their lands. The halls echoed with the sound of breaking pottery, raucous laughter, and the sighs of his new women. He drank his fill, took them to his bed with violent enthusiasm, and allowed them to drape themselves over him around every area in the estate, exactly as you had hated.
He was the King of Curses. He needed no one, least of all a stubborn, overly proud wife who dared to turn her back on him. He had enjoyed the years he ruled before you, he will enjoy more years again in your absence.
But by the fifth day, the cracks in his indulgent paradise began to show.
The novelty of the new flesh wore thin, replaced by a hollow boredom. The concubines were eager to please, agreeing with every word he said and offering no challenge, no fire, no bite. They were utterly exhausting in their subservience. Pliant and easy.
Then, the tangible effects of your absence began to appear.
It started with small, grating inconveniences that chipped away at his already short temper
Sukuna took a sip of his morning brew and immediately spat it across the tatami mats, roaring at the trembling servant. "What is this swill!?" The servant bowed so low their forehead scraped the floor. "M-My Lord, that is the standard brew.” Sukuna threw the cup to the floor, the pieces shattering around his feet. The servant trembled. “The spiced blend you prefer... her Ladyship personally foraged and blended those herbs. She took her supply with her."
When he sought his quarters to escape the incessant giggling of his new toys, he found the furs scratchy and the pillows completely wrong. When he demanded his favorite woven silk blanket, Uraume had to quietly inform him, "That blanket was woven by her Ladyship's grandmother, Lord Sukuna. She packed it into her carriage when she departed."
Every tiny inconvenience only reminded him of the spaces you left empty. Even the incense burning in the halls was cloying and cheap, lacking scent of sandalwood and plum blossom you always ensured was lit.
Every time he barked an order or complained about a missing comfort, the answer was always the same: She took it with her. That was her duty. That was her recipe.
It became agonizingly clear that the luxury and comfort he had taken for granted were not the result of his fearsome reputation, but the meticulous, unseen labor of his stubborn wife. However, all these petty annoyances were nothing more than to highlight how much he simply missed your presence.
By the end of the week, Sukuna was a walking thundercloud.
The estate staff moved in absolute terror, tiptoeing around his explosive temper. His harem, sensing his shifting mood, tried to soothe him with physical affection, but he violently banished them from his quarters. Their cheap perfumes made him nauseous; their simpering voices made his head pound. He wanted the plum incense. He wanted his spiced tea.
He wanted his wife.
Sitting alone in his dimly lit chambers, listening to the agonizingly quiet estate, his four eyes glowed with a mixture of immense irritation and defeated pride. He snatched a piece of fine parchment, aggressively grinding an ink stick against the stone before grabbing a brush.
He refused to apologize. He was a king. But he would absolutely not endure another day of this miserable, unbearable inconvenience.
He pressed the brush to the paper, his handwriting sharp, jagged, and aggressive.
To the Resident of the Northern Estate,
The servants here have grown lazy and incompetent in your absence. The food is inedible, the estate is in disarray, and I am entirely out of patience.
Your pathetic temper tantrum has gone on long enough. You have made your point, and I am bored of this game.
Pack your belongings. You are to return to the main estate immediately. I expect your arrival by tomorrow evening. Do not make me come retrieve you myself.
— Sukuna
He shoved the freshly sealed scroll into the chest of a terrified messenger curse, his voice a lethal, vibrating threat. "Deliver this to the Northern Estate. Return with her. And if she refuses to come back, tell her I will burn that rotting manor to the ground with her inside it." The curse whimpered once and bolted out into the sky, blurring into the distance with desperate speed.
—
The Northern Estate was a sanctuary you had made your own. You spent days enjoying little things. You’d read scrolls of poetry, maybe even writing your own about infuriating kings. You practiced the biwa or koto to fill your halls with music. Your favorite was bathing in the hot springs, warmth unraveling your tense muscles while the cold air bit at your cheeks. It was peaceful and quiet—at least until Sukuna’s messenger curse arrived, trembling violently as it presented the sealed scroll.
Your face dropped as you saw the intruder. Rolling your eyes before grabbing the slip. You unrolled the parchment, your eyes scanning the jagged, aggressive strokes of ink. A cold, furious laugh escaped your lips as you read his words. Pathetic temper tantrum? Incompetent servants? The absolute, unmitigated gall of the man to demand your return without a single shred of remorse.
You crumpled the fine parchment in your fist and tossed it directly into the crackling hearth.
"Tell your master," you said, your voice dripping with absolute venom, "that until he learns how to swallow his massive, bloated pride and apologize, I do not care if he’s inconvenienced."
The messenger curse paled, dropping to their knees in sheer panic.
"M-My Lady, please!" It begged, pressing its forehead to the floorboards. Its voice high pitched, distorted, and rough, only making it irritating to listen to. "I cannot tell him that! He will slaughter me before the words fully leave my mouth!"
"Then say nothing!" you snapped, eyes glaring at the creature before turning your back on them, your patience entirely exhausted. "Return to him empty-handed. Tell him nothing. Now get out of my sight!"
—
By dawn back at the main estate, Sukuna was pacing the length of his chambers. He had already mentally prepared himself for your arrival later that day, smugly anticipating the moment you walked through the doors. He had even—though he would slit the throat of anyone who mentioned it—ordered the kitchens to prepare your favorite meal for dinner.
But the doors slid open, interrupting his thoughts, the messenger curse was alone, and far too early.
Sukuna stopped pacing. The oppressive weight of his cursed energy instantly slammed down onto the room.
"Where is she?" he demanded, his voice a lethal, vibrating growl. "Why are you here?"
"S-She... she..." The messenger curse shook so violently it could barely speak. "She sent no reply, my Lord! Nothing! Not a single word!"
Silence stretched for one horrifying, drawn-out second.
And then, the King of Curses snapped.
“NOTHING!?"
With a roar that shook the foundations of the estate once again, Sukuna unleashed another wave of raw, violent cursed energy. The sliding shoji doors splintered into matchsticks. The low wooden table in the center of the room was cleaved cleanly in two, sending tea cups shattering against the walls. The renovations to the just recently ruined central hall nearby crumbling back down to piles of wood and paper.
"The absolute insolence!" he bellowed, his four eyes wide with manic fury. "She dares to ignore a direct order from her King?! I will drag her back here by her hair!"
Hearing the commotion, two new women hurried into the room, their faces pale with fright. One of them, thinking she could play the soothing savior, stepped forward and reached out.
"My Lord, please, do not stress yourself over one disobedient woman," she cooed, her voice trembling. "We are still here. You can have many wives. We would never ignore—"
Sukuna’s head snapped toward her, his gaze so utterly devoid of mercy that the woman froze in her tracks, the blood draining from her face.
"Get out."
"M-My Lord?"
"GET OUT!" he roared, his voice echoing like thunder. "All of you! Pack your pathetic belongings and leave this place immediately! If I see a single one of your faces within these walls by nightfall, I will paint the courtyard with your blood! Leave!"
The women shrieked, gathering their skirts and fleeing down the corridors in absolute terror, sobbing as they ran.
Sukuna stood alone in the wreckage of his chambers, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack his own teeth. The estate was finally entirely empty, but it brought him no peace. It only highlighted the glaring, miserable fact that the only woman he actually wanted was the only one refusing to be there.
Gritting his teeth, he stormed over to the remains of a writing desk. He snatched a fresh scroll and brush. He was Sukuna. He did not apologize. He did not beg.
But he was going to get his wife back.
His brush tore across the paper, the second letter a masterpiece of aggressive bargaining disguised as royal magnanimity, grumbling as he wrote:
To the Pestilent Woman in the Northern Estate
Your silence is an insult I would punish with death in anyone else. Count yourself fortunate that I am in a merciful mood.
I have grown completely bored of the vermin infesting the main estate. They were loud, useless, and reeked of cheap perfume. I have expelled all of them. The estate is empty.
I am willing to overlook your previous disrespect, as I recognize the main estate requires a firmer hand than the current staff can provide. Your presence is required to restore order.
You have won this trivial battle of wills. Do not push your luck further. I expect you by tomorrow morning.
— Sukuna
He sealed it with a vicious slam of his fist, glaring at the trembling servant who had peeked out from behind a surviving pillar. Calling it over to all but spear the letter through its chest.
"Take this to her," he snarled. "And if you come back empty-handed again, I will wear your skin as a cloak."
—
The messenger servant arrived at the Northern Estate looking as though it were walking to the gallows. It knelt before you, hands shaking so violently that the second seal nearly cracked before you even took the scroll.
You read the jagged characters, your eyes narrowing at the words. The curse already slumped after seeing how your eyes burrowed.
"Unbelievable," you muttered, throwing the scroll onto the floor. It was a thinly veiled peace offering, certainly, but it was buried beneath layers of his insufferable ego. He had kicked the women out—good—but he still couldn't bring himself to actually say the words I was wrong.
"M-My Lady..." the servant whimpered, tears spilling down its deformed cheeks. "Please. I beg of you. If I return to him empty-handed again, he will surely flay me alive. Please come back!"
You felt what could have been a pang of pity for the terrified thing, but your resolve was absolute steel. If you caved now, Sukuna would never learn.
"I am not a dog to be called to heel just because his other toys have bored him," you said, your voice ringing with finality. "Tell him that expelling his concubines is a start, but if he thinks that this pitiful excuse for a letter is enough to summon me back, he is losing his already simple mind, if he has not already lost it. Leave."
The servant wailed, but the icy glare you shot silenced it quickly and sent it scurrying back outside, thoroughly convinced he was about to die.
—
When the servant returned to the main estate alone, it immediately threw itself onto the floor before the platform Sukuna waited at despite the late hour. It squeezed its eyes shut and awaiting the inevitable, agonizing sensation of being sliced into pieces.
"Speak," Sukuna demanded. His voice was dangerously quiet.
"S-She... Her Ladyship refuses, my Lord," the servant sobbed out. "S-She said expelling the women was a start, but the letter was not enough. Spare me, please!"
The servant braced. It waited for the roar of rage that became a regular where the subject of his wife was involved, or the crushing pressure of cursed energy that would slice through him, the swift strike of death.
But it never came.
Instead, a heavy, exhausted sigh echoed through the massive chamber.
"Leave," Sukuna muttered.
The servant blinked, eyes opening wide but fixated on the floor just inches from its face, convinced his ears were playing tricks on him.
"M-My Lord?"
"I said leave, before I change my mind," Sukuna growled, though the fire in his eyes was entirely gone, replaced by a dark, brooding shadow.
The servant scrambled out of the room, completely bewildered. The entire estate staff whispered about it by morning—the King of Curses had been defied twice, and not a single drop of blood had been spilled. It was entirely unprecedented.
But behind closed doors, Sukuna was undergoing a torturous unraveling of his own pride.
Over the next week, the messenger curse made frequent trips to the Northern Estate. And with every scroll delivered, the jagged, aggressive ink strokes of the King of Curses grew softer, the demands slowly transforming into requests, and the threats and insults vanishing entirely.
To my Wife,
I have procured the cedar incense you prefer. I had to threaten a merchant in the southern provinces to part with his entire stock, but it now burns in the halls.
The kitchens have been restructured. I removed the head chef for burning the fish, and Uraume has taken over your dietary preferences.
The estate is exactly as you left it. There are no other women. There never will be again. I find them entirely repulsive.
Return and claim your rightful place by my side.
— Sukuna
• • •
[Name],
The estate is maddeningly quiet.
I have not slept properly in days. The silks are cold, and the furs do not smell like you. I find myself reaching for you in the night, only to grasp empty air. It is a pathetic weakness that I would allow no one else to inflict upon me.
Your grandmother's woven blanket is missing from my bed. Bring it back.
Uraume's spiced tea tastes like ash. They try, but they do not know the exact ratio of the herbs you use.
I miss the sound of your voice. Even when you are insulting me.
Come home.
— Sukuna
Letters remained ignored. However, though you would not admit it, the letters had softened some at your anger.
The final letter arrived unsealed, the parchment folded gently rather than rolled tight. Still, you were ready to throw yet another piece of parchment at the curse in front of you. Shoulders square and nose still pointed as you opened it. But the words faulted your stern posture a crack.
The handwriting was smooth, lacking the harsh, pressed strokes of his usual temper. It was the handwriting of a man who had finally exhausted his own ego.
My Love,
You were right.
I am a gluttonous, arrogant fool. I thought my title meant I could take whatever I pleased without consequence, but I failed to realize that the treasure I truly cared to keep was the one I was driving away.
The expanse of this estate feels like a cage if I must reside in it alone. My pride is entirely worthless compared to your absence.
I am sorry. For the women, for my words, and for disrespecting my wife.
If you require more time, I will give it to you. But if you can find it in your heart to forgive your senseless husband... please. Tell me I am permitted to come get you.
Yours,
Sukuna
You stared at the letter, the strokes of ink blurring slightly as your vision swam.
My Love.
He hadn't called you that in months. Not since before the women had started arriving as offerings, not since his ego had swelled to overshadow his devotion. Reading the raw, unfiltered surrender in his words, the last remnants of your anger quietly shattered, replaced by a profound, aching twist in your chest.
He was infuriating. He was arrogant, deeply flawed, and possessed a temper that could level mountains. But he was also your husband, and beneath the terrifying mantle of the King of Curses, he was a man entirely undone by your absence.
You carefully folded the parchment, pressing it flat, and tucked it into the sleeve of your kimono. Moving with sudden, decisive urgency, you called upon servants to pack your belongings. You watched as they pulled your travel chest from the corner of the room.
It was time to go home.
You wrapped a thick, fur-lined shawl around your shoulders, preparing to face the biting winter chill. The Northern Estate was situated high in the mountains, and a heavy snowfall had blanketed the grounds since early morning. You walked down the quiet, shadowed corridors, intending to instruct the estate staff to prepare a carriage for the long journey down the mountain.
You slid the heavy front doors open, the freezing wind instantly biting at your cheeks.
"Prepare the—"
The words died in your throat.
The attendants were gone. There were no terrified servants, no messenger curses, and no guards.
There was only him.
Ryomen Sukuna stood in the center of the snow-covered courtyard, a massive, solitary figure amidst the gently falling white flakes. He wore a simple, dark yukata, entirely inappropriate for the freezing weather, exposing the familiar, dark markings that mapped his broad chest. A dusting of pristine white snow rested in his spiky pink hair and clung to his broad shoulders, indicating he had been standing out there in the freezing cold for quite some time.
