Best friend Satoru has started dating but why does it bother you so much?
Part-2 | Masterlist
You spent the next few hours doing everything humanly possible to avoid thinking about Satoru. Unfortunately, every single thing seemed to lead back to him.
The worst part was that you felt like an absolute douchebag. Every time the ugly feeling in your chest resurfaced, every time you caught yourself wondering where he was, what he was doing, whether he was laughing or whether the date was going well, guilt immediately followed. Because what exactly gave you the right to feel this way? You had been on dates before. Plenty of them, actually. Some good, some terrible, some so painfully awkward that you had called Satoru the second you got home just to complain about them. Never once had he made you feel guilty for it. Never once had he questioned where you were going or who you were seeing. He would ask how it went, ask whether the guy was nice, whether you had fun, whether you planned on seeing him again, and then move on with his life.
There had always been an unspoken boundary between the two of you when it came to those things. Neither of you discussed details. Neither of you pried. It was respectful, comfortable, and had worked perfectly fine for years.
Which was exactly why this felt so unfair. Satoru was doing absolutely nothing wrong. You were the problem. So you tried distracting yourself.
You made dinner. You cleaned your kitchen. You folded laundry that had been sitting untouched for nearly a week.
When none of that worked, you eventually gave up and decided to watch Hail Mary, a movie you both had been looking forward to for months.
That lasted all of ten minutes. The film wasn’t even bad. In fact, from what little you managed to focus on, it was genuinely interesting. But every few scenes, some scientific explanation would pop up, and your immediate thought would be, if Satoru was here, he’d explain whatever’s happening on the screen to you in great detail.
You could practically hear him already. Some long-winded explanation about astrophysics that would start with a simple answer and somehow spiral into a forty-minute lecture that only he would find reasonable.
You paused the movie. Then resumed it. Then paused it again. Then rewind because you had completely missed what happened.
At one point you realized you had been staring at the same scene for nearly five minutes while thinking about absolutely nothing except the fact that you had originally wanted to watch it with him.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, dropping your head against the couch cushion. Everything was about Satoru. The movie. The silence. The evening. The fact that he wasn’t here. The fact that he was somewhere else. With someone else. Before your thoughts could continue spiraling, you grabbed your phone and called the first person who came to mind.
Shoko answered on the third ring.
“What?”
“Wow. So warm.”
“What do you want?”
“Can I come over?”
A brief pause. Then, “Sure.”
Twenty minutes later, you found yourself pulling on the nearest hoodie you could find, which unfortunately happened to belong to Satoru. You didn’t even realize it until it was already over your head. The familiar scent hit you almost immediately and for a second you considered changing into something else.
You didn’t. Mostly because that felt pathetic. Although, if you were being honest, pretty much everything about tonight felt pathetic.
You stared at yourself in the mirror while shoving your feet into your ugliest pair of Crocs and suddenly found yourself wondering how long it would take before you had to stop doing this. Stop stealing his hoodies. Stop treating his apartment like an extension of your own. Stop assuming there would always be room for you in every corner of his life.
Because if this date went well, eventually you’d meet her. That was how these things worked in relationships. She’d become his girlfriend. She’d meet your friends.
You’d smile. Shake her hand. Pretend your heart wasn’t actively trying to claw its way out of your chest. The thought alone made you feel sick.
By the time Shoko opened her apartment door, your mood had somehow worsened. She took one look at you and raised an eyebrow.
“Wow.”
“What?”
“You look really happy.”
You rolled your eyes and stepped inside.
“Yeah, I know.”
Shoko continued staring. “What, are you on your period?”
“Nah. I think it’s close, though.”
“Hm.” The apartment was surprisingly clean. Suspiciously clean for Shoko to be honest. You glanced around before looking at her.
“Your place looks surprisingly nice today. What miracle happened?”
Shoko immediately pointed toward the door. “Are you here to slander me?” Ignoring her entirely, you headed straight for the fridge.
“Where’s the Diet Coke?”
“Ran out.”
“Shamefull.”
You settled for water instead, filling a glass before dropping onto the couch. For a few moments neither of you spoke. Shoko watched. You avoided eye contact. Eventually she sighed.
“So.”
“So?”
“What are you here for?”
You scoffed. “I can’t just visit my friend?”
“Be so fr rn.”
You took a long sip of water. Shoko crossed her arms.
“Where’s your other half?”
You groaned immediately. “Can you stop calling him that?”
“I didn’t say his name.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Okay then. Where is he?” For a moment, the room fell quiet. Then you looked down at your glass.
“Satoru’s on a date.”
The reaction was immediate. Shoko’s eyes widened. Then she let out a slow breath.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Which is why you look like shit.” Your mouth dropped open.
“Are you serious?” She looked genuinely offended.
“Are you serious?”
“Shoko.”
“No. Seriously. Come on.” You looked away immediately. Because suddenly the floor seemed incredibly interesting. Shoko, unfortunately, wasn’t letting you escape.
“Can we drop the act already?”
“What act?”
“The one where you’re pretending you don’t know what’s wrong.” You frowned.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” She stared directly into your eyes. And then, with absolutely no hesitation whatsoever, she said, “Go tell your best friend you’re in love with him.”
The words hit you so hard that for a second you genuinely forgot how to breathe.
“What?”
“Tell him.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re in love with him.” You laughed. The sound came out strained. Almost desperate.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Baby, you’re wearing his hoodie while having an emotional breakdown because he’s on one date.”
“That is not what’s happening.”
“That is exactly what’s happening.” You buried your face in your hands.
“This is insane.” You stayed quiet. Because part of you hated how easily she said it. Like it was obvious. Like everyone knew except you.
“He is literally out on a date right now,” you finally muttered. “I’m not gonna ruin that.” Shoko stared at you. Then laughed.
“Oh wow.”
“What?”
“No, nothing.”
“Shoko, I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
Silence settled between you. For a few moments, neither of you spoke. Then eventually you sighed. A tired, exhausted sound. “I don’t know what to do, it feels weird”.
Shoko’s expression softened slightly. “There’s nothing weird about this.”
“It feels weird.”
“Only because you’re emotionally constipated.”
You glared at her.
“What about him? He’s never said anything.” Your voice dropped quieter. More vulnerable. “What if this is just me?”
Shoko didn’t answer immediately. You continued.
“What if I tell him and he doesn’t feel the same for me? What if I ruin everything? What if I lose my best friend because I got confused and decided to say something stupid?”
The fears sounded ridiculous once spoken aloud. But somehow they felt even worse now. “What if I completely destroy the most important friendship I’ve ever had?”
Shoko sighed. “You think way too much.”
“Nevermind.”
“But I get it.”
You looked at her. And for once, she wasn’t teasing. “If you’re not ready, don’t tell him yet.”
You blinked. “Really?”
“Really.”
Then she shrugged. “Maybe wait. See how things go.” The answer should have comforted you. Instead it made your stomach feel twisted.
Because there was only one problem with waiting. “What if it goes well?” The words escaped before you could stop them.
“What if the date goes really well, Shoko?”
Neither of you spoke for a moment. Then suddenly your phone lit up. An Instagram notification. Your heart immediately lurched. Satoru had posted a story. You opened it before you could stop yourself. And immediately wished you hadn’t. It wasn’t anything over the top.
No pictures together. No faces. No romantic caption either. Just a photo from the restaurant.
Your staple restaurant. The place you and Satoru practically lived in. The place that knew your usual orders before you even sat down.
His food sat on the table. And across from him, partially visible in the corner of the frame, was a woman’s hand.
Elegant and pretty with short manicured nails. Long fingers wrapped around a drink. Nothing more.
Yet somehow it felt like a punch to the stomach. You stared at it. Far longer than you should have.
“He just posted?” Shoko asked. You silently handed her the phone. She glanced at it. Then looked back at you. “He’s literally just out.”
“Yeah.”
You swallowed. Suddenly feeling exhausted.
“Yeah. I know.”
You stood and looked back to see that Shoko was frowning. “You leaving already?”
“I think so.”
“You can stay here.”
For a moment, the offer sounded tempting. Then you shook your head.
“No.” Because as comforting as Shoko’s apartment was, all you really wanted was your own bed. Your own space. Your own thoughts. Even if those thoughts were currently ruining your life.
So twenty minutes later, you found yourself walking home through the cool night air, hands buried deep inside the sleeves of Satoru’s hoodie, completely aware that his apartment was only ten minutes away.
Eleven o’clock on Friday nights had always belonged to Satoru.
You realized that sometime around midnight when you were lying in bed staring at the ceiling, your phone resting face down on the mattress beside you. It wasn’t some official arrangement the two of you had made. Nobody had ever sat down and declared Friday nights sacred. It had simply happened over the years. Sometimes you ordered pizza. Sometimes it was takeout from that noodle place both of you loved. Sometimes one of you would show up at the other’s apartment carrying snacks and demanding a movie marathon. There had been entire Friday nights spent doing absolutely nothing except existing in the same room together, each occupied with your own thing while occasionally exchanging commentary about whatever ridiculous thought crossed your minds.
But tonight was different. Tonight, Satoru was on a date. And somehow that simple fact managed to make your apartment feel emptier than it actually was.
The thing that bothered you most was the silence.
Normally, if Satoru went anywhere interesting, your phone would be unusable within twenty minutes. He texted like he breathed. Constantly. Endlessly. You knew every minor inconvenience that happened during his day because he insisted on documenting all of them. He sent photos of food. Photos of random animals he encountered on the street. Photos of clouds that looked funny. There were entire conversations saved in your messages that consisted of nothing except him complaining about basketball practice or showing you memes at three in the morning.
Tonight there was nothing.
No texts.
No random texts, no complaints, no photos either. And that silence felt louder than anything else. Because if Satoru wasn’t texting you, then he was occupied.
And if he was occupied, then that probably meant the date was going well. The realization sat heavily in your chest. Of course it was going well. Satoru has always been a real charmer.
He was funny. Kind. Smart. Ridiculously attractive. Any girl would be lucky to have him. The thought alone made you want to punch a wall.
Eventually, exhausted by your own thoughts, you buried yourself beneath your blankets and forced yourself to sleep because surely there wasn’t a single problem in existence that couldn’t be made slightly more tolerable after a decent nap.
Unfortunately, when you woke up the next morning, the problem was still there. And there was still no text from Satoru.
You stared at your phone for a long moment while your coffee brewed.
Nothing.
No good morning. No update. No stupid meme. Complete silence. The rational part of your brain immediately came up with explanations.
Maybe he slept late. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he woke up late in her bed... That last possibility made your stomach turn.
Because eventually, wasn’t this exactly what was supposed to happen? He was allowed to fall in love, find a partner.
It was normal.
Nobody wanted their boyfriend texting his female best friend twenty-four hours a day. Nobody wanted to compete with a friendship that had existed for years.
Eventually there would be boundaries. Eventually there would be distance. Eventually you would stop being the first person he texted every morning And perhaps the most painful part was realizing that nobody was actually doing anything wrong.
This wasn’t betrayal. This wasn’t abandonment. This was life. This was what growing up looked like. You just hated it.
The thought lingered with you while you made breakfast. Two fried eggs, coffee, your vitamins lined up beside the plate. You forced yourself to eat despite having little appetite. Then you got dressed.
Normally you didn’t care that much. University wasn’t a fashion show for you. Most days you grabbed the first thing available and called it a day. Today was different. Today, despite everything, some stubborn part of you wanted to look nice.
You hated that too. So you picked a top that complimented your figure, threw on a pair of baggy jeans, pulled your hair into a messy bun, slipped into your favorite shoes, and headed for campus.
The entire way there, you kept telling yourself not to think about him. The entire way there, you failed.
By the time you reached your locker, your eyes were already drifting every few seconds. Because usually he was there. Usually Satoru would walk with you before class.
Usually he would find some excuse to steal your coffee and still call it disgusting knowing that it would always be bitter. Usually there would be a conversation. Today there wasn’t any of it.
Maybe he did wake up late beside somebody else.
The thought hit so violently that you physically flinched. Immediately disgusted with yourself. Immediately shoving the image away. You put your AirPods in. Went to walk towards your class. Focused on your notes. Focused on literally anything except the constant ache sitting somewhere beneath your ribs.
It worked until lunch. Because the moment you stepped outside, there he was.
Satoru.
Standing exactly where he always stood. Like nothing had changed. Like the last twenty-four hours hadn’t completely wrecked your emotional stability.
Your stomach betrayed you instantly. He looked tired. Not exhausted. Just slightly off.
His hair was messier than usual. A pair of sunglasses rested on top of his head. He wore a white shirt beneath a grey sweater, loose blue jeans hanging comfortably from his frame.
And for some reason, today you noticed everything. Which felt incredibly unfair.
“Hey,” he said.
You hated how relieved you felt hearing his voice.
“Hey.”
“How are you?”
“Good.” A lie.
“What about you?”
Something shifted across his expression. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything else.
“Good. Pretty good.”
You nodded.
He nodded.
The conversation suddenly felt awkward in a way it never had before. “Wanna grab lunch?” he asked.
“Sure.”
And just like that, the two of you started walking. For a few moments neither of you spoke. Then, because apparently self-destruction was your favorite hobby, you asked the question anyway.
“So.”
Satoru glanced over.
“So?”
“How was the date?” The effect was immediate. A faint blush crept across his cheeks. His hand moved to the back of his neck.
And suddenly your heart sank straight into your stomach. Because that wasn’t the reaction of somebody who had a terrible time.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It was good.”
Oh
“I’d say it went pretty well.” The smile you forced onto your face felt painful. “Oh. That’s awesome.” You could practically hear your heart breaking.
“Yeah.”
“What did you guys do?” He looked away briefly.
“We had dinner. Got ice cream after. Walked around for a bit and all you know…His smile softened. Then came the final blow.
“We’ll probably go out again.”
Here we go. .
Suddenly it wasn’t just one date. It wasn’t just a possibility. It was becoming something. Something real. Something permanent. Something that might eventually take your place.
“That’s amazing.” Your voice sounded strange when you heard it out loud.
“I’m happy for you, Satoru.” You weren’t sure if he believed you. You barely believed yourself. The silence stretched. And if you stayed any longer, you were going to cry.
Right there in the middle of campus. In front of him. So before your emotions could completely betray you, you adjusted your bag and forced another smile.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“I completely forgot. I have somewhere to be.”
Confusion immediately crossed his face.
“Right now?”
“Yeah.”
“Weren’t we getting lunch?”
“Rain check.” You took a step backward. Then another. Every instinct screaming at you to leave. To get away. To breathe. “See you later, okay?”
He looked like he wanted to say something. But you didn’t give him the chance. You turned. And walked away as fast as you possibly could. By the time you reached the next building, your vision was blurring.
You hated it all. You hated this. Hated yourself. You hated that some stupid date had reduced you to this pathetic version of yourself that was full of envy. Most of all, you hated how badly it hurt.
Because for the first time in your life, you genuinely felt like you were losing him. And over the next two days, you did everything possible to avoid him. You went to class. Went home. Ignored his texts & calls. Ignored every notification that carried his name.
You built a routine around avoiding Satoru Gojo. A devastating, miserable routine. Because every time you saw him, you felt like saying something you couldn’t take back. And every time you imagined him with her, something ugly twisted inside your chest.
Sometimes, in your worst moments, you found yourself hoping she would break his heart. The thought horrified you every single time.
Because you loved him. Maybe not in the way Shoko insisted. Maybe not in the way romance novels described. But enough that you should want him to be happy.
Instead, you found yourself staring at your unanswered messages one evening, guilt pooling heavily in your stomach, when suddenly your phone began ringing again.
Satoru.
For the twenty-third time.
You almost ignored it.
Almost.
Then another notification appeared. Not a call but a text. And for the first time in two days, you considered looking at what he had to say.
Summary: You are a part of Grace's avatar programme. You make the mistake of following Jake on the expedition and narrowly escape death. You would kill him but the dumbass somehow got you both to the hearts of the Ometikaya.
Word Count: 9.5k
Warnings: N/A
A/N: The long awaited part 2 of the ceremony! Enjoy my lovelies!
However! I have to let you know that because I was able to get this chapter out early, i moved some pockets of time around and I will have to postpone the next one to around the 6th June and I won’t be able to negotiate on that 😭 so once again: thank you for your patience 🫶
For a moment after the kiss, neither of you moved. The air itself felt altered. Too warm. Too thin. Your pulse had not settled; if anything, it only deepened, each breath uneven beneath the weight of what had just happened. You could still feel him- his hand at the side of your face, the restraint that had finally broken, the brief devastating moment where he had stopped holding himself apart from you. And the worst part- you wanted him to do it again. The thought struck hard enough to shame you for it. Because this was not simple. It could never be simple.
Tsu’tey had already pulled back, though not far enough to truly feel distant. His shoulders were tense beneath the firelight, jaw tight, gaze fixed somewhere just past you as though refusing to look directly at what he had done. Or what you had allowed.
Silence stretched painfully between you. You swallowed once, trying to steady yourself. “You said that shouldn’t have happened.”
“It should not have.” His voice was rougher now. Less controlled. But still firm. The answer hurt more than it should have. Because part of you had hoped- No. You pushed the thought away before it could fully form.
Tsu’tey exhaled slowly and reached for the pigment again, though the movement lacked its earlier certainty. His fingers flexed once around the small carved bowl before he finally looked back at you.
And the moment his eyes met yours- something in his expression shifted. Not regret. No, that would have been easier. It was worse than regret. Want. Carefully restrained. Quietly suffering beneath discipline and duty and every expectation placed upon him since birth. Your chest tightened painfully.
“You should not look at me like that,” he said softly.
“Like what?”
“As though you are waiting for me to choose differently.” The words landed hard because they were true. Not entirely. But enough.
You looked away first. “That isn't fair,” you murmured.
“No.” His voice lowered further. “It is not.”
The silence returned. Heavy now. You stared at the markings drying along your skin, unable to stop your thoughts from turning toward the truth you had tried not to touch all day. Neytiri. The future already waiting for him. The future the clan expected. You knew what it meant for a warrior like Tsu’tey to turn away from that duty. You knew the shame it would bring- not only upon him, but upon everyone tied to the choice. And no matter what had just passed between you- no matter how his hands had trembled when he touched you- you would never ask that of him. Even if some selfish, aching part of you wanted to.
Tsu’tey moved closer again. Not intimately this time. Carefully. Controlled. He dipped his fingers into the pigment once more before speaking. “We will finish this.” Practical words. But his voice lacked steadiness. You nodded silently.
The final markings remained unfinished along your thighs, the ceremonial patterns meant to wind upward in clean, deliberate lines. You shifted slightly to allow him room, though the movement only made the tension between you worse somehow- because now you were aware of everything. How close he sat. How carefully he avoided touching more than necessary. How much effort it cost him.
His hand settled lightly just above your knee, grounding rather than possessive as he began tracing the next line upward. The touch should have felt clinical. It did not. Your breath caught anyway Tsu’tey’s jaw tightened.
Neither of you spoke. The silence became unbearable precisely because it was controlled. Because both of you were trying so hard not to acknowledge what had changed.
His fingers moved slowly, steadying your leg as he painted the next pattern into your skin with meticulous care. But every now and then his thumb brushed lightly against you- not enough to be accidental, not enough to openly mean anything either. You hated how aware of it you were.
“You are shaking,” he said quietly.
“So are you.” That made him pause. Only briefly. Then he resumed.
“You should be thinking of tonight,” he said after a moment.
“I am trying.”
“No,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the markings rather than your face. “You are thinking about this.”
You swallowed. “…yes.”
His hand stilled again. For one dangerous second, it seemed as though he might lean toward you a second time. The tension in him pulled tight enough that you felt it in your own chest. But then- discipline returned. Cruel in its necessity.
“You deserve clarity before Eywa,” he said carefully. “Not confusion.”
Something inside you twisted. “And what if it’s already too late for that?”
At last he looked at you. Really looked at you. The conflict in his expression nearly undid you completely. Because he wanted more too. That was the unbearable part. Not uncertainty. Not rejection. Wanting- and refusing anyway.
“Tsu’tey…” you began softly. A sound outside the alcove interrupted you both. Footsteps. Nearer now. Teyra. The moment shattered instantly. Tsu’tey drew back at once, composure snapping back into place with painful speed. By the time Teyra appeared at the entrance, he had already lowered his gaze to the final painted line, finishing it with steady precision no one else would question. Only you noticed the tension still lingering in his shoulders. Only you noticed how carefully he avoided looking at you again.
Teyra stepped inside and slowed immediately. Her eyes moved between you both once. Then lingered. Not suspicious. Knowing. But merciful enough not to speak of it. “The markings are beautiful,” she said softly.
Tsu’tey set the pigment aside and rose to his feet. “They are finished,” he said. His voice had returned to normal. Almost. But as he stepped past you toward the exit, his hand brushed lightly against yours for the briefest moment. One final touch. Gone before anyone else could notice. Yet enough to leave your pulse unsteady long after he disappeared from the alcove.
The silence Tsu’tey left behind lingered long after he disappeared from the alcove. You could still feel the imprint of him everywhere. In the warmth lingering against your skin where his hands had steadied you. In the ghost of his mouth against yours. In the unbearable awareness that something had shifted between you both- and neither of you had truly known what to do with it once it had happened.
You sat motionless for a moment too long. Then Teyra moved closer. Quietly. She knelt beside you before finally looking at you properly. And the moment your eyes met hers- you knew she understood. Not every detail. But enough. Heat rose instantly beneath your skin. “It wasn't-” you began. Teyra lifted a hand gently, silencing you before the excuse could fully form. “You have no need to explain,” she said softly. Mercy. That was what it was. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Teyra…”
“No,” she murmured, her expression warm with quiet understanding. “You do not need to explain something your own heart has not yet understood.” You looked away. Because if you kept looking at her, you thought perhaps she might see too much. The conflict. The wanting. The painful certainty that wanting changed nothing.
Teyra let the silence settle for a moment before reaching for a cloth, dipping it into the basin beside her. “The beads come later,” she said lightly, almost conversational now as she cleaned a faint streak of pigment from your arm. “After the ceremony. After Eywa hears you.”