He didn't look like a fearsome King, nor an arrogant god. As his four crimson eyes locked onto yours, he just looked like a man who had finally found water after wandering through a desert.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the low howling of the mountain wind.
"Your letter," you finally said, your voice soft, cutting through the frosty air. Part of you still too stubborn to forgive him, "It explicitly stated you would not send for another messenger. And that you would wait for my permission."
"I didn't send a messenger," Sukuna rumbled, his deep bass carrying effortlessly over the wind. He took a slow step forward, the snow crunching heavily beneath his boots. "And I tried to wait. I wrote that letter at midnight. By dawn, the walls of the estate were driving me insane."
He crossed the courtyard, his massive strides eating up the distance between you until he was standing at the base of the wooden steps. You kept your lip tight, but up close, you could see the dark circles under his eyes—proof of his sleepless nights—and the tension bracketed around his mouth.
"I am not a patient creature," he murmured, looking up at you. "You know this."
"I know."
Sukuna slowly ascended the steps, his imposing frame blocking out the biting wind. He stopped just inches from you, hesitating in a way you had never seen him do before. He raised one massive, scarred hand, his fingers hovering just a breath away from your cheek, as if waiting for you to flinch or pull away.
When you didn't, he exhaled a shaky, steaming breath, gently cupping your face. His skin was impossibly warm against the winter chill.
"I am sorry," he said, the words heavy and absolute. There was no hesitation, no pride to mask it. "I was a fool. The estate is a tomb without you."
You looked up into his crimson eyes, seeing the raw, unmasked devotion burning there. The anger that had kept you warm in the mountains finally melted away completely.
You stepped forward, closing the final inch between you, and wrapped your arms around his waist. You pressed your face against his chest, right over his beating heart, inhaling the familiar, intoxicating scent of ash, cursed energy, and the faint, lingering trace of incense.
A shudder ran through Sukuna’s massive frame. With a desperate, crushing grip, his arms wrapped around you. He pressed face onto the top of your head, inhaling deeply into your hair, his four arms holding you so tightly it was as if he feared the wind might steal you away again.
"I have you," he breathed again, his voice thick with relief. "I have you."
"You do," you murmured, your hands resting flat against his back. "But if you ever try to replace my tea with that cheap swill again, or bring another woman within a mile of our home, I will move to the Southern Estate next time. And it’s much further away."
A low, vibrating chuckle rumbled deep in his chest—the first genuine sound of amusement he had made in weeks. He pulled back just enough to press a deep, lingering kiss to your forehead.
"Never again," he swore, his eyes burning with absolute certainty. "Let's go inside."
Without waiting for another word, he bent down, effortlessly sweeping you up into his massive arms. Giggles fell from you as he threw you over his shoulder, your hands pressing against his back to steady yourself, “I thought you were bringing me home.”
Sukuna’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smirk. The exhausted, humbled shadow in his four crimson eyes was suddenly replaced by a very familiar, dangerously mischievous heat.
"The journey down the mountain is long," he purred, his voice dropping into a dark, vibrating register that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "And as I mentioned, I have been freezing in an empty bed for weeks. The main estate can wait. And it is being repaired."
He began walking down the hallway toward your bedchambers, his grip on you tightening possessively. Setting you down as you reach your doors, but keeping one strong arm around you.
"I think it is only fair we stay here a little longer," he murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. "So you can thoroughly... thaw me out before we travel."
A sudden, breathless giggle escaped your lips despite yourself. The sheer audacity of the man was returning in full force, but this time, all of that intense, overwhelming focus was directed entirely at you.
"You're impossible," you laughed softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. He walked you backwards, one arm sliding the doors closed.
"I am starved," he corrected. "And I fully intend to spend the next few days showing you how much I’ve missed my wife."
☾ - summary: You ask Kita to marry you when you're children, because it only makes sense for your childhood friend to stay by your side for the rest of your life. You eventually forget your promise, but Kita always remembers.
☾ - pairing: kita shinsuke x reader
☾ - word count: 13.3k
☾ - tags: childhood friends, fluff, oblivious reader, romcom/shoujo vibes, vague haikyuu spoilers, inarizaki volleyball team as side characters
☾ - author's notes || read on ao3 - ☾
You ask Kita Shinsuke to marry you during the spring when you’re both eight years old, a bundle of roadside daisies clutched in your hands that you proffer like a gold ring.
“Please!” you say, holding out the flowers straight in front of you, screwing your eyes shut as you bow. “Marry me, Shin-kun!”
It’s the only step to take in your relationship that makes the most sense, according to your childish logic. Your grandmothers have been friends since they met in high school, inseparable old women with an unchanging weekly appointment to drink tea in your grandmother’s kitchen.
Even your parents are close; your fathers were childhood friends and grew up splashing by the riverbank and racing alongside empty stretches of open fields. Family holidays are often spent together, so it was an inevitability that you and Kita would end up being friends.
The two of you were born in the same hospital, and as your mother likes to joke, “When we put you two down on the same mat to play, you started reachin’ for Shin-kun instead of the toys! Ya even tried to bite him, and he didn’t cry a bit, just blinked real slow and let you nibble on his arm.”
And so the two of you are close, too. In cool, misty mornings, Kita waits outside your door so the two of you can walk to school together; he has an umbrella that he shares when it rains and a hat when it’s too sunny, and never misses a day to see you. During summers, you’re both sent up north to his grandmother’s home in the country, nothing to do but spend lazy days in the rice fields and taking Kita’s hand in your own as you come up with your own elaborate fantastical games.
A lot of times it feels like your relationship is the same as when you were babies: you drag Kita around and he follows willingly, the voice of reason to every impulsive plot you come up with. If Kita is popular with the neighborhood grannies for his manners and mature demeanor, then you’re popular with the other kids for your cheer and athletic prowess at every neighborhood game.
“What do I gotta do to keep Shin-kun with me?” you asked Kaasan once, as she trimmed edamame in the kitchen with a pair of scissors. “Why’s he gotta go home everyday? I wish he was around forever.”
“Why don’t ya marry him?” she said mischievously, tapping her chin with her free hand. “That made sure yer Tousan would come home to me every night.”
Her words lit a spark in your brain. You can’t imagine a life without Kita; he’s been by your side since you were born. To lose him would be like losing a limb, unimaginable and devastating. And since Kaasan is one of the smartest adults you know, this must be the best way to keep him with you.
This is how you find yourself, on a routine weekend playdate exploring the nearby park, with flushed cheeks and clammy hands, stems wilting from the strength of your grip. Kita is sitting crosslegged in the field, flowers in hand, considering your words with the same gravity he considers everything in life, from the instructions of his teachers to laminated menus at the local diner.
“I’m sorry,” Kita says seriously. His eyes are wide and piercing, and you can see the world reflected in them. “But we can’t get married. You gotta be an adult to get married. And Obaasan always says when you want ta do something, you gotta take yer time with it, especially if it’s something ya care about.”
“Oh. But I like ya, Shin-kun,” you add helplessly. But you already know that Kita makes decisions carefully, and once he makes up his mind on something, he rarely changes it.
“And I like ya, too,” Kita says.
“But we can’t get married?”
“We can’t get married now,” he says. “Because marriage’s a big decision. Ya can’t rush into it.”
“Okay, but do you still want my flowers? They’re the best ones I found. The biggest and prettiest,” you add hopefully. The fat white petals of the daisies droop in your hands, as if they, too, are dejected by Kita’s rejection.
“Yeah,” Kita says. He takes your flowers with a solemn reverence.
“Let’s make flower crowns,” you say. “I wanna make one for Kaasan.”
“Okay,” Kita says.
The sting of his rejection passes like a summer rainstorm, brief and temporary. Kita is still your friend, the one nearest and dearest to your heart, even if he doesn’t want to marry you. There are other things to worry about, anyways, like your homework and what sort of bento Kaasan is going to pack for lunch tomorrow.
(You don’t notice the way Kita glances carefully at you through his eyelashes, gaze thoughtful as he considers your question).
Kita’s hands are deft as he weaves your flowers together into a crown, braiding stems together with a careful, slow ease. The flowers are spaced evenly apart, bright heads facing outwards. In contrast, your work is swift but a tad more clumsy, and you rip more than one petal in your haste to complete your work.
“This is for you,” Kita says, placing it gently on your head. He adjusts the band so it no longer rests so lopsidedly.
“Thank you, Shin-kun!” you say. “Does it look good?”
He nods seriously. “Real good.”
“I made ya one, too!” You hold up your flower crown. The flowers are spaced unevenly and your weaving is loose in sections, but Kita regards it as if you’ve presented him with a priceless treasure.
“Thank you,” Kita says. “Will you put it on me?”
In response, you plop it on his head, where it tilts sideways, one end closer to his ear.
“We’re matching,” you say, smiling.
You spend another half hour in the fields before you tire of your work, eager to present the fruits of your labor to your parents, as you’ve made flower crowns for both of them. Kita’s crown is still placed on your head when you turn to head inside, waving vigorously at Kita as he waves back before turning and walking down the sidewalk towards his own home. He only lives a few minutes away, but still, you stand in the doorway until you can’t see him, not even blinking, eyes burning, trying to preserve the memory of his dear back.
(For the next few days after that, Kita painstakingly presses and preserves the flowers you’ve given him. The dried flowers sit on a shelf in his room, and whenever he passes them by, he considers them carefully. Marriage, after all, is a big decision).
—
“Shin-kun doesn’t want to marry me. I asked,” you tell Kaasan the next day, sitting at the dining table with your reading homework spread around you, your collection of colorful pencils rolling across the surface.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Kaasan says. She’s across from you, marking her own documents, laptop and manila files organized in a neat square on the table. “Are you sad about it?”
“I was but, but I’m not anymore.”
“What if Shin-kun marries someone else?” she teases. “Would ya be sad then?”
“Why would he?” you ask. “If he doesn’t wanna marry me, then he definitely doesn’t wanna marry anyone else. There’s no one he likes more than me.”
Kaasan bursts into laughter, shoulders shaking as she tries to cover her mouth, documents forgotten. “Oh, I see,” she says in-between a gasp.
You make a doodle of a flower on your homework. Really, you can’t understand what Kaasan finds so funny, when all you did was tell her the truth.
—
If there’s one thing you know about your childhood friend, it’s that Kita Shinsuke is a creature of habit. Everything he does, he does with the same precision and meticulous care: his chores, his studies, and even the way he organizes his playdates with the air of an office worker planning meetings.
It’s one of the things you like about him, how dedicated he is to everything. Even if the same can’t be said for yourself, as you love spontaneity too much to deny yourself the pleasure of a sudden impulse, you try your best to respect Kita’s routine.
“I’m going to play with Shiori-chan and Jun-kun today, but I’ll come find ya after I’m done,” you tell him, grip loose on your backpack as you bounce down the road.
“Okay,” Kita says. He’s walking at a steady pace, and you’re careful to match your strides to him, even if you want to run ahead. “How long are ya gonna take?”
“Maybe a few hours? Not sure yet! But I’ll definitely see you before I go home,” you say earnestly. “Because being with ya is a part of my routine!”
There’s a small smile on Kita’s face at your words, as faint and lovely as a pattern of frost on a window. “But ya don’t normally have a routine. Does it even count?”
“Shin-kun, that’s mean,” you whine. “I try to see ya every day!”
“We’re neighbors, and our families are friends,” Kita points out.
“Still! The effort counts!”
“Well, being with ya is part of my routine, too,” Kita says. “I like seeing you every day.”
You can’t help but skip down the street at that, backpack bouncing on your back at your sudden burst of energy, and Kita watches you, smiling all the while. Not that it’s unusual, though; Kita is always watching like that, everything and everyone.
When you drop Kita off at his doorstep, you give one giant wave at him, promising to stop by as soon as you can, before you turn down the street and head towards the nearby park.
(Kita likes to watch you from the window whenever you leave, waiting until you’re nothing more than a dot on the horizon before he turns away. This, too, is a ritual).
Shiori and Jun are already waiting by the time you drop your backpack off at home and rush over to the nearby park, a good fifteen minute run from your home. They live farther inside the neighborhood than you, but attend the same school, so you know them fairly well. Not as well as Kita, but you don’t know anyone else as well as you know Kita.
After a particular explosive game of tag (Shiori was it at first, and she knabbed you by the tail end of your shirt) and kick the can (you’d like to brag you valiantly defended the can quite well, which was a water bottle donated by Jun, as you hunted down Jun and Shiori), Shiori finally turns to you with cheeks rosy from exertion, her mouth opening into a question.
“Kita-kun isn’t here with ya today?” Shiori asks. “I feel like you two are always together.”
“He had ta go home,” you confirm. “And that’s not true! We’re not together right now, aren’t we?”
“Why’re you always with Kita, though?” Jun asks. He’s a little quiet, but there’s something in his tone that you try not to bristle at.
“Whaddya mean? Shin-kun is Shin-kun,” you say. “He’s the best.”
“But Kita-kun is kinda… quiet. And he’s always in the corner, just doing his work! He doesn’t really talk to us unless he has ta,” Shiori says, hesitant.
“Kita is boring,” Jun says bluntly. Shiori blushes at his statement, but makes no move to disagree. “He doesn’t seem like a lotta fun. What do ya even talk about with him?”
You pause. Kita, boring? The idea has never occurred to you before. Kita is steady, reliable, responsible, and chides you sometimes like your mom might do, but he’s not boring. Boring is for things like schoolwork, and chores.
“Shin-kun isn’t boring. If you’re mean to Shin-kun, I’m not going to play with ya anymore!” you say firmly. “He’s real fun and super smart. He knows everything, and he can do anything, and he works hard!”
“Aw, don’t be mad!” Shiori says hastily, elbowing Jun, who grumbles. “We didn’t mean anything like that. I guess he’s just a little hard to talk ta sometimes.”
“If it’s hard to talk to him, why don’t we play together next time?” you suggest. “I’ll make sure ya understand how great Shin-kun is.”
“Yer bragging about him an awful lot,” Jun says again.
“Shin-kun is Shin-kun,” you repeat firmly, as if that answers the question. And it does, in your mind, but Shiori and Jun glance at each other and say nothing more.
The rest of the time passes well enough, though you are perhaps a little too enthusiastic to win in seeing who can swing the highest and then leap off, because even though you’re the clear champion, you’re left with scrapped knees that Jun winces at. You, Jun, and Shiori wave at each other before heading home, the setting sun its own reminder to keep your promise to Kita.