You nodded absently. Your thoughts were still elsewhere. Teyra noticed immediately. Of course she did. “You think too loudly,” she said. You huffed faintly. “That is not possible.” She made a small humming sound. “It is for you.” That finally pulled the smallest breath of amusement from you. Satisfied, Teyra settled more comfortably beside you, folding one leg beneath herself.
“When I stood before Eywa for my own ceremony,” she said softly, “I thought I would faint before reaching the Tree of Voices.” You blinked, glancing toward her in surprise. “You?”
“Yes, me.” A smile touched her lips. “I was far less calm than you are now.”
“That seems impossible.”
“Oh, I was terrible.” Her eyes softened with memory. “I nearly argued with the Tsahìk halfway through the preparations.” That startled an actual laugh from you. Teyra looked pleased by the sound.
“You never told me this.”
“There are many things I have not told you.” Something in her voice shifted slightly then- not sad exactly, but distant. Thoughtful.
You watched her carefully. “Teyra…” you said softly. “What was he like?”
Her gaze lifted slowly to yours. For a moment, she did not answer. Then, quietly- “Wild.” The word carried affection so deep it almost ached. A faint smile touched her mouth as she looked somewhere beyond the alcove walls, beyond Home Tree itself. “He was not Omatikaya,” she said. “That was the first problem.”
You frowned slightly. “Another clan?” She nodded. “A small forest clan far to the east.” Her fingers traced absently along the edge of the cloth in her lap. “He came here during trade seasons. The first time I saw him, he insulted my hunting knife.”
You stared at her. “That was your first meeting?”
“It was a very good knife.”
You laughed softly again, and Teyra’s smile widened with the memory. “He thought I carried it too high at my hip,” she continued. “I told him if he kept speaking, I would use it.”
“That sounds more like you.”
“It was not an empty threat.” You could picture it far too easily. Teyra younger. Fierce-eyed and sharp-tongued, standing face-to-face with some reckless hunter stubborn enough not to retreat.
“He came back the next season,” she said quietly. “And the season after that.” The warmth in her expression deepened now, softening every line of her face. “He was…” She paused briefly, searching for the right words. “He saw me as though I was something untamed instead of something that needed softening.” Your chest tightened unexpectedly. “And the clan accepted that?”
A quiet huff of amusement left her. “No.” That answer surprised you less. “My father wished me to choose someone safer,” she said. “Someone Omatikaya. Someone predictable.” Her eyes flickered briefly toward you. “But your heart does not become smaller simply because others ask it to.”
The words settled heavily between you. Not accidental. Never accidental. You swallowed slowly. “What happened?” you asked quietly. Teyra grew still. The silence that followed felt different this time. Older. Her gaze lowered briefly to her hands. And suddenly you knew. Not the details. But enough. “Teyra…”
She looked up quickly then, the softness returning at once before grief could fully surface. “No,” she said gently. Not harsh. Not closed off. Just certain. “Not today.” Your chest tightened with immediate regret. “I didn't mean to-”
“I know.” Her hand found yours briefly, warm and reassuring. “But if I continue this story, you will begin your ceremony with tears in your eyes, and I would rather you begin it standing tall.” Emotion caught unexpectedly in your throat. Teyra squeezed your hand once before rising gracefully to her feet.
Outside the alcove, the light had begun to deepen toward dusk. The time had come. Teyra looked down at you, her expression softening with something deeply maternal now. “Come,” she said quietly. Your pulse quickened instantly. Not from fear alone. From understanding. This was real now. The ceremony. Eywa. Everything waiting beyond this moment. Teyra extended her hand toward you. And after one final steadying breath- you took it.
Dusk settled over Home Tree like a held breath. The celebration fires had not yet been lit. No laughter echoed through the great hollow now, no easy conversation drifting between the woven walkways. The clan had quieted as the hour approached, reverence sinking into the living heart of the Omatikaya like roots into earth. Everything felt suspended. Waiting.
Teyra walked beside you in silence. Not because there was nothing left to say, but because words no longer belonged to this part of the night. The ceremonial markings across your skin had dried fully now, glowing faintly where the pigments caught the dim blue light woven through Home Tree’s living walls. The air grew cooler as Teyra guided you deeper- down winding pathways rarely walked except during sacred rites, past immense roots twisting through the earth like the bones of something ancient.
The sounds of the clan faded behind you. Until there was only the quiet pulse of life beneath the tree itself. You swallowed slowly. The deeper chambers of Home Tree opened at last before you. Massive roots spiralled upward and downward together, encircling a wide hollow chamber bathed in bioluminescent light. Tendrils glowed softly along the walls like veins carrying Eywa’s breath through the living wood. The air here felt different. Heavier. Sacred. It held the same weight as the area Mo'at had you connect to the same roots of Home Tree.
They were already waiting. Mo’at stood at the centre of the chamber draped in ceremonial adornments, her presence calm and immovable as stone. Beside her stood Eytukan, solemn and watchful. And beside him- Tsu’tey.
Your pulse shifted instantly. His gaze found you the moment you entered. Not lingering. Not openly. But enough. Enough to bring back the memory of his mouth against yours so vividly that your chest tightened painfully beneath it. You looked away first.
As though sensing the exact moment the tension threatened to rise again, movement stirred behind you. Neytiri entered alongside Jake. The shift in the room was immediate.
Jake looked uneasy despite his efforts to hide it, his eyes moving over the chamber with uncertainty that felt almost loud in the sacred quiet. Neytiri walked beside him with far more composure, though something guarded lingered beneath it tonight. Tsu’tey noticed them too. You saw it in the subtle tightening of his jaw. In the way his posture sharpened without movement.
Then Jake looked at you. Really looked at you. For a moment, the chamber seemed to quiet further around that glance alone. There was remorse in his expression still- raw and unresolved from the truth he had finally spoken aloud. But beneath it now sat something else too. Determination. Hope. As though despite everything, despite the anger surrounding him and the damage already done, he still intended to prove himself worthy of remaining here. Of surviving this.
His gaze flickered briefly toward the roots surrounding the chamber. Toward Mo’at. Toward the sacred rite waiting for both of you. He knew what this challenge was. Everyone did. Eywa’s dream trials did not simply test the spirit. They could kill the unworthy. The weak. The unprepared. Jake swallowed once, then gave you the smallest nod. Quiet. Subtle. But full of meaning.
I am sorry.
I will survive this.
You must survive too.
Something tightened painfully in your chest. Because for the first time since his confession, he no longer looked like a man standing between two worlds. He looked like someone desperately trying to choose one before it was too late. You held his gaze for one brief moment longer before Mo’at spoke.
“Come forward.” Her voice carried through the chamber like something older than sound itself. You obeyed instinctively. Jake stepped forward at the same time you did, both of you guided toward the centre where glowing tendrils spiralled upward from the roots beneath your feet. The chamber seemed to close around you.
Teyra moved silently away, taking her place among those seated along the outer roots. You caught sight of her settling beside Neytiri- and beside Tsu’tey. The sight twisted strangely in your chest. Tsu’tey did not look at Neytiri. He was watching you.
Mo’at approached slowly, carrying two small living creatures cupped carefully within carved bowls woven from roots and leaves. At first glance they resembled luminous worms, their translucent bodies pulsing with soft blue light beneath thin skin. Eywa’s breath.
The Dream Challenge.
Jake glanced toward the creature with visible uncertainty. You remained still. Mo’at stopped before you both. “Tonight,” she said softly, “Eywa will see what lies within your spirit.” The chamber had gone utterly silent now. Even breathing felt too loud. “You will walk where truth cannot hide.” Mo’at lifted one glowing creature carefully toward you. “Do not resist what you are shown.”
The worm writhed faintly in her palm, light flickering softly against her weathered skin. You inhaled once. Then accepted it. The creature dissolved almost immediately against your tongue, warmth flooding down your throat in strange pulses of heat and cold all at once. Beside you, Jake swallowed his own with considerably more hesitation.
Mo’at began to chant. Low. Steady. Ancient words spiralling through the chamber as the others joined softly beneath her voice. The sound vibrated through the roots beneath your feet, through the air itself, through your bones.
Something shifted. The world tilted subtly. Your pulse slowed. Then quickened. The glowing roots around you seemed brighter now- too bright, breathing with impossible rhythm as the chant deepened around you.
Jake swayed beside you. You felt it too. The sensation crawling beneath your skin. Wrong. Powerful. Mo’at circled slowly around you both, her chant rising louder now while the others echoed her rhythm from the edges of the chamber. The world blurred. Your heartbeat thundered. Then-
Pain. Sharp and sudden. You gasped as something struck hard against the base of your spine. A scorpion. Its tail buried briefly into your back before withdrawing instantly. Beside you, Jake cried out as the second struck him too.
The venom hit immediately. White-hot agony tore through your body so violently your knees buckled beneath you. Your breath vanished entirely as pain arched up your spine, twisting through every nerve until the chamber itself shattered into light and sound.
The chamber blurred. The pain was unbearable. Not contained to your body- everywhere. Inside your blood. Inside your bones. The venom spread through you like fire threaded with light, burning through every nerve until you thought your body might tear itself apart beneath it.
You heard yourself cry out. Or thought you did. The chanting grew louder. No. Closer. Inside you. Your vision fractured suddenly into streams of blue and silver light. The roots around you glowed brighter- too bright- and then you saw them.
At first only flashes. Lines of light beneath skin. You blinked hard against the agony flooding your body, but the sight only sharpened further. The Na’vi surrounding you were glowing. Not externally. Within. Mo’at stood before you wreathed in streams of pale gold and blue threading through her body like living rivers. The light moved through her veins, through her chest, through her queue where it pulsed strongest of all.
Then the lines extended outward. Connecting. Teyra. Neytiri. Eytukan. Tsu’tey. Every heartbeat in the chamber became visible. Every pulse. The roots beneath Home Tree surged with luminous strands spreading outward from every living body, weaving together beneath the earth in endless patterns too vast to follow.
Your breath caught violently. Not just visible. You could feel them. The heartbeat nearest to you slammed hard into your chest first. Jake. Fast. Uneven. Fear beneath it. Then another. Tsu’tey. Strong. Controlled. But something more beneath it. Something restless. Something straining.
Then all of them at once. The chamber exploded into sensation. Hundreds of heartbeats crashed through you in overlapping rhythm, intertwining so completely you could no longer separate one from another. Emotion flooded through the connection alongside them- fear, grief, love, hope, pain—raw and unfiltered until it became unbearable.
You gasped sharply, clutching at your chest. It hurt. Eywa- it hurt. The connection was too much. Too vast. Too alive. The roots beneath your palms pulsed violently in response, streams of light surging upward through your hands and into your body. This was Eywa. Not a distant goddess. Not simply spirit. Connection. Every living thing bound together beneath the same pulse. The same breath. The same life.
You felt Home Tree itself. Felt the immense ancient heartbeat deep beneath the roots, slow and powerful enough to shake the air around you. You felt the forest. Creatures moving miles away. Trees breathing. Water flowing through roots beneath the earth. And all of it- all of it- connected.
The realization struck with overwhelming force. No one was alone here. No death happened in isolation. No pain belonged to only one body. Everything touched everything else. The sheer immensity of it drove another cry from your throat as the connection flooded harder through you. Tears streamed freely down your face now, your body trembling violently beneath the weight of sensation.
Too much. It was too much to hold. You could feel Tsu’tey suddenly- more clearly than before. Not physically. His heartbeat. Steady and powerful beneath layers of restraint, but pulsing faster now as concern rippled sharply through the bond the venom had forced open.
Your gaze lifted instinctively. Across the chamber, through blurred vision and streams of light, you found him immediately. And for one impossible moment- you felt him feel you. Not words. Emotion. Fear. Want. The terrible helplessness of watching you in pain while unable to reach you.
The connection slammed into you so violently it stole your breath. You understood then why the bond to Eywa was sacred. Why severing it would destroy more than bodies. It would destroy being.
The pain intensified sharply. The chamber began dissolving around you. The glowing roots stretched impossibly outward, unravelling into endless streams of silver and blue threading through darkness itself. The heartbeats grew louder. Faster. Then merged entirely into one vast thunderous pulse that consumed everything around you.
Someone was shouting. Or maybe chanting. You could no longer tell. Your hands hit the roots beneath you. The ground no longer felt real. The pain became something else. Weightlessness. Your vision fractured into streams of glowing blue, the roots of Home Tree stretching impossibly far around you like veins threading through the universe itself. Then-
Everything fell away. The chamber disappeared. The chanting disappeared. Your body disappeared. And somewhere far below, you felt yourself collapse fully as your spirit was pulled upward into something vast and endless.
Eywa.
The sensation was impossible to describe. Like drowning. Like flying. Like every thought and memory inside you being touched by something ancient beyond comprehension. Then... silence.
You opened your eyes. You stood alone. The world around you was unfamiliar now- vast bioluminescent forests stretching endlessly beneath a sky too bright with stars. The air shimmered strangely, alive with drifting particles of light. No Home Tree. No chamber. No Jake. Separate paths. Separate truths.
You stood alone beneath a sky that did not belong to any world you knew. At first, the spirit forest seemed beautiful. The trees towered impossibly high above you, their branches woven with drifting strands of light that moved like living stars. Bioluminescent mist curled low across the ground, glowing softly around your feet with every step you took. The air itself shimmered faintly, heavy with Eywa’s presence- vast and endless and watching.
But beneath the beauty- something was wrong. You felt it immediately. The forest was too quiet. No distant calls. No movement in the undergrowth. No pulse of life beneath the silence. Only waiting.
Your breath fogged faintly before you despite the warmth of the air. You turned slowly, every instinct tightening within you. “Eywa?” you called softly. No answer came. Only the distant creak of trees swaying where no wind touched them. Your hand moved instinctively toward the knife you usually kept at your hip. It was there. Relief flickered briefly. Then-
A sound split the silence. Low. Deep. A growl. Every muscle in your body locked instantly. The forest shifted around you. Not physically. Something deeper. The sensation of becoming prey. Your pulse thundered once. Twice.
Then movement exploded through the trees. You spun just as a massive shape tore through the glowing mist- a viperwolf larger than any you had ever seen, its eyes burning with unnatural white light as it lunged.
You barely moved in time. Its claws ripped through the space your throat had occupied moments before as you threw yourself aside, hitting the ground hard before scrambling back to your feet. The creature wheeled toward you instantly. Too fast. Too silent. Its jaws peeled back in another growl that rattled through your bones. Then it charged again.
You ran.
Branches whipped against your skin as you tore through the spirit forest, your breathing harsh against the terrible silence surrounding you. The creature pursued relentlessly behind you, its snarls echoing too close, too fast. This was the challenge. Survive. Hunt or be hunted.
You leapt over twisted roots glowing blue beneath your feet, your mind narrowing sharply into instinct. Every lesson. Every hunt. Every movement your body had ever learned surged forward now.
The creature lunged again. You spun this time. Your knife flashed. The blade struck deep into the side of its shoulder- and the creature screamed. Not a predator’s cry. Pain. Real pain. The sound tore through you unexpectedly. The beast staggered backward, collapsing heavily against the roots beneath it.
You froze. Its glowing eyes met yours. And suddenly- it changed. Not all at once. The great body shimmered strangely, the white light beneath its skin flickering violently before the shape began to distort. Bones shifting. Limbs stretching. The snarling jaw softened into something almost familiar-
Until you stumbled back in horror. It was no longer a viperwolf. A direhorse lay before you now, trembling violently where your blade had pierced it. Its sides heaved. Blood darkened its glowing skin. And its eyes. Its eyes held no rage. Only suffering.
Your breath caught painfully. “No…” The direhorse struggled weakly, trying to rise. The sight twisted through your chest with unbearable force. This was wrong. Eywa would never-
Then understanding hit you. Not a hunt. A choice. Your grip loosened on the knife. Slowly, cautiously, you lowered yourself toward the creature instead of finishing the kill. The direhorse flinched violently at first. Then stilled. Your hand trembled as it reached toward the wound. “I see you,” you whispered softly.
The moment the words left you- the forest exploded. A deafening roar tore through the spirit world. The ground shook violently beneath your knees as light fractured around you in blinding flashes. The direhorse vanished. The trees vanished. Everything vanished. And suddenly-
Fire.
You gasped sharply. The spirit forest had become a nightmare. The sky burned above you, thick black smoke pouring through shattered trees while screams echoed from every direction. Gunships roared overhead like monsters, their searchlights cutting through the forest as explosions tore the earth apart.
Your heart stopped. “No…” You knew this place. Home Tree. Or what remained of it. Massive roots burned around you. The sacred walls had split open under impossible force, glowing embers raining through the smoke while Na’vi voices cried out in terror. Panic surged violently through your chest. This was the vision. Not possibility anymore. Truth.
You stumbled forward through the chaos, your breathing ragged as devastation unfolded around you. Children crying. Warriors falling. The forest itself screaming beneath the destruction. Then you saw him.
Jake.
He stood below one of the burning roots, human weapons roaring in the distance behind him while horror carved itself openly across his face. Not triumph. Not loyalty to his own kind. Grief. He looked shattered by what he was witnessing. And still- it was happening. Because of him.
The realization struck like a blade through your ribs. Your vision blurred with furious grief. “This is your fault,” you whispered. Jake looked up suddenly. As though he had heard you. For one impossible moment, his eyes met yours through the burning smoke. And you saw it. Remorse. Desperation. A man realizing too late that he had carried destruction directly into the heart of the people he had begun to love.
Then the world shifted again. The screams faded. The fire dimmed. And suddenly- you stood somewhere quiet. Still. The spirit forest had returned, but darker now, shadowed beneath silver light. A figure stood ahead beneath the glowing trees. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Still.
Your breath caught. “Tsu’tey.” Tsu’tey turned slowly toward you. For a moment, relief nearly overwhelmed you. Until you saw the blood. It covered him. Dark against his skin. One arm hung uselessly at his side while deep wounds cut across his chest as though from battle. “Tsu’tey-”
You moved toward him immediately. He did not. His gaze held yours steadily, painfully calm despite the blood dripping slowly from his fingertips. “You see now,” he said quietly. Fear clenched hard inside your chest. “No.”
“You cannot stop what is coming.”
“I can try.”
“You cannot save everyone.”
The words felt wrong. Not because they were cruel. Because they sounded true. You reached him at last, your hands grasping desperately for him despite the blood staining your palms. “This isn't real.” His expression softened then. Devastatingly so. “Does that matter?” Your throat tightened painfully. “No,” you whispered.
The forest around you dimmed further. Tsu’tey lifted one hand slowly, pressing it lightly against your cheek the same way he had before the ceremony. Warm. Familiar. Breaking you apart. “You stand between love and grief,” he said softly. “And soon you will learn they are not always different things.” Your vision blurred. “No…”
“You must choose what remains when fear takes everything else.” His hand began slipping from your skin. You grabbed for it immediately. “No!” But his form was already fading into streams of glowing light beneath your fingers. Panic surged violently through you. “Tsu’tey!”
The spirit forest shattered. Light exploded around you once more. Silence. Complete. Endless. You stood alone again beneath the stars of Eywa’s dream. And somewhere far beyond the spirit world- your real body still lay trembling beneath Home Tree while the dream continued.
Silence swallowed everything. No fire. No screaming. No forest. Only endless darkness threaded with faint streams of silver light drifting beneath your feet like roots beneath water. You stood motionless, your breathing uneven, your hands still trembling from where Tsu’tey had vanished beneath your grasp. The ache of it lingered horribly. Not only fear. Not only grief. But the terrible realization that Eywa had shown you something because it mattered. Because it could happen.
Your chest tightened painfully. “You cannot save everyone.” His voice echoed through your mind with unbearable clarity. You closed your eyes briefly, trying to steady yourself. But the moment you did- the darkness shifted. Light bloomed slowly around you. Not violent this time. Gentle.
The silver beneath your feet spread outward into glowing roots that spiralled endlessly through the void, pulsing softly like veins carrying life through the universe itself. Eywa. You felt her now more clearly than before. Not as a voice. Not as a figure. Something larger. Ancient beyond understanding. Present in everything.
The glowing roots moved around you slowly, drifting upward into the darkness until they formed shapes- memories suspended within light itself. You saw Home Tree again. Whole.
Children running along the walkways. Hunters returning with laughter in their voices. Teyra smiling softly while Ramtsyi clung to her arm. Neytiri flying high above the forest on her ikran. Tsu’tey standing among the warriors, alive and unbroken beneath the sunlight. Your chest ached at the sight. Then the images shifted. Faster now. Jake laughing beside Neytiri. Grace speaking gently beneath the Tree of Voices.
Human machines tearing through the forest. Flames. Death. Connection and destruction woven together so tightly you could no longer separate them. The roots pulsed brighter. And suddenly-
You understood. Not fully. Never fully. But enough. Eywa was not showing you certainty. She was showing you consequence. Possibility. Paths. Every choice living beside another choice, branching endlessly outward like roots beneath the earth. Nothing was fixed yet. Not Home Tree. Not Jake. Not Tsu’tey.
Not you.
Tears burned unexpectedly behind your eyes. “Then why show me this?” you whispered into the endless dark. The roots beneath your feet brightened instantly. Warmth surged upward through your body- not painful this time, but overwhelming in its vastness. And somewhere deep within that warmth-
You felt the answer. Not words. Feeling. Because love without grief is meaningless. Because connection demands vulnerability. Because to truly belong to Pandora meant loving it enough to suffer for it. Your knees weakened beneath the weight of it. You sank slowly onto the glowing roots, breath catching hard in your chest as emotion threatened to overwhelm you completely.
You thought of Teyra. Of Ramtsyi. Of Neytiri. Of Jake standing horrified beneath burning skies. Of Tsu’tey looking at you as though restraint itself was killing him. You loved them already. And Eywa had shown you that love would not protect you from loss. It would only make the loss matter.
A soft sound stirred somewhere nearby. You lifted your head sharply. The darkness ahead shimmered faintly. A shapeless figure emerged. Not Tsu’tey. Not Jake. Perhaps a woman. Tall and unfamiliar, glowing faintly beneath streams of silver light woven through her hair like stars caught in water. Her face carried no clarity you could understand. Yet something about her felt deeply known. Sacred.
You rose slowly to your feet. The woman regarded you quietly for a long moment before stepping closer. When she spoke, her voice sounded like many voices layered together. “You fear the breaking.”