Still, by the time you meet up with Kita, you’re kicking at the ground, smarting from your friends’ comments you can’t get out of your head. You knock on his door, once, twice, and Kita opens it as if he’s been expecting you.
It’s hard to hide the expression on your face, but even if you weren’t terrible at concealing your emotions, Kita would probably pick up on it anyways, because he always seems to know how you feel. Not that you could tell him what’s wrong, because you don’t want to repeat those awful comments.
After taking a few seconds to observe you, Kita asks quietly, “Do ya want something sweet? Okaasan brought back some madelines.”
You sniff. “Really?”
“Yeah. Come on,” he says, taking your hand, chubby fingers secure around your own. “Let’s get some together.” He then glances at your knees. “And ya gotta do something about that.”
A few cakes and bandaids applied to your skinned knees courtesy of Kita, and your troubles are forgotten. Even Kita seems to look a little more relaxed in the presence of your smile again, a sunflower turning towards the sun it can’t help but follow.
You really don’t get why people are incapable of understanding a simple fact: Kita isn’t boring at all. In fact, he’s the most wonderful person in the entire world.
—
Elementary school comes and goes, with a graduation full of classmates that cluster around you, begging for one last photo together. Your bouquet wilts from how tight you’ve clutched it as you run from camera to camera, but when Kita sees, he offers you a few pink gerbaras of his own.
(He’s also the first to take a picture with you, your families cooing as they crowd you close together, but he’s never needed to be told to stick close to your side. It’s simply what’s natural, and he frames the photo, keeping it near those dried flowers he still hasn’t let go of).
You have a longer commute in middle school, but it’s one you still share with Kita. It’s a precious period of your day where the two of you walk to school together, side by side. He shows up at the same time at your door like clockwork. You’re usually scrambling with a last-minute breakfast or putting your uniform together, your blazer slipping down your shoulders while Kita looks impeccable as always, not even a thread out of place.
“Ya should have learned to be more careful now,” he chides, even as he reaches out to smooth away the wrinkles with gentle hands, fixing the uneven knot of your tie. “‘s not a good habit to be sloppy.”
“Aw, but Shin-kun,” you say, “Ya always fix it for me!”
“Maybe I should stop.”
“Noooo,” you wail as Kita spins on his heel, collecting both your bag and his in one smooth motion, while you dart after him. “Don’t do that, Shin-kun! Then I’ll be even more of a mess!”
One of the great changes in middle school, besides the advanced curriculum and different uniforms and the evolving roster of classmates, are the inclusion of more involved clubs.
Of course, you already know what club you want to join, and have known it since the beginning: you want to join the boys volleyball club as a manager. As it is, you’re assistant to the current manager, Yuna, who jumps every time you speak up behind her, taking in your enthusiasm and loud voice with wide eyes.
You’re quick to brag about it to Jun and Shiori, too, who are in a class down the hall from you, popping in for a brief visit during lunch, pulling up a chair to huddle around Shiori’s desk. You have an armful of snacks from the cafeteria, unable to resist spending a few yen on baked goods.
“Always felt like ya should be on the team and Kita should be manager,” Shiori says. “Didn’t realize it’d be the opposite way ‘round.”
“Why’s that?” you ask, curious.
“‘Cause of… um… Just, you know, the sorta impression you and Kita-kun give off is a little different—”
“It’s ‘cause Kita is smart and yer a meathead,” Jun interrupts bluntly.
“Jun-kun, ya better be ready to back-up what you just said,” you threaten.
“See? Only a meathead would say that,” Jun says. “Aren’t ya faster than Kita, too? And during gym class, ya were always the one ta spike the ball over the most. Just makes sense, right?”
“Well,” you huff, flattered despite yourself at Jun’s acknowledgement of your prowess, “Being on the court is cool, but being a manager is real important too. They do a lot of work behind the scenes to support the players, like helping plan scrimmages and researching opponents. Without ‘em, the players wouldn’t be half as prepared as they are.”
“And,” you add, “They get ta tell people what to do! Shin-kun’s always lecturin’ me about this and that, but if I’m the manager, he’s gotta listen to me for once!”
“There it is,” Jun says. “Knew there was another reason.”
“Jun-kun,” you begin, but a quick glance at the clock has you straightening up, plucking a few wrapped bread from your arms and dropping them onto Shiori’s desk. “We’ll settle this later, but I gotta get back to class. I said I’d spend the rest of lunch with Shin-kun. This is for you two, though!”
(Shiori and Jun both sigh as you burst out of the classroom, Jun propping up his cheek with his hand. It’s obvious from your smile that you’re hoping to see a smile on Kita’s face or hear, at the very least, a quiet thank you. You’ve always been predictable in that way, chasing after your childhood friend with all the clumsy, floppy grace of a lovesick puppy.
“I just don’t get it, not them, or Kita-kun,” Shiori says. “Do ya think they really don’t know how obvious it is that they like him?”
“Ya know how they are. Kita has it rough,” Jun says, and leaves it at that.)
You trundle through middle school, easily collecting friends with your cheer, a parade of people greeting you every morning when you step through the gates. Kita is just behind, by your side as steadily as the way shadow follows light.
Kita is liked well-enough, you think, but people always seem to have difficulty approaching him. Maybe it’s his mature demeanor, or his steady gaze they can’t meet, as luminous as snowfall on a winter night, quiet and all-consuming. Or maybe it’s the way he’s consistently top of the class, pulling perfect hundreds, and the principled student all the teachers uphold as the model everyone should strive to emulate.
“If only you could be more like Kita Shinsuke…” is a phrase troublemakers hear in their nightmares.
You maintain decent grades, too, but you still badger Kita for his notes, if only because he keeps such meticulous, detailed ones, and his handwriting is prettier than yours with how graceful it looks, like the work of a professional calligrapher. He beats you out easily in class rankings, much to your chagrin.
The real highlight of your day is volleyball practice after school, to the point your friends in class offer to take over clean-up duty from you so you can get to the gym early. Your duties mostly consist of helping keep track of scores during games, managing player statistics, and refilling and passing out water and towels.
At times, you’ll help Yuna and the coach contact other schools for practice matches. Your role is mostly to observe how Yuna handles being manager, in preparation for when she graduates and you take on the role yourself.
That leaves a lot of time where you can stop to watch Kita. If he’s watching everyone else, who’s going to watch him? It might as well be you, his childhood friend, and it’s a habit you’ve maintained since you were children. Besides, it’s easy for your eyes to follow Kita, and you seek him out in every room before you’re even aware of what you’re doing.
Kita is diligent and steadfast, going through every drill without a word that the other students complain constantly about. He never takes shortcuts, and always does what’s required of him. He even stays after to help collect the balls and mop the gym with you.
You’re proud of him. There’s no way you wouldn’t be, but when two other first-years are selected as regulars for the team, you can’t help but feel slighted on his behalf. During games, sometimes you’ll end up side-by-side, watching rallies, though Kita always scolds you if you talk too much and end up distracting the benched players.
“Don’t ya wanna be on court, Shin-kun?” you ask, hands behind your back. Right now, your team is hosting a scrimmage with a local middle school, and one of your wing spikers pulls a sharp cut shot that leaves everyone cheering.
“Everyone wants ta be on court, but only the players who’ve proven they deserve to be there can stand on it,” Kita says. “I only do what I’m supposed to, and if I do it well, then that’s when I deserve ta be on court. That’s the proper way to go about it.”
“If that’s the case, then yer definitely gonna be a starting member one day,” you say. “Because I see ya, Shin-kun. Ya work hard, and you’re careful with everything that ya do. You never skip practice, or take shortcuts during laps, and you always do all your drills until ya can do the motions in your sleep! You’re gonna earn yer place there, I know it!”
Yuna calls your name and you scamper off before he can respond.
(Kita breathes in. Breathes out. Like Obaasan told him, so long ago: “The gods are always watching.” Someone will always notice. Someone will always see him, but she never said that when they did, there would be a miniature sun in his chest, overflowing gold that he can’t keep contained).
—
Middle school passes with its own routine, one that you settle into. Kita and you walk to school together in the mornings, rain or shine, eat lunch in his classroom and share parts of your bento with each other (he’s always putting vegetables on your plate), and then you attend volleyball practice, where you’ll mop the floors and wipe down the balls with Kita’s help and then walk home together. Kita will drop you off on your doorstep, and then head off to his own.
There’s little deviation to your routine, at least until your second year during lunchtime, when a boy approaches you when you’re halfway through your anpan. You’ve pulled up a chair right across from Kita, your bento and notebooks scattered across his desk. Though you’re in different classes this year, you still make an effort to bother him daily, and eating lunch together is one of your rituals.
“Can I talk with you?” he says. You try to place where you’ve seen him before; maybe in the class across from yours?
You’re still chewing and covering your mouth with your hand, trying frantically to swallow before responding. “Yes? Did ya need me for something?”
“There’s something I want to tell you. In private,” he emphasizes, flicking a glance at Kita.
“Sure,” you say. “But lunch is almost over, so we should hurry. I’ll be back, Shin-kun!” you add over your shoulder.
Kita only nods, watching you scamper off without a thought in the world as to what your classmate could want now. Maybe about homework? A shared classmate?
(Kita’s hands are steady, even as he grips his chopsticks tight enough that his knuckles turn white. A lot of people have been confessing to you lately, but it’s not surprising, not with how well-liked you are. Not that you ever seem to realize what’s happening, how the easy, careless charm of your smile, the way you always face the person you’re talking to like they’re the only ones in the world, is dangerous).
The boy guides you down hallways and stairwells until you’re in the courtyard, standing in a little alcove that shields you from views of most of the windows. Including, you think, the gaze of your own classroom’s.
Clouds swirl overhead, grey and heavy, a light breeze stirring the grass. Is it going to rain soon? You glance up, just as the boy in front of you wrings his hands and takes several deep inhales.
“I wanted ta say… I’ve noticed ya from the very start of orientation! Yer always so bright and cheerful, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you since then. When we pass by in the halls, I always look at ya and…!” his voice raises in a shout. “And I wanted to say I like you. Please go out with me!”
Your mouth works before your mind does, but even then, all you can say is a strangled little “Oh… erm?” You remember his name now, Eiji, but you’re still too startled by his sudden words, all your thoughts scattering like birds. This has happened a few times now, but it still takes you by surprise every time. You? Liked? It’s strange to think that people think of you in such a way, that they could hold such expectations for you, when you’re just going about your day.
He’s still staring at you expectantly, and it’d be rude to keep him waiting any longer. Your tongue is still glued to your mouth, but you manage to unstick it to croak out, “I’m sorry. I appreciate your feelings, but I can’t return them.”
Eiji hangs his head. “I figured. I wanted to let ya know, anyways, but ya already have Kita-san, right?”
“Huh?” you squeak.
“Huh?” He tilts his head. “Ya and Kita-san. Aren’t ya dating? Everyone says you are.”
“That’s not—we’re just childhood friends,” you say hastily. “I mean. It’s not as if I don’t like him, but—we aren’t—I mean, I think—he’s just my friend.”
Huh? Wait a moment. What do you feel about Kita, then? All your feelings for him have always been rolled into one glowing ball that you’ve termed “like,” but people like each other in different ways. Is the way you like Kita different from how you like Jun and Shiori, or your own parents? What does “liking” someone even mean, then?
Eiji must see the confusion mar your face because he sighs. “‘s all right. Thank ya for yer time. But I hope ya and Kita-san can work out whatever it is you have. You don’t want ta be leading him on, or anything.”
Eiji heads in first, ducking his head and running away as you stand in the courtyard for a moment longer, eyebrows furrowed. A drop of something cold splashes on your head. It’s raining, the clouds sending out a shy drizzle as a warning, and so you hurry inside, distracted for the rest of lunch.
After school, you’re standing by your shoe locker glumly. The rain has transformed into a monstrous downpour, causing squawking students to brave the weather with only their bags over their heads, or hang under dripping eaves as the world is washed clean.
You’re one of the people who didn’t bring an umbrella, and so you’re stuck contemplating your options. You can run out and hope to make it home, or stay behind until the rain clears a little. Either way, you’re most likely going to be soaked, and a trek in soggy loafers is not on your list of enjoyable post-school activities.
“Did ya forget your umbrella?”
It’s Kita, and though he’s a respectful distance away from you, as he always is, you jump as if he’s whispered right into your ear.
“Yes!” you say, with more force than necessary.
“Ya should have checked the weather report,” Kita says plainly. He has a clear plastic umbrella in his right hand.
“I shoulda…” you say morosely. Eiji’s earlier comments are still swirling around your head, and you let out a long sigh. Are you hurting Kita, somehow? At least the rain is as miserable as your mood.
You expect more admonishments or another remark about your lack of preparation, but Kita only unfurls his umbrella and says, “We can share.”
The umbrella is small enough that your shoulders are pressed side by side, and you can feel, distinctly, the heat from his body. Kita doesn’t run hot, and he’s always at a consistent, mild temperature. His hands are always cold, though, and you like to rub his fingers with your own until they warm up. You’re hyper-aware of his body now, and how much of it you know. Stupid Eiji.
“What did that guy want from ya?” Kita asks.
“Just confessin’,” you grumble. “But I wasn’t interested. I don’t know why people are so caught up in romance. Doesn’t make any sense. Relationships? Dating? Marriage? ‘S all ridiculous.”
“I see,” Kita says simply. “Did he say something to ya?”
“Just…” You let out another sigh. “I don’t know, Shin-kun. Am I hurting ya? Do ya feel like I’m leading you on? If I’m hurtin’ ya, you gotta let me know.”
“Yer not hurting me,” he says. “Yer my oldest and closest friend, and you’ve never done anything wrong. Ya don’t gotta listen to people like that; they don’t think before they speak, or consider how their words affect others. They just say what they want, so what they say doesn’t matter one bit as long as you know what you believe in and what’s true ta you.”
“Aw, Shin-kun!” You fight the urge to fling your arms around his neck, and settle for slapping his back empathetically as Kita lets out a quiet little “oomph” with each strike. “Yer right!”
Eiji’s comments don’t matter, you decide. Your relationship with Kita is no one’s business other than your own, and people can think whatever they want. It doesn’t really matter if you aren’t sure of the exact nature of your own emotions; you like Kita, no matter what it means, and that’s all that matters.