Your throat tightened. “Yes.”
The woman tilted her head slightly. “But you still love.”
The words struck harder than they should have. You swallowed painfully. “I don't know how not to.”
A faint sadness touched her. “That is why Eywa hears you.”
Emotion surged violently in your chest. You did not understand why those words hurt so much. “Will it happen?” you asked quietly. “The destruction.”
The woman’s face shifted toward the endless roots surrounding you. “Life does not move in one direction alone.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No.” A pause. “But it is truth.”
Frustration rose sharply beneath your grief. “Then what am I meant to do?”
At that, the woman stepped forward fully. Close enough now that the silver light around her illuminated every curve of your face. “You endure.” The simplicity of it shattered something inside you. Because suddenly you understood- Eywa had never asked you to stop the storm. Only to remain yourself within it. Tears slipped silently down your face before you could stop them.
The woman lifted one hand slowly. Not touching. Just hovering near your heart. “You will lose,” she said softly. The words nearly stopped your breath. “You will grieve.” Pain twisted through your chest. “You will love anyway.”
A sob caught unexpectedly in your throat. The roots beneath your feet began glowing brighter now- faster, stronger, the spirit world trembling softly around you. The woman stepped back. The dream was ending. Fear surged instantly. “No- wait-” But already the light around her had begun dissolving. “Eywa sees you,” she said softly.
Then- everything shattered. Pain slammed back into your body all at once. You gasped violently as breath returned to your lungs like drowning in reverse. Your body arched hard against the roots beneath you, every nerve screaming from the venom still burning through your spine.
The return to your body was violent. The pain was not sharp anymore, but deep- settled into your bones and muscles like the aftermath of lightning striking too close. Your chest heaved violently as breath tore back into your lungs, the chamber of Home Tree returning in fractured pieces around you. Voices. Roots glowing overhead. The smell of smoke and earth. Your own pulse hammering uncontrollably.
You gasped sharply and curled instinctively against the roots beneath you as the last remnants of Eywa’s dream tore through your mind in flashes. Fire. Silver roots. Tsu’tey disappearing beneath your hands. You will love anyway.
A sound broke from your throat before you could stop it. Then warmth steadied you. Hands. Firm. Certain. One cradled the back of your head while the other pressed carefully against your shoulder, grounding you against the violent trembling still moving through your body. “Easy,” came Mo’at’s voice, low and steady beside you. “Easy, child.”
You blinked hard. The chamber swam in and out of focus at first, light smearing strangely across your vision while the last traces of venom still burned through your veins. You realised slowly that your head rested against Mo’at’s lap. She was holding you there carefully, one hand supporting the base of your skull to keep you from striking the roots as your body convulsed through the final waves of pain.
Your breathing hitched again. Everything still felt too loud. Too alive. Even now, faint echoes of the connection remained beneath your skin. You could still feel the lingering pulse of the chamber around you- dozens of heartbeats slowly separating themselves back into individuals instead of one endless overwhelming current.
Mo’at’s thumb brushed once across your temple. Grounding. Present. “You have returned,” she murmured. Tears still clung to your lashes. You did not know whether they belonged to pain or grief or something too large for either word. Your throat tightened as you forced yourself to focus fully on her.
Mo’at watched you quietly. Not with pity. With understanding. And slowly- very slowly- a faint smile touched her face. Relief. Pride. “Eywa has looked upon your spirit,” she said softly. “And you did not turn away.” Emotion hit unexpectedly hard at the words. Your breath trembled.
The dream still clung to you too vividly- the visions, the destruction, the impossible weight of connection itself. Part of you still felt suspended between worlds, your soul not yet fully settled back inside your body. You swallowed painfully. “I saw…”
Mo’at nodded once before you could continue. “I know.” The simple certainty in her voice undid something inside your chest. You closed your eyes briefly. The memory of it surged immediately back against the darkness behind your eyelids-
The burning forest. The pulse of Eywa beneath the earth. Tsu’tey’s hand against your cheek. The woman woven from silver light. You will lose. You will grieve. You will love anyway. Your breath caught sharply again. Mo’at’s hand steadied against your shoulder at once. “Breathe,” she instructed gently.
You obeyed instinctively. Slowly. In. Out. The chamber became clearer now. You became aware of movement nearby- Jake lying several feet away, still struggling through the aftermath of his own trial while Neytiri knelt beside him. Eytukan stood behind them both, solemn and watchful. And beyond them-
Tsu’tey. Your gaze found him immediately. He stood utterly still near the roots, but the moment your eyes lifted to his, something in his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Relief. It passed through him so quickly another might have missed it. You did not.
For one dangerous moment, the remnants of the bond you had felt within the dream seemed to flare painfully between you again. You remembered his heartbeat beneath Eywa’s connection- steady and strained and terrified for you despite every effort to contain it. Your chest tightened sharply. Tsu’tey looked away first.
Mo'at helped you slowly sit upright. Your limbs still trembled violently beneath you. “That was not merely a trial,” you whispered hoarsely. “No,” Mo’at agreed softly. “It was seeing. And you have seen the truth.”
The memory overwhelmed you again briefly- enough to be unable to register Mo’at’s words fully- the flood of heartbeats, emotion, life itself woven into one impossible pulse. Mo’at’s expression softened further. “Yes,” she said. “Now you understand.”
Your throat tightened painfully. Because you did understand now. Why Eywa mattered. Why the clan fought so fiercely for connection. Why destruction would wound far more than flesh.
Mo’at rose slowly to her feet before extending a hand down toward you. And though your body still ached terribly, you took it. The chamber remained silent as you stood. Watching. Waiting. Then Mo’at turned toward the others and spoke clearly enough for every voice in the sacred hollow to hear. “She has passed through Eywa’s eyes.”
The words echoed through the roots themselves. A ripple passed through the chamber immediately- relief, reverence, pride. You barely heard it. Because your gaze had lifted again. Toward Tsu’tey. And despite everything- the first thing you saw in his expression was not pride. Not duty. Not restraint. It was gratitude that you were alive.
The sacred chamber remained quiet for only a short while after Mo’at’s declaration. Not silent. Never silent. The roots of Home Tree still pulsed softly around you, alive with Eywa’s breath, while the lingering echoes of chanting settled slowly into the living wood. Your body ached beneath the aftermath of the venom, every limb heavy and trembling as though your spirit had not yet fully returned to itself.
Yet something inside you had changed. You could still feel it faintly beneath your skin. Connection. Not overwhelming now- not the crushing flood it had been inside the dream- but enough that the presence of others no longer felt separate from you entirely. Their heartbeats existed around you like distant drums beneath water. Alive. Real.
Teyra appeared beside you quietly. Her hands settled gently at your elbows before you could attempt to walk forward before you were ready. “Slowly,” she murmured. You obeyed- one foot placed tentatively in front of the other. Teyra steadied you immediately, one hand firm against your back. “There,” she said softly. “You are still returning.”
Across the chamber, Neytiri helped Jake upright in much the same way, though he looked far worse for the experience. Sweat clung visibly to his skin, and confusion still lingered heavily in his expression as though part of him remained trapped within whatever Eywa had shown him.
No one spoke loudly. This part of the ceremony demanded reverence. Mo’at stepped aside first. Then Eytukan inclined his head once toward the path leading upward through the roots. It was time.
Teyra guided you carefully toward the exit of the sacred chamber, her presence warm and grounding at your side while the glow of the roots slowly faded behind you. Neytiri walked ahead with Jake, quiet and composed once more despite the emotion still lingering visibly in her eyes.
And as you passed beyond the chamber- your gaze lifted instinctively. Toward Tsu’tey. He stood near the edge of the roots, waiting silently for the procession to begin. The moment your eyes met- everything from earlier returned in painful clarity. His mouth against yours. His hand trembling faintly at your chin. The dream. The blood. The feeling of his heartbeat within Eywa’s connection.
Tsu’tey said nothing. Neither did you. But something passed between you anyway. A quiet understanding too large for words. Then Teyra guided you onward before the moment could linger too long.
The climb upward through Home Tree felt unreal. The higher you ascended, the louder the distant sounds became- not conversation exactly, but anticipation. The gathered clan waited above, their presence vibrating faintly through the living structure beneath your feet. Your pulse quickened. Not fear this time. Something larger.
By the time the final passage opened before you, your breathing had grown uneven again. And then- you saw them.
The Omatikaya filled the vast central hollow of Home Tree from root to highest walkway. Eager eyes turned toward you and Jake as you emerged into the firelit space, the entire clan gathered beneath the great living arches of the tree.
The sight struck you so hard your steps faltered. Not because they looked at you with judgment. Because they looked at you with pride. Warmth surged painfully into your chest. Children leaned forward excitedly from beside their parents. Warriors stood tall along the outer walkways, solemn but approving. Elders watched with quiet reverence. And near the front-
Ramtsyi.
The moment she saw you, her face crumpled completely. She was trying so hard to remain still. Trying to look composed like the others. But tears streamed openly down her cheeks anyway, bright happiness radiating from her so fiercely you could feel it from across the hollow. The sight nearly undid you.
Her hands were clasped tightly beneath her chin as though physically restraining herself from running toward you. The moment your eyes met, she laughed through her tears. “Tsmuke,” she whispered breathlessly. Your throat tightened painfully.
Teyra’s hand brushed lightly against your back again, grounding you before emotion could overwhelm you completely. “It is not over yet,” she reminded softly. You swallowed hard and nodded.
At the centre of the hollow, Eytukan waited beside Mo’at beneath the massive roots forming the heart of Home Tree itself. Jake moved beside you quietly now, still pale from the dream but standing straighter than before. Together, you stepped forward. The clan parted around you reverently as you approached the centre. The air felt alive. Heavy with expectation. Sacred.
Eytukan stood before you both in silence for a long moment, his gaze steady and ancient with the weight of leadership carried across generations “You have walked through Eywa’s eyes.” His voice echoed through the vast hollow like distant thunder. “You have faced truth.”
The roots beneath your feet seemed to pulse softly beneath the words. Eytukan stepped closer. “You are now a son and a daughter of the Omatikaya.” Emotion surged violently into your chest. “You are one of the People.” Then he lifted his hands. And placed them firmly against your shoulders.
At the same moment, Mo’at stepped beside him, one hand resting against your arm while her other settled upon Jake’s shoulder. Neytiri moved next to Jake immediately, touching him with visible emotion still lingering in her expression.
Teyra’s hands settled gently against your back. Warm. Steady. Home. And then- Tsu’tey stepped forward. Your pulse faltered painfully the instant he came close. He stopped beside Teyra, close enough that the warmth of him brushed faintly against your side before his hands came to rest carefully against your shoulders beside Eytukan’s.
The touch was ceremonial. Nothing more. And somehow that made it worse. Because his hands were steady now. Controlled. As though the heated kiss between you had never happened at all. Yet beneath the restraint, you still felt it- that impossible awareness between you both humming quietly beneath his skin and yours.
The clan continued to gather around you. Not one by one. Together. Ramtsyi hurried forward at last, tears still shining openly on her face as she pressed herself against Teyra’s side, her small hands clutching tightly at Teyra’s arm while Teyra remained connected to you.
Others followed immediately. Warriors. Hunters. Elders. Children. Each person touching the next. A hand against a shoulder. An arm. A wrist. Until the connection spread outward in widening circles around you and Jake like living roots branching endlessly through the clan. The entire hollow became one unbroken chain.
You felt it before you fully understood it. The warmth. The pulse. The breath moving through hundreds of bodies as though the Omatikaya themselves had become one living thing surrounding you. Your throat tightened sharply. Eywa. This was Eywa. Not only within the forest. Within them. Within this.
Connection passed from body to body outward through the clan until even those watching from the higher walkways touched one another, creating a living web beneath Home Tree’s glowing roots. The sensation overwhelmed you instantly. Not as violently as the venom dream. But enough. Enough that tears burned hard behind your eyes again as the pulse of the clan moved through the circle surrounding you.
You felt Ramtsyi trembling with happiness somewhere behind Teyra. Felt Neytiri’s fierce pride beside Jake. Felt the immense steady calm of Eytukan anchoring the centre. And beneath it all- Tsu’tey.
His heartbeat remained maddeningly familiar now after the dream. Even through the sea of others surrounding you, you could still sense it beneath the connection. Strong. Controlled. Yet quicker than it should have been. Your breath caught softly.
The chanting began again then. Low voices rising together from every corner of Home Tree until the entire clan vibrated with sound and life and belonging. The roots glowed brighter overhead, responding to the unity surrounding you.
You closed your eyes briefly. And for the first time since arriving among the Omatikaya- you truly understood what it meant to belong to a people instead of merely standing beside them. Not isolation. Not survival alone. Connection. To love meant to grieve. To belong meant to carry one another. And standing there at the centre of the living circle, held by the clan and the pulse of Eywa herself-
At first, the Omatikaya remained gathered in reverent quiet around you and Jake, the weight of the ceremony still lingering heavily through Home Tree. But gradually the solemnity softened into warmth. Fires were lit along the great roots, casting golden light across painted skin and woven beads while drums began to pulse somewhere deeper within the hollow.
Life returned. Laughter followed it. Children darted between the roots glowing faintly beneath their feet while hunters carried woven baskets of fruit and roasted meat through the gathering crowd. Music rose slowly into the vast hollow of Home Tree until the entire clan seemed to breathe together in rhythm.
You were no longer standing before the Omatikaya. You were standing among them. The realization nearly overwhelmed you all over again.
“Tsmuke!” Ramtsyi crashed into you before you could properly prepare yourself, arms wrapping tightly around your waist while tears still shone openly on her cheeks. “You are crying again,” you murmured softly, laughing despite yourself as you steadied her. “I know!” she said miserably. “I cannot stop!”
“That is because you love deeply,” Teyra said warmly as she approached.
Ramtsyi nuzzled her head deeper into you. “I do love my Tsmuke.”
“I love you too.” The words left you before you realised. But, they didn’t feel wrong. They felt as natural as speaking itself. The words made Ramtsyi’s eyes shine brighter and her arms to squeeze you tighter.
You laughed quietly again, the sound softer this time- real. Teyra’s expression immediately gentled at the sight. “There,” she murmured. “That is better.” The fierce tension that had gripped your chest since the dream challenge had not vanished, but it had loosened slightly beneath the warmth surrounding you now.
Teyra motioned for you to sit near one of the lower roots beside the firelight. “This part,” she said softly, lifting a woven strand of beads from her lap, “belongs to celebration. Not ceremony.” The beads were beautiful. Deep forest blues woven with pale glowing stones and carved bone pieces polished smooth with age and care. They glittered softly in the firelight as Teyra carefully settled them across your shoulders and braided them gently into your hair.
Around you, older women of the clan smiled warmly while offering small touches against your arms or shoulders as they passed. Acceptance. You felt it everywhere now. Not forced. Not ceremonial anymore. Real.
Ramtsyi sat practically pressed against your side the entire time, still glowing with happiness so brightly it almost hurt to look at her. “You survived Eywa,” she whispered for perhaps the tenth time.
“Yes.”
“You really survived.”
“So did Jake.”
Ramtsyi made a face. “I am happier about you.”
Teyra sighed softly. “Ramtsyi.”
“It is true.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. Then- without meaning to- your gaze lifted across the hollow. And found Tsu’tey instantly. Tsu’tey stood among the warriors near the edge of the firelight, speaking to one of the hunters while the celebration unfolded around him. Or pretending to speak. Because his attention drifted back toward you every few moments despite himself.
You felt it now immediately whenever he looked. The awareness between you had become unbearable after the dream. After the kiss. After feeling his heartbeat within Eywa herself. Your chest tightened painfully.
And as though sensing your attention, Tsu’tey looked toward you again. For one dangerous moment, neither of you looked away. Then Neytiri approached him from behind. Reality returned sharply. Tsu’tey stepped back immediately, posture straightening as though some invisible wall had slammed back into place around him. Your stomach twisted unexpectedly. Teyra noticed. Of course she did. But before she could say anything-
Another voice interrupted softly nearby. “You look less pale now.” You turned. Sa’ran stood beside the firelight holding a carved bowl filled with sliced fruit. And unlike earlier that morning- he looked entirely at ease. Confident. Comfortable approaching you openly now.
Ramtsyi immediately brightened in dangerous delight. “Oh,” she whispered to herself. You ignored her. Sa’ran crouched slightly beside you, offering the bowl casually. “You have not eaten.”
You glanced down at it briefly. “Have you been watching me?”
“Yes. When you look like this, it is hard not to notice.” The honesty startled a soft laugh from you. Sa’ran smiled faintly at the sound. “The challenge took a great length of time,” he said quietly. “I began to wonder whether Eywa intended to return you at all.”
“There were moments where I wondered the same.”
Something in his expression softened then. “You looked afraid when you came back.”
The words struck deeper than expected. Because no one else had said it aloud. Not even Teyra. Your throat tightened slightly. Sa’ran noticed immediately. But unlike others might have, he did not push further. Instead, he simply sat beside you near the roots, close enough for warmth but not close enough to crowd.
“I have seen hunters return from dream challenges before,” he said after a moment. “Most try very hard to pretend they were not frightened.”
“And were they?”
“All of them.” That finally drew another quiet laugh from you. Sa’ran looked pleased by it.
Across the hollow- Tsu’tey was watching. You felt it before you saw it. The weight of his attention settled heavily across your skin the moment your laughter reached him. Your gaze lifted instinctively. He stood perfectly still now near the firelight, expression unreadable from a distance.
But his eyes- his eyes had sharpened. Sa’ran followed your gaze calmly. And understood immediately. Interesting. Instead of withdrawing, Sa’ran leaned slightly closer toward you. Not improper. Not possessive. But deliberate enough to be seen.
“You should dance tonight,” he said softly.
You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“The celebration.”
“I know what dancing is.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Good. That makes this easier.”
Ramtsyi looked seconds away from exploding with excitement. “You are asking her?” she whispered loudly.
“I am.”
“You should say yes.”
“Ramtsyi.”
“What? He is brave.”
Sa’ran laughed quietly. And across the hollow- Tsu’tey’s jaw tightened visibly. The sight sent something twisting painfully through your chest. Because the cruellest part was this: Sa’ran was easy. Warm. Open. There was no impossible duty hanging between you. No promises. No restraint sharp enough to wound. He could stand beside you freely. Tsu’tey could not. And perhaps that was exactly why Tsu’tey could not stop watching.
Eventually the drums deepened as more clan members joined the dancing around the fires, bodies moving gracefully beneath glowing light while voices rose into song around Home Tree. Sa’ran stood first and extended a hand toward you. “Come.”
Your pulse quickened unexpectedly. You hesitated only briefly before placing your hand in his. The movement pulled a delighted sound from Ramtsyi immediately. “There,” she announced proudly to Teyra. “She is finally enjoying herself.” Teyra only smiled knowingly.
Sa’ran guided you gently toward the edge of the dancers, his hand warm and steady against yours as the drums vibrated through the roots beneath your feet. The dancing itself was easy. Natural. Nothing formal. Nothing intimate. Just movement and laughter and warmth beneath firelight while the clan celebrated around you.
And for the first time since the ceremony began- you laughed fully. Freely. The sound startled even you. Sa’ran’s expression softened instantly at hearing it. “There you are,” he murmured quietly enough so you didn't hear over the music.
Across the fires- Tsu’tey watched everything. The way Sa’ran’s hand rested lightly at your waist while guiding you through the dance. The way you smiled despite yourself. The way you looked alive instead of burdened for a few precious moments.
And standing there in the shadows of the firelight beside the woman he was still promised to- Tsu’tey realized something that hollowed him out completely. Someone else could give you happiness openly. Someone else could stand beside you without shame. Without conflict. Without tearing himself apart wanting things he could never ask for. The realization hurt far worse than jealousy. Because for the first time- he wanted your happiness more than he wanted to possess it. And that terrified him.
Much later, after the dancing slowed and the fires burned lower, you finally slipped quietly away from the celebration for air. The night embraced you immediately outside the crowded hollow of Home Tree. Cool. Still. The stars stretched endlessly above Pandora’s glowing forest while distant sounds of celebration echoed softly behind you.
You breathed slowly. And despite the warmth still lingering from the celebration- the vision returned. Fire. Smoke. Falling trees. Your chest tightened painfully. Something terrible was still coming. Eywa had shown you that much. And standing beneath the stars with the echoes of laughter behind you and grief waiting somewhere ahead-
You finally understood the cruel beauty of belonging. To love this deeply meant you now had something to lose.
Hey! I just wanted to let you know that I reported your account when I meant to report someone else. It was a mistake, and I hope it didn’t cause any problems. If you want to see the ticket Tumblr sent me, let me know I can’t message you directly for some reason.
Everyone, be careful of those scammers. It's the second time I've got such a message, although the first time I got it in private. Yeah, you can't message me because I blocked my messages for everyone I don't follow.
This person's account has been hacked by some random guy who tricked them. Those are the messages I got a few days ago - BE CAREFUL, DON'T ADD HIM ANYWHERE.
Summary: You are a part of Grace's avatar programme. You make the mistake of following Jake on the expedition and narrowly escape death. You would kill him but the dumbass somehow got you both to the hearts of the Ometikaya.
Word Count: 10.1k
Warnings: very mild NSFW- not sure if this was even restriction worthy but adjusted the setting just in case!
A/N: Okay, so I've had to break the ceremony up into 2 parts! I got a bit carried away with the last scene an it was getting far too long to have everything in one chapter... Enjoy! 😛
P.s. I'm so sorry if there's any mistakes but I've been staring at this all day and the words are beginning to blur together.
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Night settled heavily over Home Tree. The laughter and movement of the evening had thinned to murmurs now- low voices fading into distant corners, the crackle of banked fires, the soft shifting sounds of people settling into sleep. Bioluminescent veins glowed through the great roots, turning the inner chambers blue-white and dreamlike.
You lay awake. Eyes fixed on the woven ceiling above. Tomorrow. The word had lived in your chest for weeks as something bright. Now it felt like a stone. You turned onto your side and closed your eyes. It changed nothing.
The moment you did, Jake’s voice returned as clearly as if he were beside you. At first… I gave it to him. Information. The clan. The land. What he was learning.