(Kita has heard what other people whisper in the hallways. You’ve never asked him how he views your relationship, but that’s all right. You don’t need to. What he feels is something he has nurtured for years. Step by step. Day by day. Ritual by ritual).
—
It’s the last volleyball match of your middle school careers. Kita has never played a game, never been on the starting line-up, but still people flock to him for advice or for his analysis on the other team’s plays. He’s often sitting with you on the bench, watching, quietly exchanging notes with you.
He’s your assistant, you like to joke, though you think you feel more annoyed than Kita over the fact he’s never been chosen. Even though he practices more consistently than anyone else. Even though everyone relies on him. He’s not flashy, sure, but he’s steady, and that’s more important than anything in a game where even the best-laid strategy can go awry.
“Are you Kita Shinsuke?”
You spin around, and through the half-open gym doors, you see a man dressed in a track suit, with glasses and a keen smile. He’s not immediately recognizable as one of the other middle school coaches. But he still speaks with a surety that makes you wrack your brains, regardless, trying to place him. It’d be awful to have met him and forgotten his name.
Kita looks up from his clipboard, gaze tranquil and steady. “Yes.”
“Have you thought about what high school you’d like to attend? What volleyball programs are you interested in?”
(Someone is always watching. Someone will notice).
And that’s how you and Kita end up at Inarizaki, a bus ride and fifteen minute walk away from your neighborhood.
—
You say goodbye to middle school in a deluge of tearful farewells and congratulatory wishes to classmates who’re attending different high schools. You’re encircled by admirers, take so many pictures your mouth starts hurting from how often you’ve had to smile. You’re given flowers, last-minute confessions, invitations to lunch and dinner and dates you have to refuse.
You’re just not interested, you explain. You don’t have the time for such things, but you appreciate their feelings regardless.
Jun and Shiori are attending a different high school, so you’re sure to squeeze them extra hard during graduation, handing them flowers from your own bouquets, yellow roses with stems stripped of thorns.
“Let’s still hang out,” you say. “We’re always going ta be friends! Don’t be afraid to say hi!”
“I’ll miss ya,” Shiori says sincerely. “I’ll stop by when I can, I promise!”
“Don’t forget to invite me to yer wedding in the future,” Jun adds.
“Wedding? We’re too young ta get married! I’m not even thinking about that right now,” you say. “Jun-kun yer so weird.”
He only shrugs. Really, what an odd thing to say, though it does give you a disconcerting feeling that you’ve forgotten something, some hazy, half-remembered flashback to flower crowns and a distant spring day. But it can’t be too important or you’d have remembered, so you tackle Jun and Shiori in another hug instead.
Your favorite picture from graduation, though, is the one you take with Kita, an electric smile on your face, your arm looped around his, your bodies leaning towards each other like flowers sheltering in a storm. When you line it up with your elementary school graduation picture, it feels like a perfect set, a history of your life so far with Kita.
Outside of your new uniform, high school proceeds much the same as middle school did. You and Kita have a routine, the precious rituals you’ve built over a lifetime of knowing each other, and those aren’t things that collapse so easily.
In the morning, Kita shows up at your door, albeit a little earlier than he did in middle school, smoothing down your rumpled tie without too much complaint. Kita always gives you the seat on the bus, standing in front of you, your knees knocking together when the bus lurches around a corner. He always asks if you’ve eaten, and if you’ve run out the door without any food, he pulls out packaged bread that you much on.
You share your first year class together, which means you only need to drag your chair to Kita’s desk and place your bento in your lap to see him. You flick crumpled-up notes at him, but he only reads them, smoothes them out, and places them within his notebook, sending you no reply in return. You chatter about your day at every opportunity, about the difficulties you face in lessons or the petty squabble between new friends that you’ve made.
In the afternoon, you and Kita head to the gym after school. You’ve applied to be manager of the Inarizaki volleyball team, though it seems plenty of other students in your grade have the same idea. You hear it’s a popular one to apply for but near impossible to get the position, if only because so many people want to join just to get close to the boys on the team. Which is ridiculous, because the boys on the team are just like the boys anywhere else: a little sweaty, a little rude, and wholly ordinary.
Kita might be the exception to that, but that’s because he’s Kita. Even when he sweats, he smells nice, and he’s always polite, and he’s the most wonderful person ever. It’d be hard for any other boy to beat that, really.
Suffice to say, you manage to beat out the other candidates and snag the spot. Much like in middle school, Kita is on the bench, not having made the starting lineup again, and you’re lugging around water bottles and tracking scores in practice games.
After school, you and Kita head home together, side by side. You match his slow, steady pace, and sometimes if the weather is nice, you’ll take a longer route home, just to see the scenery. Kita walks you to your door, and you wait in the doorway to see him enter his own before you wave goodbye for a final time.
The one thing that’s different about high school, though, is the confessions. Not to you, though you still get your fair share of them and have managed to tune them out as mild irritations in your day, but to Kita.
The first is a girl from the class across from you, clutching at the edges of her skirt during lunch. She went to your middle school, you think, but you were always in different classes and didn’t share any friends.
“Kita-san,” she says shyly, in a tone so full of longing it makes you want to take Kita’s hand and pull him away in the other direction, “Can I talk to you in private?”
Your classmates snicker around you as Kita calmly stands and says, “Okay.”
You stare out the window, unable to relax, bouncing your leg so nervously that the entire desk shakes. More and more catastrophic scenarios arise in your mind—of Kita accepting her confession, of distancing himself from you, of deciding to move away to another country with this girl—before Kita comes back and says, simply, “She asked me out and I turned her down.”
Then there’s a second-year, two weeks later, who even brought food with him as if a love confession was a bribe. And then someone from your own class, who Kita shared his notes with, shouting so loud you’re pretty sure the kids from the class next door overheard. The confessions pile up, little by little, irritating and spaced far apart enough that each new one feels like a bucket of ice water thrown at your head, even though you’d hoped it wouldn’t happen again.
Because of course people would like Kita. He’s wonderful, and kind, and smart, and the best person in the entire world. But no one has ever confessed to him before, or shown much interest in him, romantic interest, until high school.
The thought of Kita, your best friend, spending more time with someone else or just liking someone more than you makes you feel sour. Sure, you don’t like the idea of him with a partner, but you also can’t stand the idea that your relationship will deteriorate because he chooses to prioritize someone else in his life. He’s always been by your side, and you’ve always been by his. That’s not a position you ever want to relinquish.
The last straw is a pretty third year who corners Kita after practice and clean-up, leaving you behind to wait near the gym doors, glowering at the rocks near your shoes, as if they’re the world’s worst criminals.
“Let’s go home,” Kita says, when he returns. The third year is noticeably absent from his side, and he looks as unruffled as ever.
“What did she want?” you say, not moving, twisting your hands together.
“She wanted to say that she likes me. And wanted ta know if I was free to go to a cafe with her this week.”
“Oh. What did ya say?”
“I told her no,” he says plainly. “Volleyball practice takes up most of my time after school.”
“She was pretty,” you grumble. “And real nice. You really said no?”
“I’m not interested in a relationship with her,” he says.
“There’s been a lot of people who’ve been asking after ya these days, Shin-kun,” you press. “You really aren’t annoyed by it?”
“It’s not annoying because it’d be wrong of me to treat those peoples’ feelings carelessly. It takes courage ta tell someone you like them, and I want to respect that courage and their feelings, even if I don’t feel the same.”
Good old Kita, thoughtful as always. But you still feel petty, and small, and wrap your arms around yourself. How is it that he can look favorably upon these others, when all you do is feel rotten? He could stand to be less honorable, let them know that he isn’t available because—because what?
You shake your head, as if to clear yourself of your confusing thoughts. You try to pin a smile on your face, but it’s small, tight. “Okay. I get it. Let’s just go home, then. Before someone else tries to get ya.”
Kita doesn’t say anything for a while. He seems to be weighing his words in his mind, watching you with the same intensity he devotes to everything, and you hunch your shoulders, as if doing so will help you escape his scrutiny. Finally, he says, “Okkasan got some madeleines on sale last week. The kind ya like.”
“Ya can’t bribe me with cakes, Shin-kun! I’m not a kid anymore.”
“ Even if it’s yer favorite flavor?” he says.
“That’s not…” you say, pressing your lips together. “Well…”
“Ya can have as much as ya want.”
“... Fine,” you grumble.
“Not too much, though. It’ll spoil yer dinner.”
“Shin-kun!”
You swear you see him smile then, a brief flash like the glint of sunlight on water, but his face relaxes, falling back into its usual neutral expression.
(Kita’s just glad you’re the same as you always are. He’s had a lot more practice than you, after all, to exercise patience in the face of unwanted confessions directed towards someone he likes, even if you look awfully cute when you’re jealous).
—
Inarizaki High, you’ve come to learn, is a real powerhouse for volleyball, a school that regularly makes appearances at nationals, so practices are more intense than in middle school. Inarizaki also has its own marching band that comes to games, and the money to buy all its members, starting lineup or not, the same brand of athletic sneakers. And so there’s a certain pressure that comes with being manager and having to oversee a gaggle of rowdy teenage boys and wrangle them into practice and drills.
Everyone who makes it to the starting line-up, you’ve come to learn, is a bit of a personality. There’s Aran, who’s funny and reliable as their ace, and Omi, who reminds you of your grandmother, steady and stern. And, of course, there’s the upcoming batch of first years.
“Are ya and Kita-san dating?”
The question comes from one of your boldest newcomers, the starting setter, who has bleached blond hair and unrelenting cockiness in his own skills. The team is in the middle of serving drills, but he’s evidently taking a break from his current set, because he’s hounding you as you refill the water bottles, one by one.
“We’re not,” you say.
Atsumu curses under his breath. In the distance, you can see Osamu raise his eyebrows and Suna snicker. Is this a bet of some kind? But you’re used to these sorts of inquiries from middle school, the assumptions of everyone else.
You know what you and Kita are to each other. You’re best friends from childhood and… well, it’s better not to think about it too much.
“Did ya ever date him?” Atsumu presses. “Like in the past? Even just a little?”
“Hm? Not at all,” you say. “Shin-kun’s my best friend. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”
“Manangerrrr,” Atsumu groans, “Yer killing me here. I got my lunch riding on this. Yer really not together? Then why’re ya always hanging off each other?”
“We don’t hang off of each other,” you protest.
“Ya do! And Kita-san always gets this soft look on his face when he’s with ya, like–”
“Atsumu. Did ya finish your serving drills?” Kita cuts in, hovering somewhere over your shoulder, voice cold and direct. He must have noticed Atsumu’s absence on the court.
Atsumu visibly straightens under the force of Kita’s stare. As someone who’s been subjected to that cold stare for a majority of your life, you can’t help but pity Atsumu, who’s not used to it at all. “Er… ya see, Kita-san, I was just—”
“If you’re not finished, then why are you here?”
And with that, Atsumu trudges off back to Suna and Osamu, who both seem to be holding back laughter at Atsumu’s expression.
“Was he bothering ya?” Kita asks.
“Not really,” you say. “But I think the first years were bettin’ on whenever we’re together. Isn’t it a little silly? I don’t know why everyone assumes that.”
Kita gives a soft hum of acknowledgment, tucking a stray curl of hair behind your ear. “There’s no reason ta mind them. They should be focusin’ on practice, anyways.”
“Right, right,” you say. “Oh, Shin-kun. I just refilled the water bottles.” You pluck one off of the bench and hand it to him. “Have some. You’ve been running around so much, and ya gotta make sure yer staying hydrated!”
(There are few team dynamics that Suna and the others are quick to pick up on. For example, you’re popular on the team for your cheer and energy, but Kita is known for his cold perfectionism. No flaws, always diligent, never a single hair out of place.
Sometimes, it makes them all just a little curious to see where he trips up, because surely, someone like Kita must have one weakness, right? Whether it’s a silly habit, a dislike, or another person.
“I really thought they were datin’,” Atsumu groans.
“Too bad,” Osamu says unrepentantly. “Ya owe me yer lunch for that. I told you they weren’t.”
“Makes no sense! Didja see how he looks at them? And how they always dote on him?”
“That’s ya get for assumin’, ya scrub.”
“Yer the scrub!”
As the twins dissolve into another spate of bickering, Suna flicks a glance at you and Kita, the way he leans close to you, intent on catching every word, because he never gives you anything less than his full attention, no matter the circumstance.
When Kita glares at the three of them, though, the first years all jump and scramble to their feet, guiltily slinking towards the court to practice their next round of serves.
Troublesome. Just because Suna can pinpoint his weakness, doesn’t mean he can do anything with it).
—
It’s not until your third year that Kita is made captain, and he steps onto court for the first time, when Inarizaki down six points in a set during an Interhigh game. He’s subbed in for Aran, who rests on the bench alongside you and the coach, towel around his neck, hands folded in his lap as he intently watches the game resume.
“Are ya feeling okay?” you ask Aran, handing him a water bottle. “That was an intense rally.”
“I thought my hands were going to fall off,” Aran says, groaning. “But it’s a nice break. Can’t believe Atsumu kept settin’ on first touch.”
“He just trusts ya to always get the ball,” you say. “And he wants to make up for the point gap real bad.”
“Maybe he trusts me too much,” Aran grumbles.
Though you’re fairly friendly to everyone on the team, especially the third years, Aran is one of the people you’re most close to. It helps that he’s also friends with Kita and you’re in his class this year, so you gravitate towards his desk to trade silly jokes and steal pieces of his bento. Even though he groans, he lets you get away with it, and you’re sure to give him something from your own bento in return.
“Go Shin-kun,” you whisper under your breath, pumping your fist as he crouches and digs the ball with one perfect, fluid motion. “Ya got this!”
“Thought you’d be cheerin’ louder than that,” Aran says.“Haven’t ya been wanting him to be on court since our first year here?”
“I don’t want to distract him,” you say. “It’s his first time in a real match! Well, not that Shin-kun would get distracted by something like cheering, anyways.”
“First time in a match?”
“Yeah. Surprised no one told ya yet,” you say, eyes glued to Kita’s figure. He’s steady, reliable, and already the other players on court are relaxing their bodies, their focus sharpening. He’s lecturing them, you imagine, pointing out all the ways in which they’ve been overcompensating or slacking. “Never made it to the court in middle school. I knew he would, eventually. Shin-kun’s good, even if he doesn’t think so because he’s not flashy. But being diligent and doing things so consistently every time is real hard, and so that’s its own skill.”
“You’re… really paying attention to him, huh?” Aran says.
“Because he’s Shin-kun,” you say. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“You’re up again, Aran,” Coach Kurosu calls. “Take yer number. We’re gonna put ya back in after this rotation. Think the team’s back on its feet, and Kita’s about to rotate to the front row.”
“Good luck, Aran-kun. I want ya to score at least ten points in a row!” you say, holding out your hands as he slaps them in a double high five.
“Yer asking for too much,” he groans, picking up the plastic sign with the number four emblazoned on it, raising it as he stands.
The whistle blows. Kita returns to you and the coach, covered in a light sheen of sweat, breathing harder than normal. Other than that, he looks calm, cool, as if this isn’t the first match in his high school career.
“How was it, Shin-kun?” you ask, handing him a water bottle. “Did ya have fun on court?”
“What I did on court was simply the product of all my practice,” he says. “No more, no less. But…”
“But?” you prod.
“I enjoyed it,” he says simply.
“Good! I told ya you would be out there one day! Next time yer out there, I hope you have even more fun, because we’re gonna go far! Take first place at nationals, even!”
You raise your hands in the same gesture you just did for Aran, both hands splayed out for a high five. Kita observes the movement, sets down his water bottle, and quietly, carefully, slaps your hands in celebration.
—
Your dreams at nationals end after three sets during your first game there. You’re walking off the court, away from whatever promises you’ve made, a stage you can only see for this one final time. The echo of your shoes on the hardwood, the parade of volleyball players chasing the same desire, the dome so high and so impossibly large you have to squint to make out the ceiling.
Inarizaki High stays until the end of the day, when the sea of crowds trickle into a stream of stragglers and most stalls close, the window to buy souvenirs shrinking. You want to stay until the last possible second but then the entire team is packing their bags, and the Miya twins catch you while you check for the location of all the players.
“Sorry, manager,” Atsumu whispers. He looks deflated, properly chagrined for once, none of the usual arrogance in his stance or words. “We were supposed ta show you the first place trophy.”
“It’s yer last year,” Osamu says simply.
“Then make sure you make it next year,” you say, clapping both of them on the back so hard that they jump. “I’ll be watching ya, okay? So don’t disappoint me! I wanna see ya take Inarizaki as far as it can go, and then beyond!”
“I promise,” Osamu says. There’s none of his usual relaxed, lazy drawl now, just a fervent honesty.
“Make sure ya come watch!” Atsumu says.
The last six years of your life, spent chasing after volleyballs and planning scrimmages, tracking player stats and filling water bottles, is over. You’ll no longer have to dedicate your afternoons to a gymnasium. You’ve managed to find a replacement, a kind first year named Ichika, so the team will be in good hands.
In the lobby, you run into Aran, who’s watching one of the last games of the day on a television monitor mounted on the wall.
“‘S disappointing, but I’m still gonna do volleyball after this,” Aran says quietly. “I’m thinkin’ about going pro.”
“Then ya better not forget me when yer pro, Aran-kun. I want your autograph. Maybe I can sell it for a lot of money,” you cheer.
“Don’t try one of yer get rich quick schemes with me,” he says, but he still slaps your hands when you hold them out in a double high five.
“You were good on the court,” you say. “So I know you can make it. It was a good game. A real good game, the most excitin’ one I’ve ever seen so far, and ya had a lot of good spikes.”
“Did ya have to say that now?” Aran says groaning, turning away, and you pretend not to notice as he scrubs at his eyes.
On the bus ride home the next morning, you and Kita sit at the front two seats. The bus ride home is quiet; everyone must be exhausted, because when you look back, all you can see are closed eyes and slumped bodies. Atsumu has an arm flung over Osamu, whose eyebrows are drawn in irritation. Suna huddles in a corner by himself. Gin’s mouth is wide open while Omi’s arms are crossed as he leans back next to him. Akagi is smushed against a window, and Aran’s head jostles with every turn of the bus.
But Kita is wide awake, watching the scenery flash past outside. Your hands rest lightly next to each other on the bus seat, just a centimeter of distance. It’s a strange thing to be aware of, but all you can think about is how his fingers must be cold, and you have to resist the urge to pick them up and rub them, curling up all your desire to touch him into your clenched fists.
“Yer not going to keep up with volleyball, right, Shin-kun?” you whisper. “This is yer last season.”
“That’s right,” he says. “But yer not either, are ya?”
“It was a good six years. But there are other things I want ta do. I’m gonna miss this, though.”
“I’m never gonna forget it. I wanted to stay on court a little longer,” he murmurs, voice dropping low as if his words are for your ears alone even though everyone else is asleep, “And show off the team, and everyone’s hard work.”
“I wanted everyone ta place first. Show all of Japan who we are,” you groan. “‘Cause everyone was good enough to make it! We got out too soon. But the other team was way too good too. Can’t believe we never heard of ‘em before this year.”
“But even if we can’t make it to first place, it wasn’t a bad experience. Built a lot of memories, and a lot of muscle,” Kita says. “I know the team always says we don’t need memories, but all our past actions make up who we are now. The me in the past that practiced and ate well and studied hard and got the me of today where I am now.”
You turn over his words. It’s true, after all. Everything you’ve built becomes a foundation for who you are now, and everything you want to build in the future.
“That’s just like ya to say! But ya know, I kinda like our motto. We don’t need ta worry about the past and the things we can’t change. We can only focus on now, and what we’re gonna do in the future. Because who knows what’s gonna happen tomorrow. ‘S exciting,” you say. “And Shin-kun?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you for all yer hard work all these years,” you say sincerely. “I’m glad ya got to stand on court one more time, and that all of Japan could see just how awesome ya are! I wanted to show off and yell, ‘see? Isn’t my childhood friend the coolest?’”
Kita blinks, once, twice, and you wonder if you’ve caught him off-guard for once because he looks like a startled fox, fur bristling. There’s a faint pink tinge to his cheeks, but he only says, “But we wouldn’t get half as far without ya as support. If I looked cool, it’s only because ya and the others worked so hard to get us where we were. ‘S not just my effort alone. Ya were the one doing research and preparin’ all the supplies, so thank you for all of your hard work as manager.”
“Aw, Shin-kun,” you say, and this time, your hand reaches across the divide, forefinger loping around his own. Just this much should be okay, shouldn’t it? Kita has always had cool skin, but today, it burns with an intense heat that seeps into your skin. Or are you mistaking your own body heat for his? But isn’t it all the same warmth at the end of the day, because you’re always by his side? “I know all that! Ya should take the compliment. Ya don’t gotta find a reason for everything all the time.”
Kita laughs softly, a sound as gentle as the swirl of snow across a courtyard. “‘S habit. It’s important ta think through everything, and do it carefully and slowly. Especially for the important things. Ya don’t want to rush through those, even if no one notices.” His finger squeezes around yours. “I’m looking forward to seein’ what tomorrow looks like, after all that hard work.”
“Tomorrow will be good,” you say confidently, “‘Cause we built the foundation for it today. And ya don’t need to worry, Shin-kun. Even if yer watching everyone else, I’ll be watching ya, and I’ll see all the effort you put in.”
“I know ya will,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice, the fondness, how it colors all of his words, the way it always has.
—
March arrives in a froth of cherry blossoms and pink petals that get caught in your hair, long-winded speeches during the graduation ceremony as you bounce in your seat, your juniors crowding around you with a bouquet of flowers they pooled their allowances together to buy. The flowers are vibrant reds and pinks and yellows, as vivid as the team you’re leaving behind.
“We’re going to miss you, manager,” Atsumu says. His eyes are rimmed in red.
“He cried thinkin’ about you and the other third years leavin’,” Osamu says bluntly. “Like a baby.”
“And Samu couldn’t even sleep ‘cause today was the last day he could see ya all,” Atsumu responds nastily. “Made him all worried.”
“I’ll send you the photos later,” Suna whispers, discreetly aiming his phone at the bickering twins, who look like they’re one step away from escalating it into a physical altercation.
“Thanks, Suna-kun,” you whisper in return, shifting the flowers to rest in the crook of one arm. “Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t slack too much.”
Suna hums noncommittally, eyes sliding away from you, but Ginjima pats his chest, standing straight.
“I’ll watch out for Suna,” he says, voice already strained with restrained tears. “Don’t worry, manager! I’ll work hard, so ya won’t have anything to worry about.”
“Thank you, Gin-kun,” you say. “But watch out for yourself, too!”
With graduation comes a last minute wave of tearful confessions, of promises to stay together, and a request for buttons. You navigate skillfully around an obstacle course of classmates clamboring for your second button or any buttons at all, turn down a wave of confessions, and skirt around anyone who seems like they’re eying you.
Is Kita getting the same influx of confessions? You really hope not. It takes you a few seconds to spot Kita hanging back from the mingling crowds, at a careful distance. For a moment, all you can do is stare. He looks pretty framed against the trees, like an ephemeral spirit watching over humanity, forever separated. But unlike a spirit, you don’t want him to fade away to a place where you can’t be with him.
“Shin-kun!” you say, running up to him. You flick a quick glance at his jacket; all his buttons are still there. “There you are!”
Kita reaches a hand to your head, brushing away a shower of petals that must have settled into your hair in your journey to find him. “Did ya talk to the second years? They were lookin’ for ya.”
“Just finished!” you announce, waving your flowers in front of him like a baton. “They gave me these. Aren’t they pretty?”
“They really like ya,” he says.
“Well, they like you a lot too! Are ya gonna give me something, Shin-kun? Since it’s our high school graduation?” you joke.
Kita regards you for a long moment. Then, his nimble fingers reach towards his uniform blazer, tugging out the second button, before he holds it out to you, button lying flat on his palm. “This is for you.”
“Shin-kun?” you say. Kita, who has never looked anything less than perfect, who keeps spare buttons in his bag in case he loses one and has to sew it back on, who never does anything unnecessary, is handing you a button. His second button, the one he ripped out of his jacket.
“It’s customary to do something like this,” he says. “Ain’t it?”
“It is, but ya know, giving the button… it’s like…”
“You don’t want it?”
You quickly snatch the button from his hands, your fingers grazing against his palm, and it feels like even that momentary touch has burned you, like you’re marked by him in a way no one else can ever do. “I didn’t say that! I’m glad ya didn’t give it to anyone else, but…”
“Ya didn’t give yers to anyone else, either,” he says quietly. “That’s good.”
“I didn’t want ta,” you stammer. It’s Kita. Kita, your best friend and childhood friend. The one you hold near and dear to your heart, who’s always gone along with your whims. But right now, it feels like he’s one leading you along.
You like him. Of course you like him. But the shape of his feelings are different from what you expected, or thought they would ever be. And what are your feelings? How do you feel about Kita? Kita, who you adore, who you like, who is the most important person in the world to you?
“So there’s no one ya want to give it to?” Kita asks.
You open your mouth, and you don’t know what you’re going to say, because Kita looks so serious, and he’s always serious, but today, he has an intensity that he only gets when he’s focused, when he really cares about what he’s doing, and you’ve never felt more flustered to be on the receiving end of such a penetrating stare—
“Kita! Manager!” Akagi calls, waving his arms. “There ya are!”
Startled, you whirl around, waving back to Akagi, who’s running towards you, and Omi and Aran, who stand a little ways back.
“Let’s go, Shin-kun. The others are calling for us!” You scurry off, your entire body fever-hot. For now, at least, you’ve been granted another reprieve from having to think about your feelings.
(“I told him not to interrupt ‘em,” Aran says, groaning, watching as you high five Akagi, Kita trailing just a bit behind. “Did ya see how Kita looked?”
“He looked fine to me,” Omi replies.
“Are ya kidding?” Aran says. Once again, he has to wonder if he’s the only sane one on the team, a thought he’s had many, many times before.
It’s obvious that Kita cares about you in a different way than he does for the others, a special regard that you yourself seem oblivious to, whether that’s purposeful or not.
Kita is perfectly polite, kind, and meticulous, the sort of boy that parents absolutely adore. Aran would struggle to come up with a single bad word to say about him, not that he wants to. They’re friends. They’ve spent three years together. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, something that most people wouldn’t pick up on.
It’s just…
“Foxes mate for life,” he mutters, the fact springing into mind unbidden, from a nature documentary or class, he isn’t sure.
“Did ya say something, Aran?” Omi asks.
“‘S nothing. Let’s join them.”
It’s just a little possessive).
—
You squint up at the house in front of you, shading your eyes with your hand. It’s been a few years since you’ve visited Kita Yumie’s home, but it looks just as it did in your childhood: clean, small, well-maintained, curtains pulled back and windows open to let in a breeze, with a porch that you just want to sit on with a pot of tea.
The spring air is warm, inviting, as if winter had never shown its face and it’s always been such pleasant weather. Your suitcase rattles behind you as you pull it along the dirt road and up the house steps, knocking on the door.
It’s been a year since you’ve graduated college, and five years since you left high school. In the time since, you’ve landed a job at a wedding planning company, and you haven’t had time to rest. There’s always a last minute disaster to handle, an argument between the couple, or a mistake in booking. And just when you’re done smoothing out one problem, there’s always two more to handle, and a new wave of clients at your door.
But you’ve always wanted to work in hospitality, to connect with others, and the look of joy on your clients’ face when the wedding comes together gives you a satisfaction like nothing else. There’s something about connecting people, of watching people who want to spend their lives by each other’s side, that makes you feel as giddy as if you’re the one getting married.
You keep in touch with your classmates and the volleyball team members you once coached, though it’s still hard to wrap your head around the fact you know three professional volleyball players now. Osamu has a habit of giving you free onigiri whenever you stop by his shop, and Shiori and Jun still text you sporadically with updates on their lives.
But it’s Kita who you make an effort to call and text everyday. Even if you don’t live next to each other anymore, hearing from him is always a part of your daily ritual. He’s your best friend, and the two of you have only seen each other in person at family get-togethers during the holidays, or when you try to take a day off to see him on his birthday. It’s a little lonely to know he’s no longer just a few doors down, that if you looked out the window, you wouldn’t see him walking by.
Neither of you talk about high school graduation. You don’t bring it up, and neither does Kita, and your relationship is virtually unchanged. Even though you still keep his button, turning it over in your hands when you try to think about what you want. Even though you know both you and Kita are waiting for something. Even though you’re no longer a child and it’s been five years, and you’re just taking advantage of his kindness, because he always, always spoils you.
But there’s never been a good time to broach the subject, not with classes and now work, and you wonder if it’s too late now. If you imagined the whole thing, if you were wrong, if this is finally the one line you’ve crossed.