You opened your eyes again. The breath left you slowly through your nose. Part of you had known. Not known exactly- but sensed it. The strange disappearances. The evasions. The way something always sat wrong beneath his easy charm. You had suspected a hidden truth. But suspicion was smoke. Reality was flame. And now it burned through everything.
You sat up, wrapping your arms around your knees. Across the chamber, several sleeping forms rose and fell in peaceful rhythm. Someone snored softly. A child murmured in a dream before quieting again. Safe. For now.
Your throat tightened. You thought of Teyra smoothing your hair that evening with steady hands. Of Ramtsyi beaming as she spoke of finally having a sister. Of the women laying out beadwork for tomorrow. Of the men laughing over fires. Of elders who had begun greeting you by name. Of belonging growing slowly around you until you had forgotten how empty life once felt.
And now one human secret had the power to tear through all of it. Your eyes stung. You pressed the heels of your hands hard against them. No. Not now. If you began crying, you feared you would not stop. You lowered your hands and forced yourself to breathe evenly.
Tomorrow they would paint your skin. Tomorrow they would sing. Tomorrow they would welcome you before everyone. Tomorrow Teyra would smile at you like something lost had been returned.
How were you meant to stand there knowing what might be coming? How were you meant to let them celebrate while danger moved unseen toward them? How were you meant to smile? The answer came bitter and immediate.
You would because they deserved one last joyful day untouched by fear. You would because Teyra had worked too hard. Because Ramtsyi would watch you with shining eyes. Because Mo’at would see through you if you faltered. Because if panic began now, it would spread like sickness.
So you would pretend. For them. The thought made your chest ache. You rose quietly and crossed to the outer edge of the sleeping platform, where a narrow opening in the roots revealed the night beyond.
Pandora stretched dark and luminous beneath the stars. The forest breathed in pulses of blue light. Far away, some creature called once into the darkness. Beautiful. Alive. Fragile.
You rested a hand against the bark. “I can’t lose them,” you whispered. The words vanished into the night. Your mind betrayed you then with another image. Tsu’tey standing rigid with anger if truth came out. Charging straight toward conflict because duty would demand it. Fighting for everyone else until there was nothing left of himself.
Your chest tightened further. Too many people to lose. Too many paths leading toward grief. You bowed your head. For the first time since arriving here, tomorrow was no longer the thing you feared most. It was what came after.
Behind you, someone stirred. You quickly wiped your face and turned. Ramtsyi had only rolled in her sleep, one arm flung dramatically across an empty blanket. You let out a shaky breath.
Then returned to your place and lay back down. Eyes open. Waiting for dawn. Knowing that when it came, you would rise, smile, be painted, be praised- and carry dread like a hidden blade beneath it all.
Sleep did not come gently. It took you by exhaustion alone. One moment you were staring into the dim blue glow of Home Tree’s inner chamber, listening to the breathing of those around you, counting each rise and fall of your own chest as if discipline alone could quiet your mind.
The next, the world loosened. The woven ceiling above you dissolved into darkness. Then light. Soft at first. Blue-white threads unfurling beneath your feet. You were standing. Barefoot.
The ground was not ground at all, but a vast weave of roots lit from within, spreading endlessly in every direction like veins beneath translucent skin. They pulsed with slow, living rhythm beneath your soles. The air hummed. Not with sound exactly, but presence. You knew at once where you were. Not Home Tree. Not any place of waking. Eywa.
You turned slowly. There was no sky above- only shadow filled with drifting sparks like seeds suspended in water. No wind, yet your hair moved softly around your shoulders. “Hello?” you whispered. Your voice vanished into the glow.
Then the roots beneath you brightened. Shapes began to move inside them. You dropped to your knees instinctively, palms pressing to the illuminated strands. Faces rose beneath the surface. Not clearly. Not as flesh. Outlines of memory shaped in light.
A mother bending over a new-born child. An elder laughing, mouth wide with joy. Young hunters racing one another through branches. Hands joined in dance. Bodies gathered in mourning. A pair of lovers touching foreheads beneath falling seeds. Lives layered upon lives, flowing beneath your fingers like a river of all who had come before.
Your breath caught. You recognized none of them. And somehow all of them. The sensation that washed through you was overwhelming- not sight alone, but feeling. Love. Grief. Hunger. Relief. Fear. Wonder.
Each memory brushed through you as if the roots remembered through touch. Tears filled your eyes. You pressed your hands deeper into the glowing weave. More faces rose. Then ones you knew.
Teyra smiling as she threaded beads through your hair. Ramtsyi laughing with both arms around your waist. Neytiri watching you with guarded softness. Mo’at silent and all-seeing. Then-
Tsu’tey.
His face formed only for a heartbeat. Eyes dark and unreadable. Something aching beneath them. You reached instinctively. The image dissolved into ripples of light. “No,” you whispered.
The roots trembled beneath your hands. The glow changed. Warm blue sharpened suddenly to white. Then orange. You rose to your feet as the horizon of roots split open with a soundless crack. Flame surged upward. Home Tree stood before you now- vast, towering, beautiful. Burning.
Fire raced along bark and branch in terrible silence. No screams. No collapsing wood. Only the sight of sacred life consumed by merciless light. You stumbled backward. “No!” Ash drifted around you like black snow. The woven platforms where laughter had lived were swallowed in smoke. The chambers where children slept turned to embers.
You searched wildly. “Teyra!” Nothing. “Ramtsyi!” Only flame. Your voice broke. “Tsu’tey!” The fire roared soundlessly higher. You ran toward it, feet slipping on roots that now charred beneath you. Heat should have burned your skin, but there was no pain. Only helplessness. Only terror.
You fell to your knees before the inferno. “I can’t lose them,” you sobbed. “Please- please-” The tree shuddered. Then collapsed inward. A storm of sparks burst into the dark. You cried out and covered your face.
Silence followed. Long. Total. You lowered your hands slowly. Nothing remained but ash stretching to the horizon. Grey. Dead. Still. Your breathing came ragged and sharp.
Then beneath your knees, something stirred. A pulse. You looked down. Under the ash, faint blue light glimmered. Another pulse. Then another. Thin roots pushed upward through the ruin. Fresh. Luminous. Alive.
You stared as green shoots broke through the grey in hundreds, then thousands. Tiny leaves unfurled. Vines curled across scorched ground. Saplings rose where cinders lay. The dead earth bloomed. The ash became soil. Around you, the river of roots returned brighter than before, carrying new life through what had been broken.
You wept openly now. Not from grief. From the unbearable beauty of it. A presence moved behind you. You turned. No figure stood there. Only drifting seeds of light gathering in a slow spiral. They circled you once, then settled over your shoulders, your hair, your hands. One came to rest above your heart.
And in the silence, a voice that was not a voice moved through every part of you. Not heard. Known.
Nothing truly loved is lost.
Your breath hitched. The seeds lifted again, spinning upward. Another truth followed, deep as roots.
What is broken may live again in another form.
You closed your eyes. The ache inside you loosened. Not gone. But held. When you opened them once more, the faces in the roots had returned. So many lives. So many endings. So many beginnings hidden inside them.
Then the light rushed upward. The roots dissolved. The world fell away. You woke with tears cooling on your cheeks. Home Tree surrounded you once more. Dark blue chambers. Sleeping forms. Low embers glowing nearby.
Your hand was pressed flat against the living floor. And beneath your palm- faint and steady- you swore you felt the pulse of roots answering back.
Morning found you in two worlds at once. For one suspended moment, you were still beneath glowing roots. Still hearing the pulse of Eywa beneath your palms. Still carrying the echo of words that had settled somewhere deeper than thought.
Then sensation rushed back all at once. Weight in your limbs. The rough weave of blankets beneath you. The warmth of nearby fires. The scent of smoke, leaves, and sleeping bodies.
Your human lungs drew a sharp breath inside the link chamber. Your eyes opened. And immediately met another pair inches from your own. You yelped. Ramtsyi shrieked in delight. “You are awake!”
She was kneeling directly on top of you, one knee planted beside your hip, both hands braced near your shoulders as she peered down into your face with wild intensity. “How long have you been there?” you croaked.
“A long time.”
“That was terrifying.”
“I was waiting.”
“That’s worse actually.”
Ramtsyi beamed, utterly unrepentant. Her braids had half come loose in sleep, framing her face in soft disorder. Excitement radiated from her so strongly it was almost visible. “It is today,” she whispered loudly, as if sharing sacred news.
You blinked at her. “Yes.”
“It is today.”
“I heard you the first time.”
She bounced once where she knelt on the blankets. Your ribs protested. “Ramtsyi-”
“It is your ceremony day!” The joy in her voice struck so purely that despite everything knotted inside you, a laugh escaped. “Yes,” you said, softer now. “It is.”
She seized both your hands and tugged. “Get up.”
“It’s dawn.”
“So?”
“Just let me lie here for a bit.”
“No.”
“I am suddenly very ill.”
“No.”
“I may die.”
“Then you will die painted beautifully.”
You laughed again, more helplessly this time. Ramtsyi narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. “You were crying.” The words landed gently. You stilled. Her thumb brushed at the dried track beneath one eye. “I-”
“You cry strange,” she announced. “Very quietly. Like someone trying to hide from Eywa.” Relief and emotion tangled in your throat. “It was only a dream.” Ramtsyi tilted her head. "Good dream or bad dream?" You thought of fire. Ash. Roots blooming through ruin. A voice older than language. “Yes,” you answered. She frowned. “That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.” Ramtsyi considered this with the solemnity of a child handling philosophy. Then decided it did not matter. She brightened instantly. “Mother says we must wash you, feed you, braid you, paint you, and keep you from running away.”
“I didn't plan on running.”
“She said to watch you anyway.”
“That sounds insulting.”
“She loves you.”
That simple certainty almost undid you before the day had even begun. You squeezed her hands. “And you?” Ramtsyi gasped dramatically. “I am offended you must ask.” Then she flung herself forward, wrapping both arms around your neck in a fierce hug that nearly toppled you back into the blankets. “I love you most loudly,” she declared into your shoulder.
You closed your eyes and held her there for a moment. The fear from last night still lived in you. Jake’s truth still waited like a storm beyond the horizon. But here, now, in the warm glow of morning, with this child wrapped around you as if you had always belonged to her- there was love too.
Ramtsyi pulled back suddenly. “We have to go!” Before she could scramble away, you caught her around the waist and dragged her back down into the blankets with you. She squealed, bursting into laughter. “No! We have things to do!”
You wrapped both arms around her tighter, burying her against your chest. “Five more minutes.”
“You are impossible!”
“You woke me up like a forest demon. This is punishment.” Ramtsyi wriggled furiously, laughing so hard her words came broken. “Mother will- she will be angry!”
“She can join us in five minutes.”
“She would never!”
You squeezed her again until she shrieked with delighted outrage. “You can’t pretend with me,” you said, grinning down at her. “I know you love this.” Ramtsyi went suddenly pink beneath her stripes and tried to hide her face in the blankets. “I do not.”
“Yes you do.”
“I do not!”
“You cling like a vine.”
She made an offended noise that only made you laugh harder. Softening, you brushed her loose braids back and kissed the top of her head. “Fiiiiine,” you sighed dramatically. “We’ll get up now.”
Ramtsyi popped upright at once in triumph. “I win.”
“You cheated.”
“I used charm.”
“That line sounds familiar.” You sat up, smiling despite everything, while Ramtsyi dragged you toward the waiting day.
Soft light filtered down through the vast hollow, catching along the living walls and the winding walkways, while the clan stirred into quiet wakefulness. Voices murmured, fires were coaxed back to life, and the world felt… hushed. Not silent. Just aware.
You stepped out into it expecting familiarity. Instead, you felt it immediately- that shift. Eyes turned. Not sharply. Not rudely. But they lingered.
You slowed slightly, uncertain. A small hand slipped into yours. “You are walking too slowly,” Ramtsyi declared. You glanced down at her. She was already looking up at you with bright, barely contained excitement, her tail flicking restlessly behind her, her entire energy far too awake for the quiet morning.
“I'm walking normally.” You say, raising a brow down at her. “No,” she said, squeezing your hand tighter. “You are thinking. I can tell.” You try to hide your smile with a scoff. “That is not a crime.”
“It is today,” she replied seriously. “Today you should not think. Today you should be-” she paused, searching for the word, then beamed- “important.” You stared at her. “I thought I was already important.” She gasped softly, delighted. “Yes, but now everyone will know.” You tried- unsuccessfully- not to smile.
Ramtsyi bounced slightly where she stood, tugging your hand as though she might drag you forward faster simply because she could not contain herself. “When you stand before Eywa tonight,” she continued, voice dropping into something almost reverent, “they will say your name differently.”
“That isn't how names work.” You grin, tugging her back as she bounced. “It is,” she insisted. “It feels different when people say it.” You exhaled softly, but your gaze had already shifted. Because she was right about one thing.
People were looking.
A pair of clan members inclined their heads slightly as you passed- more deliberate than usual. Someone stepped aside to give you space. Others simply watched, their attention quiet but unmistakable. It settled uneasily across your shoulders.
“I don't like this,” you murmured. “I do,” Ramtsyi said immediately. “That doesn't surprise me even a bit.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “I like that they see you how I see you.” That- that caught you off guard. You looked down at her, but she was already grinning, far too pleased with herself. Before you could respond- your attention shifted again.
Sa’ran stood ahead, across the open stretch of walkway. And he was very clearly looking at you. Not uncertain. Not hesitant. Intent. You slowed. Ramtsyi noticed instantly. “Oh,” she breathed, delighted. “It is him.”
“Do you know him?” You asked, unable to look away from the hunter lingering in the distance. Ramtsyi nodded. "That is Sa'ran. Another hunter." She turned her head to you, grin stretching wide. "I have seen him looking at you from afar." Your head snapped to meet her eyes. "What?"
Ramtsyi shrugged a little too casually. "Only in the recent days... your ceremony is tonight. I may be young but I know what it means for your place in the clan." Your mouth dropped open as she winked at you. Regret filled you instantly for teaching her that- followed by embarrassment that even Ramtsyi was aware what the ceremony meant for your social standing.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Her face shifted into a mock innocence. "I thought you saw too. You must talk to him for him to notice you." You shake your head with a disbelieving smile. "Actually, we've only spoke once before. Yesterday." She tilted her head, studying him now. “He is not nervous, for someone who does not know you.”
“No,” you said quietly. “He is not.”
Sa’ran stepped forward. There was no pause. No second-guessing. He crossed the space with quiet confidence, his posture relaxed but deliberate- fully aware of what he was doing. Of who was watching.
You felt it before you looked. That shift in the air behind him. But Sa’ran did not slow. He stopped in front of you, close enough to be unmistakable, yet not improper. “Good morning,” he said. His voice was steady. Easy.
“…Good morning.” You reply out of habit while trying to wrap your head around the interaction. Ramtsyi leaned slightly into your arm, watching with bright, shameless curiosity. Sa’ran did not seem to mind.
“I was hoping I would find you before the day carried you away,” he continued. “That seems unlikely,” you said. “Everyone appears to have plans for me.”
“That does not mean I cannot take a moment of it.” There was something in the way he said it- light, but intentional. As though the moment itself mattered. As though being seen in it mattered more. “I wished to speak with you again,” he added. “Properly this time.”
“You spoke with me before.”
“Briefly,” he said. “And not well.”
Ramtsyi made a small, delighted sound at that. You ignored her. “And now?” you asked. “Now,” Sa’ran said, “I intend to do better.” Your breath caught- just slightly. There was no awkwardness. No hesitation. Only presence. Only choice. “I wish you strength for tonight,” he said, his tone softening just enough to carry sincerity beneath the confidence. “And clarity.”
“That is… kinder than most warnings I have received.”
“Then you have been listening to the wrong people.” His gaze lingered- not intrusive, not overwhelming, but steady. Choosing not to look away. Behind him, you felt it again. That stillness. That attention. Sa’ran knew. Of course he knew. And still-
He did not step back. “I will not keep you,” he said at last, though nothing in him suggested reluctance. “But I will speak with you again. After.” It was not quite a question. Not quite a request. More like something already decided.
You inclined your head slightly. “Perhaps.” It was enough. A faint smile touched his expression- satisfied, not arrogant. Then, only then, he stepped back. Not quickly. Not as though dismissed. But with the quiet assurance of someone who had made himself known.
As he turned- his gaze flickered, briefly, toward where Tsu’tey stood. A glance. Measured. Deliberate. Then gone. Ramtsyi leaned into you immediately, barely containing herself. “He did that on purpose.”
“Yes,” you said quietly- fighting the urge to look in Tsu'tey's direction.
“He is very bold.”
“Yes, that's one way of putting it.”
“I like him.”
You shot her a look. She grinned. Across the walkway, Tsu’tey had not moved. But something in him had changed. The stillness had sharpened. The air around him drawn tighter, quieter- watching without appearing to watch. And for the first time- it did not feel accidental.
You looked away first. Ramtsyi tugged your hand again, this time gentler. “Come,” she said, her voice returning to something softer, more affectionate. “We still have so much to do before tonight.” You let her lead you forward. But the feeling remained. Not just of being seen-
But of something shifting. Something beginning. And Ramtsyi, still holding your hand, squeezed it once more with quiet excitement. “Tsmuke,” she murmured to herself, becoming more familiar with that name than your own.
------------------------------------------
The early stir of the clan had softened into a steady rhythm- voices weaving through the vast hollow, footsteps crossing the suspended walkways, the distant echo of laughter rising and fading like breath. Light filtered down in warmer tones now, catching in strands along the living walls and casting shifting patterns across the floor of Teyra’s alcove.
It felt quieter here. Contained. Intentional. Teyra had already begun. By the time you stepped inside, she was seated beside a low basin, sleeves drawn back, several small bundles laid neatly around her- herbs, oils, beads sorted by colour and meaning, cords coiled with care. Everything had its place.
She glanced up as you entered. “There you are,” she said softly. “Come.” There was no urgency in her tone. No pressure. Only expectation. You crossed the space and knelt where she gestured, the woven mat warm beneath your knees. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Teyra studied you. Not critically. Not even curiously. Simply… seeing. “You are carrying too much already,” she said at last. “I am fine.” You mutter in a pathetic attempt to deny the truth.
“Yes,” she replied, reaching for a small cloth. “You always say that when you are not.” You opened your mouth to respond, but she was already moving closer. “Sit properly,” she murmured, guiding your shoulders with gentle hands. “Let me see you.” There was something in the way she said it that made resistance feel unnecessary. You settled.
Teyra dipped the cloth into the basin and wrung it out, the faint scent of crushed leaves rising with the steam. When she lifted her hand to your hair, her touch was warm and steady- familiar. Grounding. “This is only the beginning,” she said quietly, working her fingers through your hair with practiced ease. “We are not rushing you toward anything yet.”
“It feels like I am being pushed toward it despite that.”
“You are not being pushed,” she said. “You are being prepared.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes.” Her hands moved slowly, smoothing through your hair, easing out small tangles without pulling. “One takes from you. The other gives you what you need to stand.”
You exhaled softly, your gaze dropping to your hands resting in your lap. They felt… restless. Uncertain. Teyra noticed. Of course she did. Her hand came to yours without hesitation, stilling the movement with a gentle pressure. “Do not let your thoughts run ahead of you,” she said.
“I can't stop them.”
“You do not need to stop them,” she replied. “Only stop following them.” You frowned faintly. “That sounds like something meant to confuse me.”
“It is something meant to steady you.” Her thumb brushed lightly across the back of your hand, once, before she released it and returned to your hair. The motion was simple. It worked anyway.
For a time, there was only quiet. The soft sound of water. The faint rustle of beads as she sorted them beside you. Her fingers moved with care, cleaning your hair in slow, deliberate passes, occasionally tilting your head slightly to catch the light better. Each touch was unhurried, intentional- never intrusive, never distant. Just… present.
When she finished, she reached for a cloth and began gently drying the strands, separating them again with her fingers. “These will sit here,” she murmured, more to herself now as she laid out a row of beads before you. “And these- no, not those- those are for later.”
You watched her work. Precise. Certain. “Does it always feel like this?” you asked quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like something is… waiting.”
Teyra did not look up. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “But not always in the way you think.” She picked up a cord, tested its strength between her fingers, then set it aside. “Today is not the moment,” she continued. “It is only the path toward it.”
“That doesn't seem to make it easier.”
“No,” she agreed. “But it makes it clearer.” She shifted closer again, her hand coming lightly to your chin, tilting your face just enough to meet her gaze. “You are not alone in this,” she said. The words were quiet. Certain. Her thumb brushed once along your jaw- brief, grounding- before she released you.
“Now,” she added, her tone softening into something lighter, “try not to move. I would like your hair to remain where I put it for at least a few moments.” You huffed faintly. “That sounds unlikely.”
“It does,” she agreed. “But I have hope.” A small smile pulled at your lips before you could stop it. Teyra returned it, just briefly, before turning back to her work. Beads were sorted. Cords laid out. Each piece placed with quiet purpose. And for the first time since morning- your thoughts slowed. Not gone. But quieter. Held in place, if only for a little while.
By late morning, the quiet Teyra had given you began to unravel. Not suddenly. Not violently. Just… slowly. Like something beneath your thoughts had been waiting for stillness- and now that it had it, it began to rise.
You did not say anything when you stood. Teyra noticed, of course. She always did. But she only glanced at you once, her expression soft and knowing. “Go,” she said gently.
You hesitated. “There is still more to-”
“There will always be more,” she replied. “You need this first.”
You did not argue. You slipped out of the alcove without another word.
---------------------------------------------
Home Tree felt different now.
Fuller.
Louder.
The steady hum of the clan had grown into something sharper- movement layered upon movement, voices overlapping, preparations quietly unfolding in every corner. It pressed at you in a way it had not earlier. Too much.
You moved through it quickly, instinct guiding your steps rather than thought. Upward. Away. The higher pathways thinned, the air cooling as you climbed along the living structure. Fewer voices reached you here. Fewer eyes. Until at last-
There was only the wind.
You stepped out onto a high branch that curved outward from Home Tree, stretching into open space above the forest below. The world opened around you. Pandora breathed.
Endless green, layered and alive, shifting softly beneath the touch of the wind. Distant calls echoed across the canopy, the sky stretching wide above it all. It should have calmed you. Instead... everything inside you felt louder.
You moved toward the edge and stopped, your hand resting lightly against the living wood beneath you. And then, you exhaled. Long. Unsteady. The thoughts came all at once.
Jake’s voice. You closed your eyes. You had heard many things since coming here- warnings, teachings, stories of balance and life and Eywa’s will. But that-
That had not been a story. That had been truth. And worse- it had been his truth. You saw his face again as he had spoken. Not defiant. Not proud. Conflicted. But not enough to stop what had already begun.
Your fingers tightened slightly against the branch. The vision came. Not gently. Never gently. It pressed into your mind with the same quiet force it always carried- no sound, no clear image, and yet unmistakable. Pain.
The forest shaking- not with life, but with something tearing through it. The ground trembling beneath something unnatural. Light that did not belong. Fire that did not belong. The great trees... Falling.
The feeling of it struck deeper than sight. Loss. A silence where there should have been connection. Pandora hurt. Your breath caught. “No…” you murmured, though there was no one there to hear it.
You had tried to dismiss it before. Tried to believe it was only fear given shape. But now- now it felt closer. Clearer. Because now you had a name to place inside it. Jake.
You did not want to. You resisted it. But the thought came anyway. Unbidden. Unwelcome. And once it was there, it would not leave. He stood at the centre of both worlds. He walked between them. He carried knowledge from one into the other.
A bridge.
Or-
A breaking point.
Your chest tightened. “If it is him…” you whispered, your voice barely carrying over the wind, “then what does that make all of this?” All of you. All of this.
Your gaze lifted, sweeping across the vastness below. Home Tree stood behind you. Alive. Strong. Unmoving. It had always felt unshakable. Now, you were no longer certain.
Your hand rose instinctively, fingers brushing against your queue, grounding yourself in something real, something present. But even that did not steady you completely. Because beneath everything else- beneath the fear, the doubt, the weight of what you had seen- there was something quieter. Colder.
A knowing you did not want to name. Something is coming. Not tonight. Not yet. But soon. You felt it in the stillness of the forest. In the way the wind shifted. In the way your thoughts refused to settle.
You exhaled again, slower this time. You were not ready. Not for the ceremony. Not for what it meant. Not for what might follow. But the day would not wait. The sun would continue its path. Dusk would come. And when it did-
You would stand before Eywa. Whether you felt prepared… or not.
The wind had not settled. It moved steadily through the upper branches, threading through the leaves and across your skin, cool enough to keep you aware, not enough to quiet the unrest beneath it.
You had not realised how long you had been standing there. Only that your thoughts had begun to circle instead of move forward. So when the presence came, you felt it before you heard it. Subtle. Familiar. The shift of weight along the living branch behind you. The faintest sound of breath not your own. You did not turn.
“You should not be here alone.” His voice carried low, controlled. You closed your eyes briefly. “I am not helpless.”
“I did not say you were.”
“You implied it.”
A pause. Then, closer- “I said you should not be alone.” There was something in the correction that made your chest tighten. You turned then.
Tsu’tey stood a few steps behind you, framed by the filtered light of the canopy. His posture was as it always was- steady, composed, immovable. But there was something else beneath it now. Something less controlled.
“What are you doing here?” you asked. Are you here to talk me into running away? Into making everything go away? The question didn't leave you.
“I could ask the same of you.”
“I was here first.”
“That does not make it yours.”
“It can.”
His gaze held yours for a moment longer than necessary. Then shifted- briefly- to the edge of the branch where you stood too close to open air. “You stand carelessly,” he said.
“I stand where I choose.”
“You stand where one misstep would-”
“I won't fall.” The words came sharper than intended. He did not flinch. “I know,” he said quietly. That- That was not what you expected. Silence followed. The wind moved between you. You turned away first, your gaze dropping back to the forest below. “Then why say it?”
Another pause. Longer this time. Because he had no easy answer. Or perhaps- because the answer was not one he wished to give. “I saw Sa’ran this morning,” he said instead. There it was.
You exhaled slowly. “Of course you did.”
“He speaks to you often.”
“He has spoke to me twice.”
“He intends to speak more.”
You turned your head slightly. “And that concerns you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No deflection. Just truth.
Your breath caught- only for a moment- but it was enough. “You have no right,” you said quietly.
“I know.”
“And yet-”
“And yet,” he repeated, the edge of something breaking through his control, “I will not pretend I do not see what is in front of me.”
You turned fully now. “You mean him speaking to me?”
“I mean the way he looks at you.”
“And what way is that?”
“The way a man looks when he has decided something.” The words landed heavier than they should have.
“And what has he decided?” you asked.
“That you are worth standing beside.”
Your pulse shifted. “And is that wrong?”
“Yes.” The answer came too quickly. Too sharp.
You stilled. “Why?” You didn't care about what Sa'ran wanted, you barely knew the hunter. You just wanted the truth from him. For once. His jaw tightened. Because the truth was not simple. Because the truth was not fair. “You stand before the clan tonight,” he said instead. “You do not need distraction.”
“That is not what you meant.”
“It is what I said.”
Before you can stop them, the words leave you too quick to take back. “You always mean more than what you say.” That struck something. You saw it. Felt it. The tension in him tightened further, his restraint thinning with every word that pressed too close to what he refused to speak.
“And you,” he said, quieter now, “always push where you should not.”
“Then stop answering me.”
“I am trying.”
The admission slipped out before he could stop it. Both of you felt it. The space between you shifted- subtle, but undeniable. You stepped closer without thinking. Not much. Just enough. He did not move back.
“I didn't ask you to follow me here,” you said.
“I did not follow you.”
“No?”
“I came because you left.”
That was worse. Your breath caught. “You just noticed I wasn't there?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He held your gaze. And for a moment- it looked like he might answer honestly. “I should have been there,” he said instead. The shift was abrupt. But not unexpected. Toruk. The memory moved between you without needing to be named.
“You've already said that,” you replied softly.
“And you did not answer me.”
“I didn't need to.”
“You did.” His voice was lower now. Closer. “I was not there,” he said, each word controlled, deliberate, as though holding something back with force. “I should have been.”
“I don't blame you. You can't be everywhere.”
“I should have been there.”
“This isn't something for you to carry forever.”
“It already is.” The weight of it pressed into the space between you. You did not know what to do with it. With him. With the way he looked at you now- not as a warrior, not as someone standing apart, but as something far more unguarded than he allowed anyone else to see.
“You are not responsible for everything,” you said quietly.
His gaze flickered. “Not everything,” he agreed. A step closer. You felt it more than saw it. “But some things…” he continued, voice dropping, rougher now, “should not have been left to chance.”
Your breath caught. You were too close. You both knew it. Neither of you moved. “You did not fall,” he said, quieter still.
“No.”
“I saw the marks.”
Your hand lifted instinctively, brushing your cheek where the faint graze remained. His gaze followed the movement. Then- without asking- he stepped closer. This time, there was no space left to pretend.
His hand lifted slowly, as though giving you time to stop him. You did not. His fingers brushed your cheek- light, careful, impossibly gentle as they traced along the faint mark left behind. The contrast between his touch and the memory of how it had been made sent something sharp through your chest. “You call this nothing,” he murmured.
“It is nothing.”
“It is not.” His thumb lingered there, just beneath your eye, the warmth of it grounding and undoing all at once. You should have stepped back. You did not.
“You weren't there,” you said, softer this time. Not accusation. Not quite. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips- just for a moment- before returning to your eyes. “I know.” The words were quieter now. Not defensive. Not proud. Just... honest.
His hand remained where it was. Too long. Long enough that it was no longer something that could be ignored. “You shouldn't do this,” you whispered.
“Do what?”
“You know.”
A pause. Then- “Yes.” But he did not move. Not immediately. Not until something in him- discipline, duty, something stronger than what was pulling him forward- forced his hand to lower.
The absence of his touch felt louder than the contact had. He stepped back. Only slightly. Enough to breathe again. “The ceremony,” he said, his voice returning to something steadier, though not unchanged. “We should return.”
You held his gaze a moment longer. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say something practical,” you said quietly, “when you mean something else.”
For a moment. A short, clear moment. He did not deny it. Then the mask returned. “You should not keep Teyra waiting.” There it was again. Distance. Control. But it did not sit as cleanly as it once had.
You turned first. Because if you did not- you were not certain you would. And as you moved past him, you felt it. His presence lingering. His attention following. Unspoken. Unresolved. And far too close to something neither of you was ready to name.
------------------------------------------
The light had shifted by the time you returned. Afternoon had begun its slow descent toward dusk, and inside Home Tree, the air carried a different weight now- quieter, more reverent, as though everything was holding its breath for what was to come. You stepped into the fire-lit alcove-and stopped. Tsu’tey was already there. There was no time granted to you to prepare mentally, emotionally or spiritually for what was to come next.
Teyra stood beside him only briefly, adjusting the arrangement of pigments and cords before turning to you. “Tsu'tey will begin the painting now,” she said. Your eyes narrowed slightly. “You're not leaving, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Why-.”
“You'll be in safe hands.” Her hand came to your shoulder, warm and steady, grounding you before she stepped away. “Be still,” she murmured. Then she was gone.
The quiet that followed was heavier than before. You did not move at first. Neither did he. The stillness allowed you to study his face. It told you that you weren't the only one with conflicting feelings of your current predicament. You moved from one heavy moment to another. You did not know how either of you would cope with what was required of you in this moment. Then-
“Sit.”
You exhaled softly. “You never ask.”
“I do not need to.”
“…That may be what you think. It doesn't make it true.” Still. You sat.
Tsu’tey moved closer, kneeling beside you. The space between you vanished quickly, replaced by something far more dangerous- awareness. Of him. Of yourself. Of how little distance remained.
"It seems cruel to walk into this so soon after our talk." You admit into the silence, looking at the side of his face to try and catch his thoughts. His eyes focused on the paint- unwitting or unable to look at you, at your eyes. "I do not mean to make you uncomfortable." The admittance came softly, and you knew he meant it.
"I'm surprised you accepted this role. It was your idea to distance ourselves." You admit, eyes darting towards the pots of fresh paint. You caught the pause in his movement. "Neytiri requested it, I thought it... acceptable." His fingers dipped into the pigment, careful not to spill a single drop. You watched the calculations playing through his mind- obvious in his hesitation. The slight tremble in his fingers that only you seemed to notice. "I still stand by those words of distance."
Time seemed to slow as the gap shrank between your skin and his hand- your eyes following the closing space. His fingers halt an inch away from your shoulder. "If you do not want me to do this, I can find Teyra to fulfil my role."
Your eyes snapped to his now. My role. The fire reflecting in his irises poorly disguised the whirlpool of emotion hiding there. Shame. Wanting. Fear. You could only imagine your own eyes were a mirror of his.
"No- it's fine. I'm sure Teyra is busy and... I don't mind you painting me." You watched as those emotions seemingly vanished from your small words of reassurance to continue. He only nodded before moving his fingers again.
When they moved to your skin, the first touch was careful- steady, controlled as he traced the initial line across your shoulder. You felt it immediately. Not just the coolness of the pigment- but the warmth of his hand beneath it. You felt yourself tense instantly, the touch feeling illicit after your moment not too long ago high in Home Tree.
“You are tense,” he said quietly.
“I am aware.” You say through gritted teeth.
“You should not be.”
“That is not helpful.”
His hand steadied against your arm, thumb resting lightly where it did not need to be. You couldn't block out the sensation- it was as though all your nerve endings had accumulated into that one spot.
“You are still tensing. It is distracting,” he added. Only his insult pulled you back from his touch. “You are the one touching me.” You wanted to glare at him, to pierce through the tension forming with a threat. He didn't meet your gaze. A faint pause. Then-
“Would you like me to stop?”
"No." The word escaped you quicker than you would have liked. Final. The swiftness of your voice brought his eyes to yours. The firelight turned his golden eyes into pools of rich honey. And how you wanted to swim in them. A ghost of a smile in the corner of his mouth was all the retaliation he gave.
The line continued. Slow. Measured. Too slow. Each movement deliberate, as though he were forcing himself to remain within the bounds of something he no longer fully controlled. You tried to focus on anything else. The fire. The sound of your own breathing. The markings forming across your skin. But every time his fingers brushed too close to the curve of your collarbone, every time his knuckles grazed the side of your neck-
It pulled you back. To him. To the soul consuming fact that Tsu'tey was touching you freely. Willingly. Carefully. Intimately. In a way that redefined and broke the boundaries you had both mentally placed.
You let out the breath you were holding. “You are taking too long,” you murmured. He had already painted below your knees, back and arms- leaving the worst for last.
“I am taking the time required.”
“That sounds like an excuse.”
“It is not.”
Another line. This one lower. His hand froze millimetres from the swell of your breast not covered by the single wide strip of fabric wrapped horizontally around your chest. The ceremony permitted only the necessary and plain coverings- the beautifully crafted garment awaited until the celebration.
Your eyes had closed moments ago, not wanting to face looking at him when he inevitably reached below your collarbones. You had spent the last however many minutes stilling yourself under his touch to deny the truth written in the space between you.
You took in a sharp breath- the movement causing your chest to rise and meet his touch. You refused to open your eyes. You only heard his own deep breath and the familiar sound of his hand dipping into the paint. His other hand. Within seconds, you felt both of his hands on the skin above your chest. Your heart jolted at the sensation. You fought against the shiver crawling down your spine- but there was nothing you could hide from him at this closeness.
One breath was all the time you had before his fingers moved symmetrically over the swell of your breasts. It was no simple design- his fingers moved in swirls across your chest. The movement was slow, from precision or savouring the moment, you couldn't tell and you weren't sure if you wanted to.
One thing you were sure of was your heartbeat thundering inside your ribcage and your ability to keep your breathing controlled was slipping from you. Tsu'tey must have noticed. But he said nothing. Instead, one of his hands shifted, steadying you- palm resting against your shoulder, thumb pressing lightly into your skin. Too firm to ignore. Too gentle to question.
“You need to move quicker,” you said quietly.
“If I rush, I could ruin the pattern.”
“Are you saying you aren't a master at this?” A pause. Then-
“You have an answer for everything. I wonder what would you say if I said I just want to touch you?” His voice was coated in irritation but the admittance was naked beneath it.
Your eyes flashed open at that. You weren't prepared for his face to be so close to yours. Your breathing had yet to calm and the silence between your prolonged eye contact felt even more intimate than the feeling of his hands tracing patterns on your skin.
His hand was still resting against your shoulder. As you looked into his eyes, you could see the shield he often hid behind had pulled back slightly. His breath warmed your cheek with your closeness and your mind was flooded with the same forbidden desires that were bare to you in his eyes. "Do you?" You whisper at last.
He held your gaze for a few moments longer, denying you the truth with his silence. His throat bobbed as he swallowed back his words. Your eyes followed the movement and your hand gently reached up to rest against his neck without thinking. You wanted to reprimand yourself for your lack of restraint but your mind was too busy fighting against itself to stop your body from acting on its own whim. Tsu'tey didn't push you away. Your body took that as a sign to lean into your lustful actions. You leaned forward to let your lips connect to his pulse point.
The hand on your shoulder stopped you before you could cross the distance. Your eyes dropped to the floor- shame pooled in your stomach along with the desire beginning to become undeniable. Your head hung down slightly as you hid yourself from his eyes. His other hand cupped your remaining shoulder and you felt his breath against the side of your neck. You had limited restraint left to stop the sharp gasp that escaped you at the sensation against your sensitive skin. "Lie back. I need to continue the pattern to your stomach and thighs." Stop. That's what those words meant to you.
You clenched your eyes- wanting the ground to swallow you up to escape from the shame of letting your resilience break so easily. You considered telling him to stop and getting Teyra to finish the painting but that would only raise questions. Questions about you and Tsu'tey. Questions you didn't want to face. You had to let him finish- even at the expense of your dignity.
You nodded your head slightly and felt him gently push you back to lay on your back. He shifted to your side as you lay so you could lie straight. Your eyes remained tightly closed. The silence was already eating into you- you couldn't bare to look into his eyes now. You wished for him to just insult you so all of the embarrassment could be overshadowed by anger.
"You do not have to hide from me." His voice was gentle to break the thick silence. You pursed your lips closed- forcing yourself to think before you spoke this time. "I prefer it this way." Were the only words you could think of to hide behind. He saw straight through them. "I prefer you not to hide." There it was. The little comment to spark the annoyance from you to shield yourself.
Your eyes opened into a glare- your first line of defence. "So I should just do what you prefer all the time?" You scoffed. The fire casted a shadow over his face to enhance the tiny smile on his face just enough so you could see it. He was obviously pleased his tactic worked to get his way. Not that it took much for you to listen to him- a fact you would never admit to him.
Your eyes softened at his smile- even if it was barely there- before ripping them away to look at the ceiling of the alcove. You knew if you stayed lost in that sight, you would be lost forever. "We don't have much time left." The small smile melted away back to his stoic expression at the reminder. "Then you must stay still while I finish your patterns." You scoff, still hiding behind your forced annoyance. His hands dipped back into the paint and this time you didn't watch him- but your eyes remained open.
He glanced at your face once before his hands touched your upper stomach with soft precision. You couldn't stop the sharp inhale at the feeling. All the tension inside you that had softened returned immediately as his fingers gently traced their way down. With each centimetre of movement from his touch, you felt a tingling sensation left behind by his fingers. As his fingers moved closer to your navel, you realised that wasn't the only reaction your body was granting him. You felt the materialisation of your desire in the familiar ache growing in your stomach, the stiffening of your nipples against your chest covering and the tension pooling between your legs- thankfully hidden beneath your tewng. You wanted to feel betrayed by your body but perhaps it- and you- was tired of pretending your attraction was imagined.
You could only hope he didn't- and wouldn't- realise the effect his touch was having on you. You couldn't tell him to stop now. It would be all too obvious then and even harder to deny another truth; you were aroused by Tsu'tey's touch. Your brain could lie to your heart and tell you your feelings weren't affection but instead intrigue- but your body solidified the reality now. There was no more lying to yourself- or Tsu'tey- if he relised. You kept your jaw clenched shut to prevent any sounds escaping or else you would simply die from mortification.
The ache in your stomach grew to a deep swirling pool of lust with every second of his touch. It had taken all of your effort to keep your body completely still apart from the subtle rise and fall of your breaths. He had reached just above your tewng where it rested against your hip- and dangerously close to the moisture building between your legs that you held clenched together just enough to keep closed but not enough to look suspicious. His hands finally gave you respite as he lifted them from your skin to dip into the paint. You wanted nothing more than to unclench your tensed muscles but it wasn't over yet. He still had to paint your upper legs.
When Tsu'tey didn't immediately begin again, your eyes fell from the ceiling to look at him. Your heart began thundering in your chest even heavier now. Your eyes widened as you found he was already looking at your face with a hint of confusion. "I understand you may find this... uncomfortable, but I need you to widen your legs so I can paint them properly." You weren't able to mask your shame with irritation quick enough. You opened your mouth but no words came out. He mistook your hesitation for shock rather than what you knew it for. "I will not do anything inappropriate. I have shown you my respect, have I not?" You saw the irritation on his face but it wasn't solely for you. You weren't able to dissect the origin of that emotion before he sucked his teeth. "Fine. If you will not move, I will paint as you are."
You almost let out a sigh of relief that he caved in to your stubbornness but you couldn't let your body relax and reveal everything you tried so hard to hide. You did however, admire that he didn't push you to be uncomfortable- not that it has stopped him before but the fact remained true here and now. "You are impossible." He grumbled, loud enough to let you know he wanted you to hear his insult.
You tilted your head up and opened your mouth to quickly shoot back a reply before he resumed- using your reliable shield of annoyance again- but his hand made contact with the top of your inner thigh. "I am-mmhn-" No. No. Fuck! Your mouth hung open in shock as dread swallowed your body whole. Your ears begun to ring in the deafening silence. Tsu'tey snapped his head toward you- pupils blown wide and his body frozen in surprise. His hand remained on your thigh as your eyes locked together.
"I- I-" You couldn't form any words. You couldn't scramble together an excuse to play off what just escaped you. You shook your head slightly as if this was a nightmare that you could simply escape from. His still expression wasn't giving you any indication of his next reaction and that filled you with fear more than anything.
You pushed yourself upright- the movement pulled Tsu'tey out of his trance and he released your thigh from his touch. "I'm sorry- I... I don't know-" You tried to form a sentence but your heart raced in your chest so hard it prevented you from remaining calm. Fear and shame began to creep in at the edges- threatening to consume your very being.
Tsu'tey hadn't spoken a word and you still couldn't figure out what he was thinking. Maybe if he was disgusted, angry, disappointed- that would be better than the shattering silence of the unknown crushing against your chest. You pulled your legs back, increasing the gap between you. Without realising, the action released further proof of your desire into Tsu'tey's senses. You were too consumed in your panic to notice the deep inhale the Na'vi male took. You didn't notice the tremble of his body as your lustful scent began to take over every ounce of his control years of discipline took to master. You didn't notice the deep breaths to greedily savour the smell that eradicated his own guilt for having the same shameful desires. All you noticed was the silence.
Your panic allowed you a moment of respite to fill the air with a desperate plea. "I can't take the silence any longer. Just- please say something!" Those eyes- that usually reminded you of melted gold- were darkened by a lustful haze. His pupils grown from your intoxicating scent. He took a sharp inhale as though battling something inside you couldn't see. "You continue to test me..." His voice was barely above a whisper, "...this time I will fail."
You were about to question what he meant when the gap between you disappeared in a flash of strong blue hands reaching out to cup either side of your head. "Tsu'tey-" You cut yourself off with a gasp as he gently turned your head to the side and buried his nose deep into the crook of your neck to inhale you. The shiver that ran through your body brought one of his hands down to the side of your hip. "Do not say my name like that." The rumble of his strained voice against your skin felt delicious and delirious all at once.
"Like what?" You managed to mutter, eyes fluttering closed. The part of you screaming that this was wrong, that you needed to push him away- was fading into the depth of your mind. Each sinful thought and cardinal desire that had been locked away rushed to the surface in its place.