“Yer here,” Kita says, opening the door. “And yer early.”
“Hi, Shin-kun! I’m back!” you say, smiling. “The plane landed at the airport ahead of the scheduled time. Thanks for lettin’ me stay for the weekend.”
Kita is taller now, hair kept a little shorter than he did in high school. He’s dressed in a plain blue jumpsuit, muddy gloves tucked in his pocket. But he still has the easy, silent grace he always has had, the same intense stare and efficiency and purpose to his actions with no wasted movement. And he’s still Kita, dear Kita, and you know every inch of him, from past to present.
“Obaasan likes ya, so it’s no problem,” he says, picking up your suitcase before you can protest. “She started preppin’ your room as soon as I told her ya were visiting for a while. She’s out visitin’ friends now, though.”
“How’s the farm doing? Want me ta help out?”
“Farm’s doing great, so you should only help if ya want to. I know yer here on break.”
“It’s not a problem!” you say, flexing your arm. “I still keep pretty fit. And I’d feel bad if I didn’t help out at all, ya know!”
When you come downstairs after arranging your luggage in your room (Kita is right. Yumie still has your pair of faded yellow slippers set out, and she fluffed up the futon and set up a vase of pink flowers to brighten up the room), Kita is waiting for you downstairs. He pulls you into his arms for a hug as soon as your feet touch the floor, and you try not to squeak in surprise at the gesture, at the strength hidden in his arms.
“I missed ya,” he says. There’s a confidence to his movements, an openness that he didn’t have before. It would have been unimaginable as children, the idea of Kita hugging you first, as if you belong nowhere else but his arms.
You wrap your arms around him, his body as familiar to you as your own, sinking into his touch. “I missed you, too.”
And then he pulls away, leaving you with only the tingling memory of his warmth all over your body.
“Yer not too tired?” he asks. “Was yer flight long? Did ya eat?”
“I slept on the train,” you say, ticking off on your fingers each question that you answer, “The flight wasn’t too long, and I packed lunch that I ate on the way over. If I didn’t, ya would’ve lectured me again, wouldn’t you?”
“Yer an adult, with a difficult job,” he says simply. “I wantcha to take care of yourself. Ya used to walk out the door in the mornings without making sure ta eat properly.”
“You’re always like this, Shin-kun. But I promise I won’t give ya a reason to worry anymore. I’m not a kid, so I know how to be careful now,” you say playfully. “Why don’t ya show me around?”
The rice paddies sprawl for what feels like miles with pools that reflect the blue sky and billowing clouds, as if shards of the sky have fallen to the earth. New, tender green shoots shyly peek their heads out, the start of the growing season. You walk on the outskirts of the fields, the same fields you once visited as a child during vacation.
Even if it feels the same, the plants and the gentle hands working the land are different. Each meter of land and each budding stalk is a testament to Kita’s diligence, to the dedication and care he puts into each and every single action he takes everyday.
“It’s beautiful,” you say. “A lot nicer to look at than my cubicle, that’s for sure.”
“Do ya have any weddings coming up?”
“Yup! I have a lot of clients who’ve booked me for May next month. That’s when the wedding season gets busiest, so I figured I might as well take advantage of our slow months to come see ya. It’s been ages, Shin-kun.”
“Have ya thought about your own wedding?”
“Me?” you say, startled. “It’s not something that’s really on my mind. I mean, there’s so much work that goes into it. And can ya imagine me gettin’ married? It’s a little silly. I’m the wedding planner, not the person who throws a wedding.”
“I can,” Kita says quietly. “And ya used to want ta, didn’t ya? When we were little. Did that change?”
“Shin-kun,” you say. The two of you have stopped walking, and a spring breeze stirs your hair. “What do you mean? Did I say something like that?”
He takes a step closer to you. And wonderful Kita Shinsuke, your childhood friend, your best friend, the person you’ve always loved most in the entire world, pulls out a bundle of daisies from his pocket, green stem tied with a white ribbon, holding them out to you like a wedding ring.
“I want to marry ya,” he says plainly. “I’ve been waitin’ my whole life, ever since ya asked me when we were little. We couldn’t then, but we can now. I wanted ta make sure my finances were all right, and didn’t want to rush ya while you were still in school and settling into your job.”
“But–When did—How!” you say, words a jumbled mess. Your face is hot, hotter the sun, and you’re dizzy from the sheer intensity of Kita’s open, genuine affection. You take the flowers from him with trembling hands. They’re simple flowers, but you remember now, your childish eight-year-old self’s declaration, Kita’s response, an ordinary spring day. It was just a silly, impulsive choice, born out of the intensity of your affection for Kita, but Kita remembers, because of course he does. Because he’s always looking at you, as much as you’ve been looking at him.
“Did ya forget?” Kita says quietly, bringing your hand to his mouth, his lips ghosting across your fingertips, the promise of a kiss. He lowers your hand, but doesn’t let go, your fingers hooked over the edge of his palm. You can’t shake him off, you could never even think about it, because it’s Kita, Shin-kun, the most wonderful person in the entire world. “But I didn’t forget all this time, ever since you asked me. Even if you didn’t mean it, I did. I wanted to take my time, court you properly, ‘cause that’s just the right thing to do.”
“Shin-kun, ya said you didn’t want to marry me,” you protest, but your voice is weak even to your own ears. “I remembered that you rejected me!”
“I said we can’t, not that I didn’t want to marry you. I meant that we should wait until we were old enough to. Kids can’t get married, but adults can.”
“You weren’t very clear on that! How was I supposed to know what ya met?”
“That’s why I’m telling ya now. Marry me,” Kita whispers. “I’ve been waiting for you all my life. I can wait as long as you want me to, but I’m not as strong as ya think. I’m a greedy man when it comes to you.”
“Shin-kun, yer not being fair,” you whisper. “We haven’t even dated.”
“We don’t have ta get married right now. We can date first, get engaged. Take the time to plan everything, do it in the proper way. I love you,” he says. “I’ve loved ya ever since we were kids. If ya don’t feel the same, then you can tell me right now, and I’ll still be yer best friend. That won’t change. I’ll always love you, even if ya don’t love me in the same way.”
He’s impossible. He’s impossible, and this isn’t real, it can’t be. You bring the bundle of flowers to your face, the smooth edge of a waxen petal pressed against your lips.
You can’t hide it anymore, even if you wanted to. You can’t lie to yourself, can’t pretend that your feelings are anything other than what they are. You have to stop running, because Kita is waiting for you, right here, right now, and he’s not going to leave.
“I love you,” you say, voice choking. “Shin-kun, I love you. What are ya saying? You really think I wouldn’t feel the same way? I’ve loved ya since before I knew what love even was. Yer the most wonderful person in the world. I’d choose ya, again and again. I want to marry you, Kita Shinsuke, even if we gotta wait another ten years.”
The flowers fall from your lips as Kita cups your face, cradling you as tenderly as he’s always treated you, because he’s always going along with all your whims while never straying from your side. His lips are on yours, soft, sweet, and he kisses you. Again, and again, and again, an endless shower of kisses that rain on you, as if he’s making up for the years in which he couldn’t. And you accept his kisses greedily, parched earth finally watered, because Kita Shinsuke is the most wonderful man in the world, your best friend from childhood, and the person you love more than anyone else.
(“Yer really not going ta ask them out? I thought ya liked them. Yer young, Shinsuke. Ya gotta be bold,” Obaasan asks. She’s washing vegetables over the kitchen sink, shirt sleeves rolled up, as he chops radish on the cutting board, an efficient system for dinner that they’ve worked out ever since he moved in.
Ever since high school, she’s been slyly dropping hints about marriage, eyes drifting towards you meaningfully or inquiring about how your relationship has been going. But it’s Obaasan, so Kita dutifully entertains her questions every time even though he can see her ulterior motives, plain as day.
“I’m courtin’ them,” Kita says plainly, “In the way that works best for us. Datin’ would only make it more complicated, and I don’t think they want any of that yet, not with their job. ‘S no good to rush things. Ya taught me that.”
“Do they know that? What if someone snatches them up? They’re so cute, and they’re young and alone in a big city. Since they’re visitin’ tomorrow, ya gotta take the chance to say something, ya hear me? I want ta see the two of you at the altar soon.”
He thinks about the daisies he’s grown and picked that are now waiting patiently for your hands, the photographs from your childhood together carefully framed on his dresser, the years he’s spent by your side, nursing his feelings day by day, ritual by ritual.
“I’m not worried,” Kita says. “Because we’re important ta each other. Even if they didn’t love me like I loved them and married someone else, that wouldn’t change.”
Obaasan chuckles. “Ya know, the two of you really think alike. ‘S like yer meant to be. When you were babies, they used ta reach for ya on the playmat and chew on ya, but ya wouldn’t let go once they did. Clung to them like ya were afraid of them disappearing, like they belonged right by your side.”
“Obaasan?”
“‘S nothing. As long as the two of you find yer way to each other, it doesn’t matter how bumpy the road is. All that matters is that day by day, moment by moment, yer building yer life and relationship together. And as long as the two of you reach each other in the end, you’ll be okay.”)
Contains: Alucard x Reader, tooth rotting fluff, wolfcard, Nocturne timeline based
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
You wake up in your large shared chambers in Adrian’s castle, lying on your side. As you stir, you feel a weight on your hip. Looking down, you see Alucard in his wolf form. He does this sometimes.
The white wolf’s eyes are closed, his face nestled against you as he naps. Though you wish your love would stay in his human form, you can’t help the way your heart swells at the sight of the (very old, immortal) puppy resting so peacefully. You don’t quite understand why he does this, but he’s over 300 years old—you’ve long since decided to just let him be. If this brings him comfort, you won’t say a thing.
"Adrian, dear," you murmur, reaching down to scratch the soft fur between his ears.
"My love," you whisper again. The wolf’s eyes finally open, golden and sleepy. He shifts slightly, crawling up the bed so that his head and paws now rest on your torso instead of your hip. You gently run your fingers through his fur, humming in satisfaction as he settles.
"My love… I want to see you," you say softly.
He huffs in response, turning his head away to rest more firmly on your stomach as if to ignore your request, as he stays draped over you.
"Ornery old man," you mumble under your breath.
That must have done it, because the next time you blink, the wolf resting on your stomach is no longer a wolf.
"Old man? Ornery?" Alucard scoffs. His long white hair spills over you as he glares, amber eyes sharp with indignation.
You giggle, sitting up slightly as you run your fingers through his hair. Your thumb presses gently between his brows, smoothing out the slight scowl on his face. For a moment, he closes his eyes, relishing your touch, before blinking up at you again.
"My love, you may look young, but you are 300 years old," you remind him, voice teasing. "I’d say that gives you every right to be an easily aggravated, stubborn old man."
He intertwines his long, pale fingers with yours. "I don’t like it when you call me names, my dear," he murmurs with a small pout.
You trace your thumb over his bottom lip, amused. "You’re such a sensitive senior individual."
"Darling..." His voice is low, a warning.
You smile. "I’m sorry, my love. I forget how easily I can get under your skin."
You continue tracing his lips before gently pulling back the side of his mouth, revealing his fangs. Your thumb brushes over one of them, marveling at its sharpness.
He continues talking, ignoring the fact that you have your fingers in his mouth because—well, he’s sweet that way. "However," he mumbles, his words slightly muffled by your touch, "you are the only one capable of truly getting under my skin, which I have made so thick over three centuries… and you simply love to bully me. Such a cruel-hearted woman, being so unkind to such a tired old man."
You chuckle, still tracing his fangs. You’ve always wondered about them. He never uses them, not even for sustenance. Perhaps that’s why, over the years, he has lost so much of his coloring—his once golden hair now nearly white, his skin just as pale.
"My sweet boy," you coo, watching his reaction.
He always finds it amusing when you call him "boy" despite his age, but he loves it nonetheless.
"If I didn’t find my way under your skin at least once a day, I’d be such a bore, my love. All my charisma would be sucked right out of me," you giggle.
You finally remove your fingers from his mouth and return them to his hair, massaging his scalp as he sighs in contentment. He nuzzles into your lap, his lips curving into a small smile.
"Tell me you love me," he murmurs dramatically. "I’m so tired and worn out my love. I must be reassured that I mean a great deal to you, my dear."
"Adrian," you whisper, caressing his cheek. "You are my sunrise."
He smiles, pressing a kiss to your wrist. "And you, my sunset, my love."
You are a witch who lives on the beach of a seaside village. You've always done all you could for the people of the village who gave you a home after you washed up on their shores ten years ago. This season should be no different.
Word Count: 5,037 ✯ AO3 Version
Character(s): Azul Ashengrotto x Reader
Tags: Gender Neutral Reader, Can Be Read As Platonic or Romantic (it's up to reader interpretation), Mild Horror Elements, Unedited
Inspired by this writing prompt list and my friend Ames's writing.
“I wish to go back. I want to forget everything.”
Cool gray eyes stared back into yours as you fought to keep your focus intact in the smoky haze of the cave you found yourself in. How did you get here, again? The thoughts were languidly coiling in your mind, unable to fully form, teasing you to distraction.
“Can you afford the price of ignorance?”
The sharp command of that voice snapped up your attention back to the present, the dampness of the cave a cool balm on your feverish skin, body shaking from the wild magic choking you. The very air was saturated with it and your body was rejecting it. Your focus lapsed against a tide of nausea that rolled over you. A hand touched your cheek, the brush of fingertips a whisper of relief as your eyes opened again. You couldn’t make out his face anymore in the haze that seemed to thicken the longer you stared in search of his eyes. You had to close your eyes again to hold onto the clarity he had returned to you; your voice cracked against the last dregs of your consciousness.
“I’ve more than paid all that you’ve ever asked of me.”
Townhall was always sweltering whenever you’d enter at the request of the villagers to come in for a meal, a welcome change from the wet cold that clung to every stone and building in the village you’d come to call home ten years ago. Cheers welcomed you as you waved a greeting to everyone, who used the town hall as both the place for hearings and gatherings of meals, a communal space where everyone endured against the storms that plagued this seaside village year round.
“Come, sit!”
“Take this coat, warm yourself, dear!”
“You’ve yet to eat, haven’t you? Here, take your portion!”
Laughing and exchanging greetings with the faces you’d come to know these past ten years, you sat among them, the bowl of oats and eggs warming your frigid fingers as their boisterous chatter warmed your heart.