"Like you expect me to listen." Your breath caught. Because he wasn’t. Not anymore. And neither were you. He pulled himself away from your neck and you turned back to take in his face. He looked drunk just from the smell of you. Both of you were panting- eyes flashing between the other's gaze and lips. He swallowed as though the action could help him regain his control- instead he just looked pained from holding himself back.
"This should end here," he managed to say between panting breaths. "Then let go." You spoke in the same shattered whisper. He didn’t. The silence stretched. Fragile. Dangerous. "I should not-" he began, then stopped, his jaw tightening as though the rest of the words would not obey him. His grip shifted slightly, fingers brushing along your jaw, not pulling you closer- but not letting you go.
"Stop me," he said suddenly. The words were low. Rough. Barely controlled. The space between you felt impossibly smaller than it was. You should have pushed back. Should have pulled away. Should have ended it there. Instead- you leaned forward. Just enough. His restraint broke. He closed the distance in one decisive movement, his hand tightened its grip on your hip and your hands hooked around his neck.
His lips met yours with an unexpected softness that pulled a sigh from you. The noise stroked something deep inside him that had him pulling deeper into the kiss with the hunger of a starved man. The euphoria of having his lips on yours numbed all rational thoughts until there was nothing but base desire left for you to act on. Your hands roamed from his neck across the top of his shoulders- savouring the feeling of his muscles underneath your touch.
You broke the connection only for a second to catch your breath but it was stolen once again by the deep rumbling groan that escaped Tsu'tey from his displeasure of your lips no longer being on his. The sound alone made the ache in your stomach spark into a burning flame threatening to consume your very being. You needed contact. You needed him. Only that would douse the flames rising within you.
He pulled you back into the kiss- and still his hands remained on your hip and the side of your head, the only form of restraint left in him. His thumb gently caressed the curve of your cheek to make sure they didn't roam carelessly. The taste of him made you lightheaded and it only made you crave more of him. You sank deeper into the kiss until the faint sound of footsteps shattered the veil separating you both from the world.
Both of you stilled. Your eyes opened at last to be greeted by Tsu'tey's only a couple inches away from yours. The haze in them had begun to dissipate already. He pulled back, breath and composure shaken for the first time you had ever seen, his hand dropping from your face as though the contact itself had become too much. Silence rushed in. Heavy. Unforgiving.
You sat panting, heart pounding and head spinning from the rush. Your lips tingled against the now empty space. The warm pleasure that coursed through your veins seconds ago was sharply replaced by the cold agony of reality. That was a mistake. It was wrong. You've made things worse for yourself.
You finally braved the glance at him in the silence that was quickly becoming stifling. "That should not have happened," he said. But his voice lacked certainty. Because it had. And neither of you had stopped it. You couldn't bring yourself to speak- you settled for a shameful nod.
Outside, the light continued to fade. The ceremony waited. And whatever had just shifted between you...
A/N: Okay so I'm just putting this here so there's no spoilers! But it's been a LONG WHILE since I've written anything smut related- obviously even I wouldn't really class this as smut but pleeeaaaassse any and all feedback to help me improve is much appreciated! Thank you! 🙏🙂↔️
Summary: You are a part of Grace's avatar programme. You make the mistake of following Jake on the expedition and narrowly escape death. You would kill him but the dumbass somehow got you both to the hearts of the Ometikaya.
Word Count: 7.6k
Warnings: Mentions of death
A/N: As mentioned, here is the next chapter earlier 😉😚 It’s dialogue heavy this time! I’m already so fkn hyped to finish chapter 19 😩 we’re getting into such a juicy point!! The ideas are FLOWING
Your hands trembled where they pressed against Vetra’s neck. You forced them to still. “Breathe,” you whispered, though whether you meant her or yourself, you couldn’t tell.
Vetra’s sides heaved beneath your palms, each breath sharp and shallow. Her pupils were wide, wings half-spread in restless starts, claws gouging into the earth as if she still expected something to descend from above.
Through the bond, fear echoed in waves. Not the sharp, immediate terror of the chase now. The aftermath. The shaking kind. The kind that came when the danger had passed enough for the body to understand how close death had truly come.
“I know,” you murmured again, voice raw. “I know, Vetra. I know.” You stroked along the line of her neck in slow, deliberate motions. Grounding. Repetition. Something steady to offer when neither of you felt steady at all.
She made a low, broken sound in her throat and leaned into you hard enough to nearly knock you sideways. You wrapped both arms around as much of her as you could reach. “It’s alright,” you lied softly. Your own knees were still weak. Your legs shook so badly you had to brace yourself against her shoulder to remain upright.
Above the trees, the sky was hidden now. That should have comforted you. Instead, every shift of leaves overhead made your body tense. Every cry in the distance sent a fresh pulse of dread through your chest.
You could still feel it. That shadow sweeping over you. The violent drop of Vetra beneath you. The sound Toruk had made- ancient and merciless and hungry. You swallowed hard, but your throat felt tight.
If you had been slower-
If Vetra had panicked one second more-
If the trees had been farther-
Your breath caught. You bent forward abruptly, forehead pressing harder to Vetra’s warm skin as nausea rolled through you. “We almost died,” you said. The words came out small. Unsteady. Real. Vetra shuddered beneath your hands.
Through the bond, her distress rose again, and you quickly forced your breathing slower, deeper, trying to soothe her before it spiralled. “In… out…” You counted it silently. One breath. Then another. Her frantic energy gradually softened into trembling exhaustion. Only then did your own composure begin to crack.
You sank to your knees beside her. The forest floor was damp beneath you. Cold seeped through your skin, but you barely noticed. You were alone. The thought landed differently now than it had before. Not peaceful. Not independent.
Alone. No one had seen. No one had come. Your screams had vanished into open sky and trees. You had cried out for help- for anyone, everyone-
But beneath that panic, beneath all the instinct and terror, one truth sat sharp and humiliating in your chest. There had been one name your heart reached for first. One name you had called inside yourself before you even knew you were doing it.
Tsu’tey.
Your mouth trembled. He had not heard. Could not have heard. Would not have come. Not because he would not save you. Because he was not there. Because you were alone.
Fresh tears spilled before you could stop them. You bowed your head, shoulders shaking now with the force of everything delayed- fear, shock, grief, the cruel sting of that realization.
“I called for you,” you whispered into Vetra’s skin. The confession was swallowed by the forest. Your chest ached with it. Not because he had failed you. Because some part of you had still believed- still hoped- that if death came from the sky, he would somehow appear beneath it. Ridiculous. Childish. Impossible. And yet the hurt of it cut deep all the same.
Vetra shifted, lowering herself carefully until her body curved around you, wing half-draping at your side like shelter. The gesture undid you further. A sob broke loose from somewhere low in your chest. You pressed both hands over your face. “I’m sorry,” you choked, unsure whether you meant to her, to yourself, or to the name you should not still be holding onto.
Minutes passed. Or longer. Time lost shape in grief and adrenaline. Eventually, the tears eased into quieter breaths. You lowered your hands. Vetra’s head rested near your shoulder now, watching you with that fierce, intelligent stillness she always seemed to possess after chaos.
You laughed once through the remnants of tears. A broken, disbelieving sound. “You stayed,” you whispered. Of course she had. She always would, if she could. You reached up to stroke her jaw, slower now.
The trembling in your body had not fully gone. Neither had the fear. It sat deep in your bones now, heavy and cold. But beneath it, another truth settled too. You had survived without rescue. Without him. Without anyone. The thought did not comfort you yet. It only hurt. Still, it was true.
You drew a shaky breath and wiped at your face. “Come on,” you murmured after a while. “We have to go back.” The idea of open sky made your stomach twist. But staying here was no answer either. You rose unsteadily, keeping one hand on Vetra for balance.
When you looked upward through the breaks in the canopy, you half expected to see a shadow waiting there. There was only light filtering through leaves. Morning had continued without you. As though nothing had happened at all.
--------------------------------------------
By the time you neared the village, your legs felt heavier than they should have. Every step back had taken effort. Not because of distance- but because your body still had not understood that it was safe. Adrenaline had drained away slowly, leaving behind trembling muscles, a raw throat, and a fatigue so deep it felt woven into your bones.
Vetra moved beside you on the final stretch, close enough that her wing brushed branches near your shoulder. She had refused to take to the sky again. You had not asked her to. Neither of you wanted open air.
The first signs of the village came through the trees- voices, movement, the familiar structures rising among roots and woven platforms. Relief should have come with it. Instead, dread stirred.
You had no idea how long you had been gone. No idea what you looked like. Your cheek still stung where the branch had caught you. Your clothes were dirt-streaked, your braid half-loosened, your eyes surely swollen from crying. You barely had time to brace yourself.
“Y/N!” The cry rang sharp through the clearing. A small blur of movement broke from the cluster of people near the centre of the village and sprinted toward you at full speed. Ramtsyi.
Before you could even fully stop walking, she collided into you hard enough to nearly knock you backward. Arms wrapped around your middle, fierce and desperate. You gasped, then instinctively held her back just as tightly.
“Tsmuke!” she cried into your chest, voice breaking. “I thought- I thought-” Her whole body shook. Fresh emotion rose so suddenly in your throat it hurt. “I’m here,” you said hoarsely, smoothing a trembling hand over her hair. “I’m here.”
Ramtsyi pulled back only enough to look up at you, tears streaking her cheeks. “I almost lost my Tsmuke,” she sobbed, then crushed herself against you again as though refusing to let the world take you now that it hadn’t managed to before. Your eyes burned instantly. You held her tighter.
Footsteps approached quickly after her. Teyra reached you next, breath slightly uneven from hurrying, though her posture remained more composed than Ramtsyi’s. Only her eyes betrayed her. Fear. Relief. Residual panic.
She stopped close enough to touch you but seemed to restrain herself for one second longer than she wanted before placing both hands on your shoulders. “You are safe,” she said quietly. Not a question. A need.
You nodded once. “Yes.” Teyra’s gaze swept over you immediately- your face, the dirt on your arms, the loosened braid, the shaking you could not fully hide. Her expression tightened. “We were afraid,” she said. “Hunters on the eastern patrol returned not long ago. They saw Toruk in the distance.”
The word alone sent a cold pulse through your stomach. Around you, several nearby voices had gone quiet. “They said he was circling low,” Teyra continued. “Then someone noticed your ikran was gone from the rookery.” Ramtsyi made a small distressed sound against you.
“We searched the lower paths,” Teyra said. “We feared you had already-” She stopped herself. Her hands tightened slightly on your shoulders. “But you are back,” she finished, voice gentler now. “And unharmed.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Unharmed. Your cheek throbbed. Your muscles ached. Your chest still felt bruised from terror. But that wasn’t what stopped you. It was the memory. The shadow. The scream. The way death had rushed at you from the sky.
You looked at Teyra, then at Ramtsyi still clutching you, then at the gathering eyes beginning to notice the conversation. And the truth came out before you could soften it. “He found us.”
Silence spread outward almost instantly. Teyra’s brows drew together. “What do you mean?” Your throat tightened. You swallowed. “Toruk hunted us.” Ramtsyi froze in your arms. Teyra went completely still. Even the sounds of the village seemed to recede for a heartbeat.
“He came over us in the sky,” you said, voice thinner now as the memory returned in sharp pieces. “Vetra felt him first. Then the shadow-” Your breathing faltered. You forced it steady. “He chased us. We had to dive into the forest to lose him.” Ramtsyi slowly pulled back, eyes wide with horror. “He chased you?” You nodded once. Teyra’s face had gone pale beneath her markings. “Eywa…” she murmured.
Someone nearby cursed under their breath. Another voice asked if you were injured. You barely heard any of it. Because now that you had said it aloud- now that others knew- the fear became real all over again.
Your knees wavered. Teyra caught your arm immediately. “Enough,” she said sharply to those watching. “Give her space.” The surrounding cluster stepped back at once.
Ramtsyi slid one arm around your waist as if determined to help hold you upright. “You should be resting,” she said tearfully. “Why are you standing? Why did you walk back? Why did you not call someone?” You let out one weak, disbelieving laugh. “I was a little busy.”
Ramtsyi sniffed hard and somehow looked offended on your behalf. Teyra’s hand moved to your cheek, examining the scrape there with careful gentleness. “You need water,” she said. “And food. Then rest.” You nodded faintly.
The adrenaline was fully gone now. Only exhaustion remained. As they began guiding you forward, Ramtsyi still attached to your side, a hush lingered in the village around you. Not only because you had returned. But because Toruk had chosen you for prey. And failed.
-----------------------------------------------
By midday, the fire had burned down to a deep, steady glow. The morning’s panic had softened into the ordinary rhythm of Home Tree. Voices rose and fell in nearby clusters. Children darted through the wider roots before being called back. Somewhere above, someone laughed. The scent of smoke, herbs, and cooked food drifted warmly through the vast space.
It should have felt comforting. It mostly did. But every now and then, without warning, your body remembered something your mind was trying not to. A shifting shadow overhead. The scream of wings. The plunge.
Each time, your shoulders tensed before you could stop them. Ramtsyi noticed every single one. She sat cross-legged beside you near the fire, far too vigilant for someone her age, watching you with narrowed eyes whenever you so much as adjusted your position.
“You moved too fast,” she declared for the third time that hour. You looked up from your lap. “I reached for thread.”
“You reached recklessly.”
“I’m literally sitting down.”
“That does not mean you cannot be reckless.”
You huffed a laugh through your nose. Somewhere nearby, Teyra had hidden a smile before leaving earlier, after firmly instructing Ramtsyi to keep you seated and “not let stubbornness undo survival.” Ramtsyi had taken the assignment with the solemn intensity of a warrior oath. Now she pointed accusingly at the small bundle beside you. “You should rest, not work.”
“It is resting,” you said. “... mostly.” In your hands lay your songcord. The woven length of beads, fibres, carved pieces and tokens rested warm across your thighs. You had asked for it almost immediately after being made to sit. The need had surprised even you.
But the memory of the morning felt too sharp, too wild, too close to your skin. If you did not place it somewhere, it would keep living inside you. So you had begun to add to the cord.
Your fingers worked slowly now, threading a new piece through the existing strands: a narrow feathered strip dyed in dark blue and gold, colours that reminded you of dawn sky split by shadow. Beside it, you tied a small carved bead Teyra had once given you to mark courage in training. Not because you felt courageous. Because you had been afraid and kept moving anyway.
Ramtsyi leaned closer, curiosity warring with disapproval. “What does that one mean?” You glanced down. “It means today.” She frowned. “That is not a proper meaning.” You let out a huff of amusement. “It is to me.” Her ears twitched in annoyance. “You answer like an adult when they do not want to explain.” You smiled faintly. “Then I’ll explain properly.”
You touched the new bead. “This part is fear,” you said quietly. “And surviving it.” Ramtsyi’s expression shifted at once. The childlike irritation vanished, replaced by something gentler. She looked at the songcord with new seriousness. “And when you look at it later,” she asked softly, “you will remember?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you want to remember something terrible?”
The question landed deeper than she intended. You considered it. “Because it happened,” you said after a moment. “Because pretending it didn’t won’t make it smaller. And because… I learned something.”
“What?”
You looked into the fire. “That I can still act when I’m scared.” Ramtsyi was quiet for a long beat. Then she nodded once, solemnly accepting the answer. “You did act,” she said. “You saved Vetra too.” Emotion tightened unexpectedly in your throat. “Vetra saved me as much as I saved her.” Ramtsyi accepted that too. Then, almost instantly, the solemnity dissolved.
She scooted closer with renewed energy. “Now tell me about the sky people.” You laughed despite yourself. “That was a dramatic subject change.”
“I have many questions.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me.”
She straightened proudly. “First question- why do sky people wear so many clothes?” You stared at her. “Straight to the important issues, huh?”
“It is strange,” she insisted. “So much fabric. All the time. Even when hot.”
“Well,” you said, settling back against the root behind you, “some places are cold.”
Ramtsyi’s eyes widened. “How cold?”
“Cold enough that if you went outside dressed like that”- you gestured to her simple wrap-“you’d freeze to death.”
She gasped theatrically. “No.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “Your world sounds badly designed.” You burst out laughing. Several people nearby glanced over with faint smiles. Ramtsyi looked smug. “And food?” she pressed on. “Do sky people only eat from metal packets like the soldiers?”
“No. Thankfully.”
“Good. Because that doesn't look like it tastes good.”
You snorted. “It doesn’t. Some people do, sometimes. But there’s normal food too.”
“What is normal food?”
“That depends where you’re from.”
She leaned in further, practically vibrating with interest. “Tell me everything!"
So you did. Not everything. But enough. You told her about bread fresh from ovens, about markets full of spices and fruit, about rain against windows, about crowded streets full of lights. About books. About music through speakers. About oceans too vast to see across. About things that slowly returned to the forefront of your mind in a blur. Concepts but not quite fully formed to explain in depth.
She interrupted constantly. “Wait- what is a bus?”
“Too many people in one vehicle.”
“Horrifying.” She paused only for a breath before her next question. “What is snow?”
“Frozen water.”
“That falls from the sky?”
“Yes.”
“Your world is cursed.”
You laughed so hard your side hurt. For a little while, the terror of the morning loosened its grip. You forgot to listen for shadows. Forgot to measure every sound above you. Forgot the name you had cried for and the emptiness that followed.
Ramtsyi eventually leaned against your shoulder as though she had always belonged there, still asking questions in bursts between your answers. “Do sky people choose mates?”
You smiled softly. “Not always the way you mean,” you said. “Some do choose to spend their lives together. Some promise themselves to each other.” Ramtsyi lifted her head. “Promise?”
“We call it marriage.”
She considered that gravely. “Like a bond?”
“In some ways,” you said. “A vow. A commitment. Two people saying they will face life side by side.” Ramtsyi nodded as if storing the concept away for future use. “And if they do not promise?”
“Sometimes they still love each other,” you said. “Sometimes people stay. Sometimes they leave. Human love can be… complicated.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“It often is.”
She seemed delighted by this. “But there are many forms of love,” you continued, your fingers absently moving along the songcord. “Love between family. Love between friends. Love that grows slowly. Love that is fierce and protective. Love that asks for nothing back.” Ramtsyi listened with rare stillness now. “And then,” you said, glancing into the fire, “there is what many humans dream about most.”
“What?”
You smiled faintly, glancing down to look in her curious eyes. “True love.”
Her ears perked instantly. “What is that?”
You laughed under your breath. “If humans knew for certain, we’d all be much wiser.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It means different things to different people,” you said. “But most imagine it as the deepest kind of love. The one person who sees you fully and still chooses you. The person who feels like home.”
Ramtsyi’s eyes widened. “Everyone searches for this?”
“Many do,” you said. “Some spend their whole lives searching.”
“And do they find it?”
“Sometimes.” Your voice had gone quieter without meaning to. “Sometimes they mistake something else for it. Sometimes they find it too late. Sometimes they never realise they had it until it’s gone.”
Ramtsyi frowned at the unfairness of this system. “Sky people make everything difficult.”
“That is very true.”
She was silent for a moment, then tilted her head up at you. “Have you had true love?” The question struck more deeply than she knew. Your fingers stilled on the songcord. Faces, memories, losses, almosts- all flickered through you too quickly to name.
Then you looked down at her. At the child tucked warm against your side. At the place Teyra had made for you by the fire. At the life that had slowly opened itself around you and let you in.
Your expression softened. You reached out and gently cupped Ramtsyi’s cheek. “I don’t know,” you said honestly. “But the love I have from Teyra and from you…” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “…feels the closest to it.” Ramtsyi went very still. Then puffed up with visible pride. “I knew it.” You laughed, wiping quickly at the corner of one eye. “Did you?”
“Yes. I am very lovable.”
“That much is undeniable.”
She beamed. Then, because peace never lasted long with her, she narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Do you have love for Tsu’tey?” Your hand froze where it rested against her cheek. The fire cracked softly between you. Somewhere in Home Tree, distant laughter rose and faded. And all at once, your heart remembered how to hurt.
Your first instinct was to laugh it away. To brush it aside with something light and easy. “No,” you said quickly, too quickly. “Nothing like that.” Ramtsyi’s eyes narrowed at once. She knew enough now to recognize falsehood when it wore a smile.
“You answered too fast,” she said suspiciously.
“There's nothing wrong with that.”
“You answered like someone hiding.”
You groaned softly and leaned your head back against the root behind you. “Do all children here interrogate people for sport?”
“Only the clever ones.”
Before you could protest further, she scooted even closer until her shoulder pressed firmly against yours, determined and warm. “You look at him strangely,” she announced. Your stomach dropped. “I do not.”
“You do.”
“I really don’t.”
“You really do.”
You turned to stare at her. “This feels less like a conversation and more like an ambush.” Ramtsyi ignored that entirely. “My mother says so too.” You froze. Slowly. “Teyra says what?”
Ramtsyi nodded with the gravity of one sharing sacred intelligence. “She says you both look at each other when you think no one sees.” A pause. “And when you are seen, you stop.” Heat rushed to your face so fast it was almost dizzying. “She doesn't say that.”
“She does.” Ramtsyi folded her arms. “She also says there are many small moments.” You stared in horror. “What small moments?”
“When he stands nearer to you than others.” She began counting on her fingers. “When he speaks softer to you. When you smile before he has even said anything. When he becomes angry with everyone else but not you.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. Ramtsyi continued mercilessly. “She says he used to be harder. Sharper. Now he is still sharp, but… less stone.” Despite yourself, your chest tightened. “And you,” Ramtsyi said, poking your arm, “used to always look ready to run. Now you look like you belong.”
The words landed more gently than the others. Because they were true. And because you knew who had helped shape that change. You let out a slow breath. The fire crackled softly in the pause that followed. Ramtsyi watched you with unblinking patience, sensing the shift.
When you spoke again, your voice was quieter. “I haven’t been truthful.” She straightened immediately. “With me?” You nod faintly. “With myself,” you said. “And with you, just now.” Ramtsyi’s expression softened into attentive seriousness.
You looked down at the songcord in your lap, fingers tracing the newly tied bead. “Love may be the thing humans search for,” you said slowly. “We write songs about it. Stories. We build whole lives around the hope of finding it.” Ramtsyi nodded solemnly. “But humans do not always speak enough about the other side of it.”