Resources in this village were always short, the land poorly suited to farming, while the mercurial shores made the primary way of life - fishing - difficult to maintain. Despite all this, the people of this village were always joyous. They did not shy from their hard life, they always shared as if they were as rich as the people of the plains. Among the round, smiling faces, it was easy to take note of the utter lack of children. Given that winter had begun to grip the village, it was not usual for the children to begin staying at home, yet there were no children present at all.
“How’re the children?” you asked the man next to you, who looked up at you with a smile sweetened with indolence.
He scoffed, shaking his head. “You need not worry about them, witch. Your miracle cures always work.”
“You’ve not done us wrong yet,” his wife, on his other side, giggled.
They were just as the day you’d met them, bronzed by a life of fishing, hair grayed by hard labor. Their children came to them late in life, but they always were industrious, eager to help their parents.
“The potion hasn’t taken yet?”
If this was true, then it would be quite worrying indeed. It’d already been a week and a half since you made it for them, assured of its efficacy. You were no doctor, not by any means, but you knew the way of the land and sea enough to ask of nature how to spell together ways of healing to aid the body back to health. But the villagers tittered at you to not concern yourself.
“Please, you know how easy I worry over all of you. You all took me in when I washed up on your shore, gave me a home when I had none. I won’t be able to relax until I know how the children are doing. I don’t want to see any of them die.”
They hushed you quickly.
“Don’t speak such ill omens!” the fisherman’s wife's sweet voice squealed with humor. “We’ve endured no hardship since you came to our shores, don’t jinx it, dear witch!”
The other villagers laughed in agreement. Your lips pursed, your bowl of food cold and unappetizing now. Their positive outlook despite their dreary livelihoods endeared you most days, but when it came to serious issues like this, it truly irked you. Whenever they needed your help, they had become more trusting in your ability to seemingly wipe away all worries with a sweep of your hand over the years, to the point where you seemed to sit apart from them.
“My spellwork is only what any human can ask of the land and sea. I’m no fae or spirit. Please, won’t you tell me if the potion has taken?”
But the crowd only laughed off your concerns, at ease and indolent from the warmth of the hearth and meal before them, assured that your potion would work just like every miracle you’d brought them before. You’d get no answer on the health of the children of the village from them.
Sighing, you took your leave to the raucous farewells of the villagers, a sharp shout of a brawl breaking out over your leftovers as you stepped back into the wet chill of the morning air. It gladdened you that even with the scarcity that winter would surely bring and the disease that was coming for each child, that the villagers were plump and without want for good clothes or good food. Still…the lack of concern grated at you. Of course, you’d never know their inner thoughts. Perhaps it was their way of hiding their stress and woes. But you wouldn’t be truly able to know how the children were doing unless you could see it for yourself.
You’d be unable to enter any homes to investigate without express invitation - it was only polite, after all - so you’d have to seek out the only people in this village who were always honest with you about the state of things. They’d come to this village at the same time as you, but had remained aloof from the rest of the village, which suited the other villagers just fine.
Petrichor and rotting sea gross stung at your nose as you followed the road from the town hall to the fringes of the village along the far side of the rocky cliffs that face the sea, over the cave system that snaked underneath the whole of the neighborhood. The wind coming in from the sea whipped and nipped at you, turning your fingers numb with cold even as you shoved them into the threadbare coat you’d been given that morning. It was hard to make out their forms against the near constant gloom of the gray sky and pale sunlight, but the twins who’d come to regard you fondly were fishing off the edge of the cliff, as they usually were every morning.
“Oh? I was wondering when you’d visit,” one twin grinned while the other jumped up to greet you, his fishing pole abandoned, “Shrimpy, you came by!”
You waved with a smile as you approached, unphased as Floyd ran over to scoop you up into a bruising hug, “Hello Jade, Floyd. How’s the catch this morning?”
“The same as always,” Jade dismissed, setting aside his things to pick up Floyd’s abandoned pole and tackle. “What questions do you have for us today?”
Floyd pouted, squishing your face against his chest as you limply let him hug you. It was usually best to just let him out of his system first. “Shrimpy could’ve visited us just to see us, Jade.”
“I actually did have questions,” you interjected quickly, wary of one of Floyd’s mood swings. “But we can have dinner together today, Floyd.”
He sulked, but put you down, somewhat mollified. “You’re worried about the guppies of the village, aren’t you?”
“You’ve always had a bleeding heart,” Jade mused, shaking his head. “Your potion hasn’t taken, it seems.”
You shrugged. “The villagers seem to think that I’m something of a miracle worker now.”
“They’d be worshiping Azul instead if they knew how much you went to him for his cures,” Floyd laughed, only to be cut off by Jade harshly elbowing him in the rib. “Sorry, Shrimpy. I know you just ask him to teach you stuff. Still, it’s weird.”
“Indeed. Azul is knowledgeable; it is odd that the potion hasn’t taken. There’s yet to be an ailment he doesn’t know a cure for yet.”
You swallowed down another sigh.
Azul the sea witch…
He was an enigmatic mer of the sea who’d been introduced to you by the twins one fateful night ten years ago, during your first winter in this village.
Once a deal was struck with him…
It was difficult to not seek out another one from him.
“Will you just tell me how the children are doing? Have any died?”
They shook their heads, relieving some of the tension from your shoulders. A roll of thunder had the three of you looking to the sky, which had begun to darken.
“They’re the same as when you first saw them,” Floyd turned to you with a frown, his golden eye seemingly to glow in the dimming day.
“None have been taken yet. Your potion has halted whatever haunts them. But it has not cured them,” Jade continued, his golden eye flaring brighter than Floyd’s.
You nodded, used to their matter of fact answers. You’d learned not to ask how they got these answers without ever leaving their hut ten years ago.
“He’ll arrive soon,” they said as one.
It was your cue to leave the way you’d come, following the cliffs down to the beach you had come to call home.
The horizon promised a storm the likes of which would continue to swallow the sky whole and flood the tide caves that were under the cliffs of the coast. The beach was always a disgusting thing to behold on the eve of a storm. Bleached coral, jagged and sharp, would dot the shoreline like spit-up bones, the rust of sediment thrown up by the tide always stained the sand like blood. Here, between the advent of a storm and the rejection of the sea, was the best time to harvest materials from the sea for spells and magic.
It was also the only time one would be able to exchange with the sea witch when he came to shore.
Despite having dealt with him since you’d arrived on this same shore ten years ago, shipwrecked and with no memory save your name and how to bargain a spell from the spoils of the sea and land, Azul was as unchanged as the ebb and flow of the tide itself. His skin was ashen, his tentacles a writhing mass that spoke of the abyssal depths he usually resided in, his hair neatly coiffed despite the waters he rose out of to offer his bargains.
“How quick you are to sell yourself for those who would sell you for half a loaf of bread,” he sighed in lieu of a greeting, towering over you as his tentacles pushed him up from the sea before he stepped down in front of you one human foot at a time, into the form of the bespectacled gentleman he always took when coming ashore. “Have you not heard of the tale of the fool who gave and gave until nothing of him was left? It’s been less than a week since you asked me to check over your potion.”
“You’re so cynical, yet you never decline a deal with me. Hypocrite, much?”
He scoffed, shaking his head at you. “It’s natural for a business man to weigh his risks against his potential profit. If you’re not in good condition, how am I to exact a price from you?”
You giggled as he walked away, already familiar with the path up the beach to the cottage the villagers had given you on the outskirts of the village proper. Despite the threat of the sea swallowing the ramshackle thing whole with the frequent storms that plagued the village, never once had it ever occurred to you to move residence, despite a certain sea witch’s snide remarks over the years. You would be loath to be away from the sea, and there was no home that could possibly be closer to the sea than your cottage upon the beach.
“So? What is the issue plaguing your helpless villagers this time? A charm for their nets for the season? A spell for the hearths to catch flame against damp wood? Grain for the winter?”
He looked about the single room of your home impatiently as he asked, scowling at the empty fireplace in the kitchen. It had gone out when you’d left that morning, the old window liable to drafts. The lumber in it caught fire with a single glare from him before he sat at the sad excuse of a dining table, nodding in satisfaction. You hid your smile behind the busyness of preparing tea for him, though it was really nothing more than some mint leaves and honey in tepid water.
“Medicine this time, actually. The potion I’d ask for your consultation on was for -”
“The villagers, I know,” he interrupted. “I’d gathered as much. It’s always for others, never for yourself, with you.”
You laughed, serving him the ‘tea.’ He took a long draw of it, setting it down with a huff, eyes lingering on every chip and fracture line of the cup. They mended themselves with a quiet slosh of liquid.
“The children have caught something that the potion isn’t helping. Floyd and Jade said that it’s halted whatever it is, but…it seems the children are in a stasis or sorts, it seems. None have died, thankfully. And I would like to keep it that way.”
He nodded slowly, summoning a style of fish bone as you brought out the paper you kept specifically for the deals you made with Azul.
“Yes, let’s. I’ve no love for those villagers you care for so much, but the children hold no blame here. Describe the illness to me. Then we’ll see if I can grant what you ask of me.”
So you did, listing the symptoms as they had appeared nearly a month ago now.
Each symptom appeared three days apart.
The first sign was a loss of the legs. Useless and weak, the child would become bound to their bed.
The second sign was a hallowing of the body, until the child was little more than skin and bones. They lost weight and muscle mass in a matter of hours, despite no fluids being expelled from the body, in spite of any meals or medicines given to the child.
That was when you’d begun brewing your potion to give to the children, having dealt with a similar such plague harming the village some winters before, though the rapidity of the symptoms were starkly different from what had happened in the past.
Then three days later, the day you’d been able to administer the potion after consulting Azul on the efficacy of your potion, came the latest symptom in the children you were too slow to reach.
A loss of vivacity, a stillness of the chest and breath, eyes utterly dim and vacant; as if the child had drowned. Dead in all but reality.
Azul’s stylus paused from his note taking as you described the latest of the symptoms, inks pooling onto the paper and blotting out his neat, looping script.
“The price of this is too high for you to pay.”
You didn’t blink an eye.
“You know this disease.”
It wasn’t so much a question as it was a demand of Azul to honor your ten years of bargains to answer you.
The fire in the hearth flared bright and wide, stray sparks freckling your cheeks, kissing them with sharp burns. You sat unmoved. The fire shrunk back when Azul noticed the ash that fell from your skin.
“I’m not teaching you the cure for it. Wash yourself of this situation.”
“What happened to the innocence of the children? I can take the cost of you healing them in my stead.”
The fire roared long enough for the edge of your window curtain to catch flame before it snuffed itself abruptly with a hiss, in time with Azul pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses.
“You cannot afford even that,” he hissed out from behind clenched teeth. “Must I spell it out for you? What a cost this high even means? This disease is inhuman. It is dark. Do not involve yourself in it.”
“Can’t I? You’re clever about your loopholes, Azul. Won’t you make one for me?”
He glared, standing and flicking away the stylus with a wave of his hand, the thing disappearing back to where it came in a cloud of ash, right along with the paper he’d been taking notes on.
“I’m not making this deal with you.”
Your brow twitched. “What? What do you mean you won’t? The children - “
He looked down at you, sighing out your name almost apologetically, the command effective immediately as you found yourself shackled to your chair indignantly.
“Azul!”
“Hush.” Your mouth clamped shut and you squealed your ire at him as he looked at you with pity. “You really are a bleeding heart. Know that I take no joy in the harm of children; I am an opportunist, not a monster. I will not make this deal with you. Nor will you make such a deal with any other. You will leave the humans be. If the children are not well another week from now...then I will come to shore for you. But you will leave the humans be.”
You’d be struggling in your seat against his command, but his order shocked you into stilled silence. After these ten years of knowing you, never once had he ever used your name against you like, not once, and now he used it against you in the cruelest way you could have ever imagined.
“Too sweet, you are,” he murmured, hardly able to meet your betrayed gaze. He glanced at the hearth, the flames gently leaping to life again, before turning to the door and stepping out with a look back. In a flash of lightning, he was gone, back into the sea from whence he came.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
The next seven days consisted of your anxious pacing along the shoreline, unable to enter the village proper, or even trek up the coastline to visit the twins and ask after the health of the children. You knew none of the villagers would come to see you, none of them ever entered your little beach, not once these past ten years. You wouldn’t be able to ask them anything because of Azul anyways, but it still disheartened you that no one even looked your way as you paced the shore, alternating between cursing at the sea and busying yourself with collecting the things that washed up on shore for spells that you could sell. You supposed it was just business as usual, for the villagers to not even check up on you, since you would disappear into your home for days at a time to work on the magic you used to help them each season.
The anxiety over the fate of the children was getting to you.
The minute Azul’s command lost hold on you on the dawn of the eighth day, you all but sprinted into town, anxiety practically choking you as you asked each villager how their children were fairing. Again, as they had the week before, they’d laughed and waved off your worries. Each villager you asked, the same lack of concern.
Until you reached Ms. Spade, the widower who always made sure you had your own supply of grain and linens each winter before she went to visit her mother in the mainland with her son Deuce for the season.
She called out your name in relief upon seeing you, grasping your hands with such a grip that your joints ached. “I haven’t seen you in days! What happened?”
“I wasn’t able to leave my home,” you grimaced, “How is Deuce? Is he still okay?”
Ms. Spade’s sober expression was all the answer you needed.
“We were sure it wasn’t contagious, helping the Clovers care for their youngest alongside Trey, but three days ago, both Trey and Deuce lost the use of their legs. It won’t be long now before both of them…”
You squeezed her hands in turn as her voice cracked before reaching into your pockets to produce more of the potion you’d made before, pushing them into your hands. “This is what I gave the other children. It didn’t cure the other children, but it did halt the symptoms.”
She pulled you into a brief, fierce hug before bolting off in the direction of the Clover household, her speed enough to rival her own son. Exhaling slowly to calm your racing heart, you observed the village to gauge the moods of the people around you. The majority of the villagers were indolent and smiling, but after speaking with Ms. Spade, you began to notice the wary faces of some haunting the shadows of their doorways, looking on in contempt and weary compliance.
Thunder rolled in the distance.
“You’re back in town. I thought Azul would have commanded your banishment to be longer.”
You whirled around to find Jade carrying a cooler of his morning’s catch, observing you and your nerves. Floyd was nowhere to be seen, as was to be expected. He did not enter the village proper if he could help it, always preferring to be by the sea, much like you.
“The children.”