“The other side?”
You swallowed. “The pain.”
Her brow furrowed. “But... love is meant to be good.”
“It often is,” you said. “But not always easy.” You stared into the firelight, watching it shift across the roots. “Not every love is returned,” you continued. “Sometimes you give your heart to someone who cannot give theirs back. Sometimes they care for you deeply, but not in the way you wish. Sometimes duty, timing, fear… stands in the way.”
“It can be.” Your throat tightened, but you kept going. “Sometimes loving someone hurts you.” You paused. “Yet trying not to love them can hurt even more.” The confession sat between you, bare and unmistakable.
Ramtsyi was very still now. Young as she was, she understood more than many adults ever bothered to. “Is that what this is?” she asked quietly. “With Tsu’tey?” You looked at her. Then, unexpectedly, you smiled. Small. Tender. A little sad.
“We aren't at that point to call it love,” you said softly. Ramtsyi blinked. “No?” You shook your head once, then glanced around theatrically as if checking who might overhear. “Come here.” Her eyes widened instantly. “A secret?"
“A very important one.”
She gasped and scrambled closer until she was nearly in your lap, leaning forward with delighted intensity. You bent toward her, lowering your voice to a whisper near her ear. “Even if I did love Tsu’tey,” you murmured, “it would be one of those loves that cannot blossom.”
Ramtsyi went perfectly still. You continued softly. “The kind that should be cut at the root before it grows too deep.” Her small hand reached for yours. “Why?”
“Because nothing good can come from a love like that,” you whispered. “Not for him. Not for me.” The words hurt more spoken aloud than they had in your mind. Still, you smiled when you drew back. “So it must stay concealed.”
Ramtsyi frowned in concentration. “Like the secret?”
“Exactly like the secret.”
She glanced around suspiciously, as though enemies might already be closing in. Then she leaned in and whispered back far louder than necessary. “I will guard it with my life.” You laughed softly despite the ache in your chest. “I know you will.”
She settled back against your side, visibly proud of her new burden. For a while, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled. Your fingers returned to the songcord, tightening the knot around the newest bead. Fear. Survival. Shadow. And now- a secret buried carefully beneath them all.
Ramtsyi remained tucked against your side for only a minute before the stillness became too much for her. She lifted her head suddenly. “Can I play with your hair?” You turned to look at her. “My hair?”
“Yes.” She gestured at it with dramatic concern. “It is tragic.” You let out a startled laugh. “It survived being hunted by Toruk this morning.”
“It did not survive well.” You reached up instinctively and found loose strands everywhere, your braid half-fallen apart, sections tangled from branches and wind. Fair enough. You sighed with exaggerated dignity. “Fine. You may attempt repairs.”
Ramtsyi beamed as though she had been granted a sacred honour. “I knew you would make the correct choice.” She sprang up at once and moved behind you, knees settling against the woven floor. Gentle fingers immediately began undoing the remains of your braid, careful but enthusiastic.
You closed your eyes for a moment as she worked. It felt strangely soothing- the repetitive touch, the warmth of the fire, the normalcy of being fussed over after a morning that had felt anything but normal. Ramtsyi clicked her tongue. “This knot is a personal insult.”
“I was a little busy.”
“You use this excuse for everything now.”
“I nearly died.”
“A dramatic overreaction.”
You laughed softly. Her fingers combed through your hair with more tenderness than her tone suggested, separating strands, smoothing tangles with patient persistence. After a moment she said casually, “Your ceremony is in two days.”
The words dropped into you like a stone. Two days. Not three anymore. Not some approaching thing in the distance. Near. Immediate. Real. Your smile faded slightly. Two days until you stood before the clan. Two days until your place would be named. Two days until-
You inhaled slowly. The truth of it settled heavy and bright all at once. Everything was changing. Perhaps it already had. Behind you, Ramtsyi leaned forward until her mouth was near your ear. “I have a secret of my own too,” she whispered. The conspiratorial tone pulled you from your thoughts at once.
You grinned, turning your head slightly though you couldn’t quite see her. “Oh? What’s that?” Instead of answering immediately, she wrapped both arms around you from behind in a fierce little hug, nearly tangling herself in your hair. You laughed in surprise. “Careful, my stylist.”
“No.” She squeezed tighter. Then, with sudden softness, she said into your shoulder- “I’m so happy you want to belong to us.” The words stole the humour from your face. Ramtsyi continued quietly. “I’ve always wanted a Tsmuke. I call you it now but after your ceremony you will belong to me fully.”
Emotion rose warm and painful in your chest. You covered one of her arms with your hand. “Ramtsyi…” She rested her chin on your shoulder. “My mother told me only once,” she said, voice smaller now, rarer in its seriousness. “That she had a child before me.” Your breath caught. “She was lost many years ago. Before I was born.” Ramtsyi’s fingers tightened slightly around you.
“She said the first sky people came with fire and noise and weapons. There was fighting. Her daughter died.” The fire crackled softly in the silence that followed. You barely moved. “What was her name?” you asked gently. “Tsyek.” She said it carefully, reverently, as if it should be handled with both hands. You felt tears prick unexpectedly behind your eyes.
Ramtsyi went on in a whisper. “Sometimes, before you came, I would hear my mother say her name in sleep.” Your throat tightened. “She would wake sad,” Ramtsyi said. “Even when she did not speak of it in the day.” You reached back, finding her hand and holding it. “But now…” Ramtsyi pressed her cheek against your shoulder. “Now her nights are quiet.”
The words broke something open in you. Not sharply. Gently. A grief carried for years. A silence eased. You blinked quickly, swallowing against the ache in your throat. “She loves you very much,” you said softly. “I know.” She whispered against your neck.
“And she loved Tsyek very much too.” You add. Ramtsyi was quiet. Then nodded against you. “I know that too.” You turned as much as her embrace allowed and kissed the side of her head. “And I think,” you murmured, voice unsteady, “she has room for both.”
Ramtsyi sniffed dramatically. “That was a very wise thing to say.”
“I have many hidden talents.”
“No,” she said, pulling back enough to resume your hair with brisk authority. “Your hidden talent is crying while sitting still.” You laughed through the tears that had escaped anyway. “That is not a talent.”
“It is strange enough to count.” She began braiding again, slower now, more careful than before. You let her. The fire warmed your face. Her fingers moved through your hair. And for the first time since the sky had darkened above you that morning, something inside you truly began to feel safe again.
Ramtsyi’s fingers made one final deft twist, then tugged lightly at the end of your braid in satisfaction. “There,” she declared. “You are presentable again.” You reached back, feeling the neat weight of it over your shoulder. “That quickly?”
“I am gifted.”
“That may be true but you're also arrogant.”
“I am accurate.”
You laughed softly and turned enough to look at her. She sat back on her heels, chin lifted with immense pride, clearly expecting praise. You gave it freely. “It’s beautiful.” Her grin flashed instantly. “I know.”
Before you could tease her further, a swell of voices rose from the main entrance of Home Tree. A group of gatherers entered carrying woven baskets heavy with fruit, herbs, and broad leaves tied in bundles. They were mid-conversation, animated and loud in the easy way of women returning together from work.
Then one of them spotted you. Her eyes widened. “It is her!” Every head turned. Your stomach dropped immediately. No. Please no. The women changed direction as one body and swept toward the fire with startling speed.
Ramtsyi looked delighted. You looked for escape and found none. They surrounded you in a warm, bustling semicircle of bright eyes, baskets thumping to the ground beside them.
“You returned safely!”
“We heard Toruk chased you through the sky!”
“They said he shadowed your ikran!”
“That you dived through the trees!”
“That you screamed at him!”
You blinked rapidly. “I- wait, no, that last part is not-”
“How brave!”
“How terrifying!”
“How glorious!”
“I wouldn't say glorious,” you said quickly. “It was mostly panic.” They ignored this entirely. One woman clasped both your hands dramatically.
“You protected your mount.”
“Vetra protected me,” you corrected.
“Mutual bravery, then!”
Another touched the new scrape on your cheek with scandalized sympathy. “And you fought him!”
“I absolutely did not fight Toruk.”
“She is humble,” someone announced to the others. “She is.”
“The bravest always are.”
You groaned and covered your face with one hand. Ramtsyi cackled beside you. “It wasn’t like that,” you insisted through your fingers. “We ran. Very fast.”
“As any wise warrior would!”
“I am not a warrior.”
“You faced death in the sky.”
“By accident!”
They broke into overlapping praise again, talking over one another in delighted disbelief. You sank lower by the fire, half embarrassed, half helpless to stop the tide of enthusiasm. It was while one woman was re-enacting Vetra’s supposed “heroic spiral dive” with a bunch of herbs that the mood in the room subtly changed.
You didn’t notice at first. But several women suddenly straightened. Conversations nearby softened. Then a familiar voice, low and controlled, cut through the chatter. “What is this commotion?”
Every muscle in your body went taut. You looked up. Tsu’tey stood just beyond the crowd, having entered so quietly you hadn’t heard him. His gaze moved once over the gathered women, then found you by the fire. Only for a second. Then it shifted away.
The women immediately bowed their heads in respect, all speaking at once before any single one could be chosen. “Tsu’tey! She was hunted by Toruk!”
“He nearly took them from the sky!”
“She flew through the trees like a seasoned hunter!”
“She looked death in the eye!”
“She wrestled fear itself!”
“I did none of those things,” you said, horrified. Ramtsyi snorted beside you.
Another woman leaned toward him confidentially. “She was calm as stone.”
“I was screaming.”
“She is modest too!”
You wanted the floor to open beneath you. Tsu’tey’s expression did not visibly change, but something sharpened in his eyes as the story piled higher with every sentence. His gaze flicked briefly to the scrape on your cheek. To the slight stiffness in the way you sat. Then back to the women. You tried to interrupt again. “It really wasn’t-”
“She saved the ikran!”
“Vetra saved me.”
“She and beast moved as one!”
“That part is technically true-”
“Tsu’tey,” one woman sighed dramatically, “she should be sung of.”
“No,” you said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
A beat of silence followed. Then Tsu’tey inclined his head once. “Your concern for her is noted,” he said, voice calm and carrying enough authority to still them at once. “You have honoured her courage.” It was phrased as gratitude. It sounded like dismissal.
The women recognized it instantly. They dipped their heads again, gathering baskets with sheepish efficiency. Still smiling. Still whispering excitedly to one another. As they withdrew, they extended a hand to Ramtsyi. “Come.”
Ramtsyi blinked. “Why?”
“Your mother is looking for you.”
Suspicion narrowed her eyes. “Did she say that?”
“Yes.”
“You are lying.”
“No.”
“You blinked.”
A few nearby women hid smiles. Tsu’tey remained unmoved. “Come, Ramtsyi.” She persisted. Ramtsyi glanced at you, then at him, then slowly placed her hand in the woman's. “This is suspicious,” she informed you gravely as she rose. “I know,” you said, fighting a smile. She gave you one last look before being pulled away by the other women.
The fire crackled softly between you. Tsu’tey stood a few paces away, shoulders squared, face set into that severe calm he wore whenever feeling too much. You remained seated by the fire, fingers still resting on your songcord though you no longer felt the beads beneath them.
Neither of you spoke. Then his gaze fixed fully on you. “You flew alone.” No greeting. No relief. Just judgment. You looked back into the flames. “Yes.”
“At first light.”
“Yes.”
“Without informing anyone.”
“I didn't realise I needed permission.”
His jaw tightened. “This is not a matter for games.”
“It's not a game to want space.”
“It is when your carelessness sends hunters searching the forest.”
Irritation flared hot and immediate. “My carelessness?”
“You disappeared.”
“I went to ride my ikran.”
“You went alone.”
“I've gone alone before.”
“And today Toruk hunted you.” The word struck hard even now.
You pushed the feeling down. “Yeah. I noticed.”
His eyes narrowed at your tone. “You treat this too lightly.”
“I'm treating it as something that's over.”
“It is not over if you learn nothing from it.”
You rose slightly from where you sat, anger stirring with every clipped word. “I learned plenty.”
“Then tell me what you learned.”
“That Toruk is large. That screaming is undignified. That Vetra is faster than she looks.”
“This is foolishness.”
“No,” you snapped, standing fully now. “This is me refusing to be spoken to like a child because you are angry.”
“I am angry because you were reckless.”
“And I'm tired of you calling everything I do reckless when what you mean is that you don't like not having control over it.”
His nostrils flared. “You think this is about control?”
“What else is it?”
He stepped closer. “Responsibility.”
You laughed once, sharp and humourless. “There it is. Your favourite word.”
“It should be yours as well.”
“And yours should be humility.”
His eyes flashed. For a moment the carefully held restraint cracked. “You could have died.” The force of it silenced you for a beat.
Then you lifted your chin. “I didn't.”
“That was chance.”
“It was skill.”
“That was luck and Eywa’s mercy.”
“It was me.” you shot back. “I guided her. I kept calm enough to save us.”
He stared at you, breathing harder now. “Yes,” he said tightly. “And you should never have needed to.”
You frowned. “What does that mean?”
His jaw worked as if fighting himself. Then suddenly he snapped. “It means I was supposed to be there to save you.” The words rang between you. Even the fire seemed to quiet. You stared at him.
All the anger drained out of his face the moment they were spoken, replaced by something rawer- something he clearly had not intended to reveal. Your heart lurched painfully. You forced yourself to harden against it. “That is just your duty,” you said, quieter now. “To protect the people here.”
He looked at you as though the answer struck deeper than anger ever had. “No,” he said, and stopped. The word came low. Incomplete. His mouth parted again, as if something else stood there waiting to be said. Something dangerous. Something honest. You saw the battle happen in real time. Then the walls came back down.
His expression cooled. His posture straightened. “Yes,” he said after a beat, voice controlled once more. “My duty.” The shift hurt more than the argument. You looked away first. “Then we understand each other.” You echo the same words he used the last time you spoke.
You bent to pick up your songcord, wrapping it around your wrist with unsteady fingers. “I should go.” You moved to step past him. His hand caught yours. Not harshly. Firm enough to stop you.
Heat shot through your whole body at the contact. You both looked at where his fingers encircled your wrist. He released it immediately- only to slide down and take your hand instead, as though correcting something neither of you could name. Your pulse thundered.
When you looked up, his face was composed again, but too composed. “Neytiri spoke to me,” he said. You blinked, still distracted by the warmth of his hand around yours. “What?”
“She informed me of my role in your ceremony.” Your stomach tightened. You knew what role he meant before he said it. He would prepare you. Paint your skin. Stand close enough to touch while pretending nothing lived in the space between you.
You tried to pull your hand back. He held it one heartbeat longer. Then let go. “It will be done properly,” he said. Formal. Measured. As though the moment before had never happened. As though he had not just admitted he wanted to be the one to save you. As though your skin was not still burning where he had touched it.
You swallowed. “I’m sure it will.” You stepped back this time. He did not stop you again. But his gaze followed you as you turned away, carrying the weight of everything neither of you had been brave enough to say.
-------------------------------------------
Tsu'tey POV
Night had come quietly again. By the time most of Home Tree had settled into softer voices and dim firelight, Tsu’tey had already left. No one stopped him. No one questioned where he went. The future Olo’eyktan often moved alone when thought was heavy, and tonight no one would mistake the set of his shoulders for ease.
He descended through familiar pathways into the lower forest where the air was cooler and richer with damp earth. Bioluminescent tendrils glowed softly beneath his feet, curling pale blue around roots and stone. Insects hummed low in the brush. Somewhere farther off, a night creature cried once, then fell silent.
He carried a woven satchel at his hip. Inside it were empty bowls, binding resin, strips of cloth. He had told himself this was practical. The pigments for ceremony should be gathered fresh. Prepared properly. Measured with care.
He had done it before for others. There was no reason this night should feel different. Yet every step betrayed him. Because this time the paint was for you.
He crouched beside a cluster of moonbloom flowers, their pale petals folded half-shut against the dark. With practiced fingers he harvested only the pollen-rich centres, careful not to damage the roots.
White for blessing. White for renewal. White for beginning.
He dropped them into one bowl and stared at them longer than necessary. Beginning. His jaw tightened. For you, yes. For him, perhaps an ending. He moved on. Near a moss-covered trunk he scraped rich blue mineral dust from a vein of stone, collecting it in another bowl.
Blue for sky people once, in mockery. Blue for clan markings now, in belonging. Blue for the colour your eyes had lifted to the dawn this morning before Toruk shadowed them.
His hand stopped. He saw it too easily. You alone in the sky. The report from the gatherers had been ridiculous in parts, embellished in others- but the core truth remained. Toruk had hunted you. You had screamed for help. You had nearly died. And he had not been there.
His fingers dug too hard into the stone. The scraper slipped, slicing the side of his thumb. He barely reacted. A bead of dark blood welled and ran across his skin. He watched it a moment before wiping it clean on the moss. Careless. He never worked carelessly. Not until you.
He rose sharply and continued deeper into the forest. At a fallen tree wrapped in vines, he cut strips of crimson bark. Red was not always used in ceremony, but Teyra had requested it for strength. Strength after fear. Strength after trial. Strength for one who had survived Toruk and returned.
He nearly laughed at the irony. They would mark bravery onto your skin when you already wore it in ways paint never could. He packed the bark away. The satchel was growing heavy. Not as heavy as his chest.
Later, beside a small stream lit silver by moonlight, he knelt and began to grind the gathered materials. Stone against stone. Flower centres crushed to paste. Mineral dust mixed with water. Resin warmed between palms until tacky.
The work required precision. Usually he welcomed that. Usually the discipline of the hands quieted the disorder of the mind. Tonight it failed him. Because every mixture became memory. White beneath your throat. Blue drawn along your arms. Red pressed over the pulse at your wrist. His hand paused mid-motion.
He cursed under his breath and resumed grinding harder. The pigments thickened slowly. He tested consistency with two fingers. Too thin. More resin. Again. He adjusted, remixed, focused.
Still your face returned. The scrape on your cheek. The defiance in your eyes when he scolded you. The softness in your voice when you said that is just your duty. No. It had not been duty.
That was the truth he had nearly spoken. Duty demanded protection of the clan. What surged through him when he heard Toruk had chased you had been something far less noble and far more dangerous. Panic. The kind that narrowed the world to one thought: Find her.
He ground the pestle down so hard the bowl cracked. The sound split the night. He stilled immediately. Fragments of clay sat in his palm, pigment leaking between them like spilled blood.
For several breaths he did not move. Then he set the broken bowl aside. His breathing was controlled. Too controlled. He should have turned back then. Started again tomorrow. Instead he gathered the paste carefully into a fresh bowl and continued. Because if he could not master feeling, he would at least master the task before him.
When the pigments were finished, he lined the bowls beside the stream. White. Blue. Red. Moonlight silvered their surfaces. He looked at them as if they belonged to someone else.
In two days these colours would touch your skin beneath his hands. He would stand close enough to smell your hair. Close enough to feel the warmth of you. Close enough to remember every line he had tried to redraw between you. And he would have to do it with steady hands.
His throat tightened unexpectedly. He imagined you after ceremony. Marked. Claimed by the people. Surrounded. Smiling. No longer needing instruction. No longer needing him.
The thought struck with a force he had not prepared for. Because he had told himself distance was mercy. Necessary. Wise. Yet the idea of succeeding in that distance felt like loss.
He lowered his head once, eyes closing. This was weakness. Attachment where there should be clarity. Desire where there should be discipline. He knew it. Still, when he opened his eyes, the only truth that remained was simple and merciless: He wanted what he could not keep.
The stream moved softly beside him. Far above, Home Tree glowed through the branches. Tsu’tey gathered the bowls, wiped his hands clean, and rose.
By morning, no one would see anything unusual. Only pigments prepared with care. Only duty completed well. No one would know that each colour had been mixed with longing.
— summary: while lunching in the red keep’s gardens with the targaryens, ser duncan spots prince aerion behaving like a civilized man beside a kind, sun-bright lady. bewildered by the rare sight, poor dunk assumes she must be prince baelor’s daughter, patient and too compassionate—because surely no woman of sound mind would choose to spend time in aerion’s company on purpose.
— pairing: aerion targaryen x wife!reader
— word count: ~2.5k
— content: sunshine x grumpy!!, domestic fluff, humor, protective!aerion, himbo!dunk, romance, pda, poor dunk can't catch a break with these people, probably ooc!aerion.
⋆ . ۰˚ ౨ৎ ── series masterlist with different characters’ versions: here!
Ser Duncan had always known that princes were strange.
That, at least, was something he’d made peace with.
They were born strange, raised strange, and lived their lives in a world that did not much resemble the one the rest of them walked in. They spoke in courtesies that meant threats and in threats that meant nothing at all. They smiled when they were angry and grew angry when there was no cause he could see.
Still, he thought he understood them well enough—he’d been wrong all along.
He knows he is wrong because there he is, seated at a crystal big table amidst the gorgeous midday sun-drenched gardens of the Red Keep, ogling like a big oaf at Prince Aerion Targaryen—no, not at him, but at the lady sitting by his side, near the head of the table.
She is laughing, that is the first thing he is struck by. A melodious, gentle sound, like sweet honey. And then, the second thing that hits him is the sight of Aerion laughing with her as well, very quietly, with his head tilted towards her.
Hearing him laugh with genuine joy must be the most unnatural and eerie sound Duncan has ever heard.
Her hand rests casually on Aerion's forearm, intimately and so naturally, as if that's where it belongs. As if it's always belonged to touch him.
Dunk frowns and then he frowns even harder as his thoughts stumbled over themselves.
He keeps watching as she says something else—he can't hear what—and Aerion gives a slight tilt of his head, not in a scornful way, but in an expression of attention and delight.
Of course, Dunk has seen you before. You are no stranger to the Red Keep. You address the guards by name, thank the servants when they bring you things or offer assistance. Once, you even had smiled at Dunk himself, and he nearly tripped over his own feet when you did.
You are kind, gentle, and sweet. Everything Aerion is not, so Dunk naturally kept assuming you must be some cousin or sister or relative to the royal family.
Dunk just sits there, taller and clumsier than usual, and definitely feeling like a fish out of water among the majority of the Targaryens. He fiddles with his fingers in front of him, like that might stop him from saying something stupid, but it's already too late.