“Still in stasis,” he reassured, pausing as his gold eye flared briefly in a glow. Something about its glow nagged at a memory that would not catch in your mind. “None have died. More have fallen ill, though. It will not be long before all of them are affected.”
You sucked in a sharp breath, Jade’s arm shooting out to steady you as you wobbled at the news, a hot wash of anger towards Azul blinding you.
“Is the storm close enough for me to see him?” you managed to spit out, clinging to his arm as he steadied you. His concerned silence had you looking up at him, eyes narrowing. “You and Floyd know more about this disease than you let on.”
“Not anymore than you did, until Azul told us. It was after he’d visited you.”
You gripped the collar of his shirt, pulling him in until you were nose to nose, your voice rough with rage, “Tell me. Tell me all of it, Jade. I’m not some child, too naive to know about the consequences of dealing in spellwork! Why the footing around the issue the minute this disease is discussed? What is happening to the children?!”
He remained calm, shifting his arm to below your waist to hoist you up into a carry, hushing your indignant shriek with a whisper of your name to command your silence. The second time in ten years that they’d dare to use your name against you.
“You’re bringing unwanted attention to us. Come, we’ll go see Azul. I’ll explain as we walk.”
You were forced to sit in his arms in silence as he carried you through the village, the curious gazes of the villagers sliding off the two of you like water as their eyes glazed over and something else caught their attention. You squeezed his shoulder with your nails as hard as you could, irritated when he hardly spared you a glance.
“At first, Floyd and I thought it was like that illness you prepared for five years ago. That was why we fished for the memory of that potion you made at the time and helped you gather the ingredients for your potions. But then Azul came to us after he confined you to your home with the symptoms you’d described to him. You hadn’t told us nearly half of what you’d told him. Floyd was quite cross with you.”
You winced, aware that Jade was cross with you as well, even if he left it unspoken. He continued on, just as matter of factly.
“As Azul told you, the disease is inhuman. To be more precise, it is a dark, forbidden magic. It is drenched in the work of fae dealings.”
He glanced up at you, making eye contact.
“Unlike Azul, the fae deals in the way of an exact, equivalent exchange.”
He looked forward again, taking care as he steps onto the beach, so as to not drop you on the uneven terrain.
His command on you had lost its hold, but you were too tremulous to open your mouth. Azul was already waiting at the shoreline, in his human form, the tide creating a semi-circle around him as it ebbed in and out.
“The children are wasting because they are being traded for - “
You slapped a hand over Jade’s mouth, unable to hear the rest. He was unbothered, setting you down. Your knees gave up, but he kept his arm around you to hold you up.
Azul approached with sigh, taking you from Jade’s hold to support you himself.
“The children have not improved on their own, I take it?”
You could barely manage a shake of your head, a cold nausea rising up within you. Azul’s hand rubbing up and down your back slowly, soothingly, kept your focus in the moment.
“These humans are why I didn’t want you to leave home,” he sighed, easing you down to the sand so that you could sit together. Jade walked off in your peripheral vision, but your focus was on Azul and his words. He hesitated for a moment, removing his glasses and looking down at them for a moment, before looking up at you. “I am…sure you noticed that the humans of this village have always been the chipper sort, despite the harshness of the land they live on. It’s what drew you to them, after all.”
You nodded slowly, fighting against the urge to close your eyes and cover your ears.
“Have you not wondered why that is? Why their life is so plentiful, when their land does not take seed, when their shores are wracked by storms so often that their one means of sustenance is not sustenance enough?”
He paused, waiting for a response, then continued on while you remained silent.
“Did you not wonder why they were so eager to welcome you and give you a home out of the abandoned shack on the beach when you offered magic in exchange for nothing but a hot meal?”
You shut your eyes, refusing to open them even as his hands cupped your face and his thumbs stroked your cheeks.
“You’ve always been a bleeding heart,” he sighed, pulling away. The air grew damp, and it was becoming hard for you to breathe as the magic in the air began to concentrate.
When had the two of you moved from the beach? Where had Jade gone?
“Do you still wish to save the children?”
You opened your eyes to meet his, swaying as your brain fought against what he was telling you, what he was asking of you. You were beginning to gag on the magic in the air.
“I wish to go back. I want to forget everything.”
Cool gray eyes stared back into yours as you fought to keep your focus intact in the smoky haze of the cave you found yourself in. How did you get here, again? The thoughts were languidly coiling in your mind, unable to fully form, teasing you to distraction.
“Can you afford the price of ignorance?”
The sharp command of that voice snapped up your attention back to the present, the dampness of the cave a cool balm on your feverish skin, body shaking from the wild magic choking you. The very air was saturated with it and your body was rejecting it. Your focus lapsed against a tide of nausea that rolled over you. A hand touched your cheek, the brush of fingertips a whisper of relief as your eyes opened again. You couldn’t make out his face anymore in the haze that seemed to thicken the longer you stared in search of his eyes. You had to close your eyes again to hold onto the clarity he had returned to you; your voice cracked against the last dregs of your consciousness.
“I’ve more than paid all that you’ve ever asked of me.”
Azul caught you, cradling you to his chest. He sighed, stroking the top of your head with a frown. You were haggard and drained, your human form ill-suited to take in the untamed magic of the cave he’d brought the two of you to, away from the beach where villagers lingered at the edges, unable to actually enter the cursed beach themselves. He traced gentle touches down your face, your shoulders, your arms, undoing the spells he’d layered upon you ten years ago when he’d delivered you to the shores of this village.
The one deal he’d regretted in the past ten years.
He kept watch over you until your breathing eased and your body adjusted to the magic saturating in the cave, laying you down in the pool of water that’d begun to grow as the tide came into the cave.
Your true form was just as breathtaking as the last he’d seen it, before you’d left home to come onto land, to be with these humans you loved so much.
“To think I’d ever break my rule to never negotiate with the fae,” he murmured, taking in your peaceful, sleeping face.
He hated humans, yes. They made it so easy to prey upon their greed. He truly did not understand what you saw in them.
But he was still no monster.
Likes and reblogs are welcomed and appreciated! If you have any questions about this story and the elements that were left open ended and up to interpretation, please feel free to send me an ask!
heehee, thank you for requesting this, Anonnie ! i used the same palette as my sunset mdni and support banners. :D I’m personally loving the second last set heheh 🤍
this palette reminds me of how the night sky goes from dark blues to purples after the sun sets and before the sun rises. original title for this was ‘night wave,’ hehe.
Want to read a SFW coming-of-age fantasy novel with evil gods, two adult aspec protagonists and magic? Consider supporting this project!
Author's Note: After a total of 8 years of posting fanfiction on this account, I am excited to announce that I am finally starting my first long-term original work as an author! Goal is to get this series published as an actual novel but until then, I will be uploading chapters online as I write them, hopefully building an audience in the process! Mortals and Fools will be available on Wattpad and potentially other platforms. The first 4 chapters will be uploaded to Tumblr as well. Over the next few weeks I will keep uploading promo posts with new characters and more info! Thank you so much to everyone who has supported me as a writer over the years and welcome to everyone who's new here!
Summary: In the land of Elsthess, brilliant but arrogant Dr. Immanuel Faust is doing his best to follow the teachings of the Goddess of Wisdom, live up to his late grandmother's expectations and hide the fact that he has been seeing strange, mystical apparitions all his life.
When his pupil becomes afflicted with an ancient curse and the things he has seen turn out to be more than just hallucinations, Immanuel must forge a contract with Morgan, a being from another realm who's ready to humble him at every turn, and learn his religion's most despised art: magic.
As he steps outside of the simple world he has grown up in, he slowly comes to realize that there is much more to learn for him still.
Themes:
The Meaning of Wisdom & Growth
Unlearning harmful narratives and prejudices
Religious Trauma
Healing from Abuse
Rebuilding trust in others
Learning to understand others
Navigating radical changes during adulthood
Elitism and class inequality
The problems with the ideal of meritocracy
Queerplatonic & Alterous Attraction
Addiction
Gender Dysphoria
What this story contains:
A variety of fun magical powers!
Evil Gods & Forces from other Realms!
Queer rep! (demisexual & aroace protagonists, a trans man and a wlw couple)
Mysteries to unravel
The coming-of-age fantasy adventures you're used to from YA novels but with characters in their 20s and struggles of adulthood
Humor
My blood, sweat and tears as an author
The Cast: Introducing 3 Characters
Here's some info on the three characters in the header, from left to right!
#1 — Dr. Immanuel Icarus Faust
❝ It wasn't supposed to be like this... I've failed... as both a doctor and a man of faith. I wanted to follow your teachings, dear Goddess, and guide those who seek wisdom and knowledge, as grandmother did... but I couldn't even save one innocent girl. Have I become godless? ❝
Raised by his grandmother, the High Priestess of Solbrynn's temple, Immanuel was taught from an early age on to aspire to be the best in everything he attempted to do and dedicate his life to wisdom, in order to make the Goddess Adira proud. Having become a renowned physician at the age of 28, Immanuel understands himself as his kingdom's ideal of a self-made man: a scholar who can achieve everything he puts his mind to, no matter the circumstances. As a result, he has put himself on a pedestal, believing that those who achieved less than him had all the chances and merely didn't use them. Fearing nothing more than failure and becoming anything like his absent, alcoholic father; Immanuel is bound for a rude awakening.
#2 — Morgan Miralaith
❝ While you were having your existential crisis in the mad scientist laboratory you call your bedroom, I took the liberty to read your grandmother's diary. The good news is, I finally understand where all the hubris comes from. ❝
Morgan, belonging to a long-lived species from the realm of Calliah, is the second-in-command for the Elsthess Resistance against the Plague Avatars. While the Resistance on Mhorunn regards her as a capable leader and a skilled fighter; using fire magic to blaze her way to victory; it is clear to most that she has many secrets and ulterior motives. She cares about others in her own way, yet hardly lets anyone close to her. With her mischievous demeanor and cynical nature, Morgan has made it her new mission to recruit Immanuel for the Resistance and, while at it, shatter his very distorted self-image and worldview. Upon forging a contract with her, Immanuel believes that he has sold his soul to a demon. It is only upon meeting others of her kind that he realizes that really is just her personality.
#3 — Mortis Grimm
❞ People reject that which is foreign to them. You of all people should know this. Still, my personal aspirations and origins are of no concern to you. Remember that. ❝
While there are several people from the Realm of Calliah in Elsthess, the realm that Mortis Grimm originated from is unknown. He seems to be the only one of his kind and there is something sinister about him. Wielding powerful magic that matches no other in recorded nature, Mortis, despite being the leader of the Resistance, is a big mystery to all of its members. Usually donning a Plague Doctor mask, Morgan is among the few to have seen his face. He is Mhorunn's greatest ally, but hardly a trusted one. Most understand that he could just as well become its greatest enemy one day.
Interested in reading more and receiving updates as they're posted? Comment on this post and tell me if you'd like to be added to the taglist! Reblogs are appreciated to spread the word! 💞
Since it's Aromantic Spectrum Awareness Week I want to thank the aro community for everything they taught me and everything they did for me even before I started to identify as frayromantic. I had so much amatonormativity to unlearn before I could arrive at this point, so this is my first aro week, but identifying as ace for years, I inevitably met a lot of aros online and saw a lot of aro positivity posts.
Truth be told, from age 14 - 19 I suffered a period of debilitating, very traumatizing emotional abuse that killed my entire social life and my abuser would make sure i couldn't form these bonds when i wanted to. As soon as I got out of that -> covid lockdown. When the pandemic restrictions were lifted I've spent 7 years at that point pretty much socially isolated aside from online contacts. And in the past 3 years I've been busy healing, studying, adulting and picking up the pieces.
It's been almost a decade now in which I didn't have a stable social life (aside from my relatives) and everyone else has always looked at me with this... weird pity for it. I had a lot of anxiety due to being ace as well; because i didn't feel like i could find that close committed relationship i wanted without engaging in sexual activity. People imagined the past decade in my life as me sitting on the couch all day wallowing in self-pity and loneliness, which honestly does such a disservice to all the places I visited, the ways in which i've grown, the art i made and the changes i made. People treated me like I had wasted 10 years of my life and constantly put pressure on me to be more social, to put myself into situations i wasn't comfortable with or to at least get a partner so I won't have to die alone. Dying alone was this terrible horror concept that was pushed onto me as my inevitable fate if i didn't get my shit together. And for the longest time I believed that. I hardly struggled with loneliness, I struggled with this internalized idea that I had failed at life - that i am a failure - if i don't have this many irl friends or a partner.
The aro community was THE FIRST SPACE that helped me dismantle this perspective of seeing the relationships in my life as an extension of myself. The first space that taught me that relationships of any kind aren't these things i have to collect to prove I've led a successful life. The first community that turned around and said "You are whole as you are. You are enough. And you don't need anyone else to complete you." And hearing that, to me, was such a wake-up call; it was such a novelty-realization in contrast to all the bullshit i had internalized, that I cried because damn, this was what I needed to hear.
Suddenly the value of my life wasn't defined by the kind of relationships and how many relationships I filled it with. Suddenly I realized that the committed relationship I wanted didn't have to be romantic (or sexual for that matter); hell, I didn't even want it to be. Suddenly I realized the biggest obstacle to enjoying life for me was all the people who told me i wasn't enjoying my life properly. The aro community taught me so much about love, self-worth and independence. And I haven't been active here for long but everyone has been so kind.
The aro community gave me all the hope and positivity that i needed to focus on myself and my life. I still want to form meaningful irl friendships and get a QPR in the future but the pressure is gone to get all of that asap or else my time on this earth is wasted. I have faith that these things will come when I'm ready and when it's the right time and even if they don't, it's not going to be the end of the world. My value as a person and the success of my life is not defined by the people in it and it never will be. Nor will yours. Nor will anyone's.
Some of y'all might be out here asking yourselves "I'm not aro, what does the aromantic community concern me?" So much. Amatonormativity and relationship hierarchy go so much deeper than just the assumption that everyone desires romantic love. The aromantic community can teach us so much and help us unlearn so many things that are ingrained into our system and into our way of thinking. We should be unlearning those things because doing so will take pressure away from all of us, no matter how we identify. The aromantic community should concern you because they're people with their own hopes and dreams who deserve to find happiness in whatever way feels right for them without the world constantly telling them they're doing it wrong.
The aromantic community has made me a more understanding, hopeful, positive and independent person and I can't thank them enough for that. Happy Aromantic Spectrum Awareness Week.