Next to him, Prince Aegon devours a fig with an expression of utter indulgentment; they went through this phase of confusion weeks ago and now seems to find it a source of amusement.
“Is something wrong, Ser?” asks Egg, his mouth partially full. “You’ve got that look on your face again.”
Dunk doesn't respond immediately. His eyes remain locked on the other side of the table, where the shade of the vines reaches upon you and your husband.
Aerion, who usually looks at everyone as if they were insects beneath his boot, is doing the most horrifying act: he is peeling an orange with the greatest of care. In one perfect spiral, he strips the peel and offers it to you along with a faint smile.
“She's Prince Baelor's daughter, right?,” Dunk asks cautiously, leaning toward Egg as far as he can without falling over. “A niece. Or maybe a distant cousin whom Aerion has kindly decided not to terrorize today for reasons of royal courtesy.”
Egg chokes a little on the piece of fig and bursts out in a dry laugh, which sounds more like a little bark. “My Uncle Baelor's daughter? Oh, Ser—”
At that very moment, your laughter fills the air at something Aerion whispers in your ear. The Prince allows himself another smile; not one of those malicious grimaces that Dunk knows so well, but a genuine, gentle one.
You place a hand on his cheek, caressing the edge of his jaw with a tenderness that makes Duncan's stomach churn with unbridled astonishment and revulsion.
“Come on, Ser, let's go meet her!” Egg suppresses a mischievous grin as he tugs on the sleeve of his tall friend's doublet, urging him to stand up as well. “I can see you like her. Let me introduce you, then.”
Dunk lets himself be led along, trying to remember every lesson in courtesy he never really learned, and as they reach the table, Aerion lifts his gaze. His eyes narrow with that characteristic coldness as he recognizes the knight, and all his gentle, carefree demeanor from mere seconds ago seems to vanish when he lays sight on Duncan.
“Ser Duncan,” Aerion drawls the name, his voice reverting to that harsh, extremely contemptuous intonation. “What a surprise. I didn’t know you were coming. It seems you're encroaching on my family's privacy a little more each day—”
“Prince Aerion,” Dunk greets him back dismissively, disregarding what the prince is saying to him, and not even bothering to listen to his passive-aggressive nonsense, since he is too concerned on gazing in awe at you. “My lady.”
“It's a pleasure to have you here.” You flash him a cheerful smile, glancing sideways to see Aerion's plump lips gaping in shock and offense at your side. “Ser...”
You pause for him to introduce himself, and he rushes to do so, inclining his head once more.
“Duncan, my lady,” the tall knight pronounces his name with more trepidation than pride. “At your service.”
Aerion frowns, his eyes squinting with growing annoyance. “Your service? What—”
“You are very kind, Ser Duncan,” you interrupt your prince, struggling to stifle a giggle at his expression of pure bewilderment. “Thank you for taking such good care of Aegon.”
“You don't have to thank me at all, my lady,” Dunk replies, his voice coming out softer. “Looking after Egg—Prince Aegon, is truly an honor. And seeing you here, being so patient... well, it just confirms what everyone at court says.”
You tilt your head curiously, as Aerion stares at him with cautious defiance.
“Oh? And what do they say, Ser Duncan?” you ask with a twinkle of amusement in your eyes.
“That you have a noble soul,” Duncan states with complete conviction, nodding to himself. “One can tell in a heartbeat that you are Prince Baelor's daughter”
And he carries on, even when Egg sneaks a kick to his shin, and the whole dining table drops silent, with everyone turning to look at him with expressions of either bafflement or disgust—in Maekar's case.
“He must be immensely proud to have such a kind and compassionate daughter. Only someone with his blood could have the strength to...“ His blue eyes glance at Aerion with barely concealed distaste, “Well, to spend the entire day entertaining your cousin Aerion and still keep a smile on your face. You are an exemplary cousin, my lady.”
Egg muffles out a strangled laugh and has to cover his mouth with both hands to keep from spitting it out.
Aerion, for his part, is not amused and remains petrified beside you. His lips part, uttering a gasp of outrage, and his violet eyes gleam with a fury that promises a death of agony.
“Daughter?” Aerion hisses, his voice rattling like a viper’s threat. “Did you call her my uncle Baelor’s daughter? And my cousin?”
You blink, glancing first at your husband, whose face is flushing through various hues of red, and then at the tall knight standing in front of you, who is frowning in innocent confusion.
“Ser Duncan...” you begin, trying to maintain your composure as the situation descends into absurdity. “I’m afraid your compass for kinship is a little... misguided.”
“Misgui—what?” babbles Dunk, batting his eyelashes as slowly as an ox that has just been struck on the snout.
Before your husband or you can answer, a soft, vibrant laugh comes from the head of the table. Prince Baelor is leaning back in his chair, attentive to the unfolding scene before him, in his usual courteous silence. His eyes now sparkle with genuine amusement.
“Gods be good, Ser Duncan,” says the King's Hand, his fingers absentmindedly twirling the wine glass he holds in his hand. “I appreciate your loyalty and your high regard for my character, but I fear you are attributing merits to me that I do not possess.”
“Prince Baelor is my uncle-in-law, by marriage, not by blood, Ser Duncan.” you clarify, reaching out to Aerion’s hand, that had been resting on your lap the moment Duncan had arrived at your side. “I am Aerion’s wife, not cousin.”
“W–wife?” Dunk repeats, his voice breaking with disbelief. “Aerion's? But, my lady, you're kind and beautiful and—”
“For five years, you bloody twit!” Aerion explodes, springing up from his seat now in defense of your honor and his own as well. The chair scrapes violently against the floor. “She’s been my wife for five years! My wife!”
You quickly rise to your feet as well, standing between your husband's fit of fury and Dunk's monumental state of embarrassment.
The difference in height is almost laughable: you attempting to calm a fuming Aerion, with Duncan looming over you both, appearing to wish the ground would open up and swallow him now that he has finally realized the mistake he has just made.
You bite your lower lip, battling to keep from laughing, knowing that would only further wound Aerion's pride.
“Calm down, my love,” you coax him gently, pressing both hands on his chest to push him back a step away from Duncan. “I’m sure Ser Duncan meant no harm.”
“He called you my cousin!” Aerion retorts, his burning gaze finally dropping from Dunk and focusing on you, relenting at the way you’re gazing at him, fearful of his anger.
His hands immediately curl around your waist, drawing you closer to him reassuringly and further away from the hapless hedge knight.
Dunk is as red as a tomato and his ears are turning crimson.
“Oh fuck— I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, my prince, my lady,” he blurts out, bowing his head apologetically over and over. “I didn't mean to... it's just that she's such a good person, and you're... well, you're...” His voice trails off the instant Egg kicks him again, without even trying to be subtle about it this time. “A thousand apologies to both of you for my clumsiness. Five years... Seven Hells, five years—”
“Cease your stammering, you simpleton!” a sharp voice growls from the other end of the table. “Have you no sense at all in that thick skull of yours?”
Prince Maekar is looking at Dunk with his characteristic loathing, there is a hint of fatigue in his eyes, as if being surrounded by such a load of idiocy is costing him years of his life.
“You've caused enough of a commotion with your lack of brains, Ser,” Maekar went on, glaring at his son Aerion to shut him up as well. “Sit down and keep your mouth shut before I decide that your penance for being a dimwit should be spending the rest of lunch standing next to the horses!”
Baelor breathes out another quiet snicker at his younger brother's interruption, visibly enjoying his nephew's humiliation.
Dunk straightens up at once, rigid as a plank, still pleading for your forgiveness under his shaky breath.
“There's no need to apologize, Ser Duncan,” you try to soothe him, leaning against your husband's chest.
Clinging to your body, Aerion glares at him with hateful, menacing eyes. “I won't forget this.”
“Aerion,” you call out in disapproval, pulling yourself back in his arms so you can face him, but he just keeps eyeing Duncan, who finally stumbles away from you two and back to his seat at the table.
You seize the moment to gently tug at your husban's hand, forcing him to sit back down as well. And he lets himself fall into the chair, still holding you in his arms, and pulling you onto his lap. And you let out a light, melodic laugh as he does, twisting a little in his arms to nuzzle your nose against his affectionately.
The garden eventually settles back into its rhythmic hum of clinking silverware and low conversation. The initial shock of Dunk’s blunder lingers only in the faint, lingering flush on his face as he focuses entirely on his plate, determined not to breathe in the wrong direction.
Aerion doesn't let you go. Even as he resumes eating with his free hand, his other arm remains firmly wrapped around your waist, his thumb tracing idle, possessive circles against over the fabric of your dress. He leans his head against yours appreciatively.
“He thought we were cousins even when we treated each other like this,” Aerion whispers into your ear after taking a bite of his slice of strawberry cake, his words still laced with indignation, although you can taste the sweetness of the pastry in his breath. “How could anyone be so—”
“Oh, hush,” you whisper, your eyes gazing at his with amusement and then you pick up the small silver spoon from the edge of his plate, scooping up a generous portion of the creamy pastry. “Now, stop pouting, my love. Open up for me.”
Aerion’s obeys you, naturally, leaning forward to take the sweet offering from your hand. He chews slowly, his violet softening eyes never leaving your face.
“Is it good?” you ask softly, wiping a tiny stray bit of cream from the corner of his mouth with your thumb and sucking on it to taste the flavor yourself.
“It’s tolerable,” Aerion purrs, and then kiss your lips tenderly, his mouth lingers close to yours as he pulls away, flashing you a mischievous look. “Hmm, that is far more delicious...”
While Duncan sits frozen—staring at his plate as if the roast swan might testify against him—the rest of the table barely bats an eye at the scene unfolding at his opposite side over the table.
For the Targaryens, such public displays of affection are a common occurrence, perhaps too common during family gatherings or outings or feasts.
Maekar, though still wearing a permanent scowl, simply reaches for the wine carafe, maneuvering his arm around Aerion’s sprawling form without a word. He’s seen his son go from a bloodthirsty terror to a purring housecat in your presence too many times to count. To Maekar, your lap-sitting and sweet-feeding is a necessary evil—a price he’s willing to pay for a quiet afternoon without Aerion setting something on fire.
“You see, Ser Duncan?” Prince Baelor calls out, his voice smooth and teeming with mirth as he watches you feed Aerion another spoonful of the cake, but loud enough to make the hedge knight jump in his seat. “The Prince is quite manageable when he is well-fed and well-loved. It is a pity we cannot bottle his lady wife’s influence and distribute it among the rest of the Realm.”
Your husband scoffs, though there's no real heat in it as he tries to steal another kiss between your spoonfuls, making you laugh.
Dunk, eventually looks at Aerion and then back at you. He still doesn't quite get it—how the most difficult prince in the Seven Kingdoms ended up with a woman who treats him like a pampered house cat—but as he watches you laugh again at something the prince whispers in your ear, he decides that maybe he doesn't need to understand.
a/n: Took me a bit, I'm so sorry, I'm all over the place. Enjoy!
Masterlist | Previous Part | Next Part
It could almost be your past.
Him cooking up some kind of monstrosity just out of sight while you sit in the living room, the soft domesticity of it all getting to you. Even now, the feelings are overwhelming.
Satoru has all right to hate you. Still, he choses to seek you out - even after you yelled at him in a hospital hallway like some immature teen. And even now, he brings you coffee, tries to talk to you and does it all with a gentle voice. After everything that happened, he knows your tells enough. He’s been there to witness countless panic attacks, depression holding you hostage as you have no energy to fight. Even with food he provides for you, again and again. Eagerly.
It could almost be your past.
If it wasn’t Shoko’s clinical space, but your own, with a wall of pictures and plants you failed to water in every free corner. With books and a dusty gaming setup, with the carpet you got from your dad when you moved out and the mismatched chairs you two found in different parts of Tokyo.
You could bawl your eyes out if you had any tears left to shed.
But as it is, you stay planted on the couch, not daring to set foot in the kitchen. You cling to your pillow and drink your coffee until there’s nothing left to burn your tongue. You sniff all the essential oils and try to sort the candy by color. Faintly, music drifts into the room. He’s not singing, not humming, but playing something on his phone, barely loud enough to reach your ears.
Inside your chest, your heart is like a cracked pot. Shards poke and prod at your insides, hurting in new and old ways. Besides Shoko, Haibara was your closest friend. With Utahime ghosting you, you had made peace with her absence - you knew her well enough to know that her resentment would linger. That she would chose her anger over trust and she’d had all right to feel that way. But Haibara - you should have known something was off. Should have asked Shoko, talked about your friends more, demand to be in touch with their lives, if only through her retelling.
Soon enough, the smell of egg and dashi wafts through the air and has your stomach clench. It does smell good. You hate how warm it makes you feel.
When Satoru returns, he’s lost his jacket. Now there’s only a button up shirt, plain white and tight on the arms. He’s rolled the sleeves up, muscles visible as he brings you a mug with something steaming inside. You hate him for it. For how easily he takes care of you. Even now.
“She only has tencha. So it’s that or hot sake but I think it’s too early for that.”
He sets the mug down before you. It’s one she’s had for over a decade, a gift you made her when she survived that law class she hated so much. It’s a collage of your time together, tiny pictures cluttered all about the outside of the mug.
“What if I wanted to get drunk?” you try, voice tired and congested. Your eyes are swollen, the skin itching. You must look like hell and he still smiles at you.
“Then you have to go on a treasure hunt to find her secret stock. I’m not telling. So let’s start with something lighter, hm?”
You nod and swap the paper cup for the mug. Despite sitting inside, you’ve been cold.
For a moment, you feel his eyes linger. Like he’s not so sure you’re really there, like he fears he’ll blink and you’ll vanish. Or maybe he just stares at you in horror, realizing what has become of you. A shell, a husk, a wreck.
You don’t dare meet his eyes to find out.
The next while, there’s only the clatter of pans and pots in the kitchen, the soft hum of his music, and you - you as you try to keep breathing, as you cling to your mug and the pillow and the life you left behind. You don’t understand why he lets you play pretend.
As Satoru beckons you to the table, you’re greeted with absolutely perfect tamagoyaki and a miso soup that’s clearly missing most of it’s staple ingredients. No tofu, barely any seaweed, not a single slice of green onion.
Satoru only shrugs and settles, “This woman lives off of junk food and snacks. I tried to salvage it.”
Steam coils about as you dip your spoon into the soup.
It’s delicious and warms you like the coffee never really could.
Satoru lets you eat, inhaling his own food within half the time.
When his plate is empty and you’re juggling a piece of the omelet about, he speaks again.
“Where did you go?”
You shake your head and steel your resolve, mumbling into your egg. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Asking me stuff like that…”
“Fine, then what did you do the past seven years?” he asks instead, waving his chopsticks about. You try to buy time and he just fills it effortlessly. “When I went to uni to find you, you had already dropped out and they wouldn’t give me any information.”
You watch the steam curl about the unburned candle in the middle of the desk. There’s a thin layer of dust there, too. She must have bought it years ago, set it there and never touched it again.
"Alright, I’ll start—" Satoru relents and sighs, a knee knocking against the leg of the table as he gets comfortable. “I finished my studies, botched the law exam but saved it with that econometrics class and started working for my father’s company. Just errand boy until one of his board members quit and I got to take the seat.”
When you glance towards him, he looks proud. You remember the law class that was an absolute nightmare and had him raging more often than not and you remember the other class he kept pushing away and stalling, just to - apparently - ace it. The smile that finds you is genuine. You’ve never stopped believing in him, even when he wasn’t close enough to know.
“Since then it’s—“ he makes a vague gesture, “just business. In my free time I work out and I listen to music and I spend my time with friends.”
Now it’s your turn.
As slow as you can, you spoon your soup into your mouth and eat your tamagoyaki.
Satoru, watching you, digs out a pack of expensive looking cigarettes. They’re pretentiously gold foiled and you can’t but sneer at them as he pulls a cheap lighter from his pocket.
“No way you’re smoking here…” you mumble between bites, eyeing him.
He has the audacity to grin, flicking the box open to retrieve one of them, setting it between his lips as he clicks the lighter.
His words are slurred while he focuses on the flame.
“You do know Shoko smokes too, right? She doesn’t mind.”
Your spoon clatters into the bowl.
“Hey. Smoke outside if you must, out the window or something.”
He shrugs and the fire catches, a puff of smoke he releases through his nose like some angry bull. To your absolute misery, it looks really hot.
“The only reason it smells like some artificially grown flowerfield in here is because she was worried you would find it gross.”
“For the record, I do find it gross.”
He laughs at that, more smoke spilling form his mouth as he starts coughing.
“Rough, but you just gotta deal with it.”
To be fair, it’s not as bad as you remember it. He smokes some mild blend, menthol and something else, nothing as horrendous as Shoko tends to puff.
You tell yourself to let it rest and continue eating in slow motion. But even that eventually ends when your spoon scrapes along the bottom of the bowl and all the tamagoyaki is gone.
You feel better. Mind a bit sharper, body warming from the inside out. Even after seven years, he knows how to take care of you. And you, selfish and cruel as you are, let him. The least you can do is tell him what happened. How effectively you sabotaged and ruined your own life.
“I moved to a small flat…” you start, something non-descriptive in big cities like Tokyo and Kyoto.
“Where to?”
You shake your head. You might be stupid but not stupid enough to tell on yourself. He would show up there the moment you vanish again, with a bag of mochi and his irresistible smile.
“Doesn’t matter. I tried to enroll into the local university, but they wouldn’t have me. Not after they realized I dropped out at Tokyo’s in the middle of the semester. No other school wanted me, so I tried to get a job.”
Something sad lingers at the edges of his expression. Nothing really visible, just the ghost of a time where he would have been devastated to hear such news. Smoke curls languidly about his form.
You try to shake the feeling of disappointment. It’s been years, he won’t care. Maybe he’ll even call it justice or karma.
“I’m working four jobs to make ends meet. It’s been…” you want to be honest. Want to tell him how bad it feels, how it drains you, how there’s no time for hobbies or friends.
“—fun,” you still say, laugh as if you can make it all less severe by joking about it.
It takes a moment before he speaks, lips parted.
“What do you work as?”
You try once again to downplay it. “Oh, two jobs at some restaurants. One night shift and the other is through lunch time, when it’s absolute chaos for an hour or two. I’m a waitress at some coffee shop in a pretty busy area and then I’m—“
His gaze is intense as he trails you, chin propped up in his hand, listening intently. You hope he’s faking it. You hope all of this is just preparation to tear you down, to ruin your day, to yell and fight and give you what you deserve.
For a moment, you stutter, eyes fluttering shut as you try and focus on the sentence instead of his eyes.
“—I’m working in retail the rest of the day, basically.”
Satoru raises his eyebrows and whistles.
“So all you do is work and then fall dead into bed at night?”
“Pretty much.”
His teeth are grinding, you can tell by the flex of his jaw. He doesn’t like to hear that.
“And your studies…” he starts but you’re the one to interrupt this time, quickly.
“They didn’t take me back in. As I said. I never finished.”
Satoru’s gaze drops to the table.
“I’m sorry,” he tells you and nothing sounds more unfair. He shouldn’t apologize for your life. Shouldn’t apologize for the way you’ve sabotaged yourself into a corner. He shouldn’t apologize when you haven’t so far. And yet. And yet.
Still, you keep your act together, continue playing it down.
“It’s fine.”
He doesn’t buy it. The moment you say it, he calls it for what it is - a lie.
“How can that be fine? You’re working yourself to the bone.”
You shrug. What’s there to say. You’ve been forced into this life. Out of yours and into that of a stranger, someone without any chance to ever make it up again.
“Comes with starting a new life.”
He scoffs. “Why all that? You could have just talked to me, broken up like a normal person.”
You default to the argument you prepared for meeting him in the train.
“I needed a fresh start…”
“Never… for anything in the world, would I have thought you leave your dad behind like this.”
You cringe at the words and find your defense non-existing. You’re a coward. So you bite your tongue and keep your mouth shut. Nothing you could say would do any good. He knows you too well.
“My aunts took care of him.”
For the first time since he walked through the door, he actually looks offended.
“Your aunts did the bare minimum.”
You feel your heart sink, another stone in the well of your body, another sinking feeling in your chest.
They never had the best relationship. Both of your relatives too caught up in their own, busy lives to handle another one on top. Even if it was their brother.
“Nobody could have known he would get so bad so quickly…”
Satoru watches you very closely.
The cigarette is burned down, ash in the bowl where he keeps tapping it.
“It broke his heart. Not just mine.”
If you were a kid, you would hold your hands over your ears, sing ‘lalala’ until his lips stopped moving. But you’re an adult, and you got what was coming for you and now you’ll have to bear it. Suffer it. Let it hurt where it hurt others.
“He declined so quickly after that. I tried arranging that he moves in with one of sisters but they had no interest. At one point—“ you know this is something you should have asked. Years ago you should have asked how your father ended up in a retirement home, how his care had increased, how everything was handled when you weren’t there. But all you’d done was take the bits and pieces your aunts had thrown at you. Taken Shoko’s word for it when she’d said everything was being handled.
All up until he wasn’t. Until the word ‘dying’ had first come up. A message stuck between flower emojis and a picture of your cousin’s baby - fat-cheeked and cute. Suddenly, every sentence implied a ‘prepare yourself’, every other word promising doom.
“I visited him and for a few heartbeats there, he had no idea who I was. It was all downhill from there. Within weeks, he would forget I was there, a moment in the bathroom or out of the room and he would get utterly spooked by my sudden reappearance, no idea who I was or what I was doing there.”
Satoru sighs and the love you find in his eyes is reserved for your father. Something his own never managed. Your father is the closest to a real parent Satoru will ever have.
“Couldn’t let it go on like this when he always forgot to eat. Or shower. Or just… go to bed.”
You stare at your own hands, that have only held your father when it was too late. Does he even recognize you, after all these years? Does he remember your face? Your voice?
You don’t interrupt him as he takes a deep breath, one that makes his chest rise, his nostrils flare. There’s tension in his shoulders, his jaw. You give him the time he needs until he speaks again, cigarette butt drowned in puddles of miso too small to spoon up.
“Found a nice retirement home, got him a spot there. But eventually, he got too bad. Pulled some strings to get him into palliative care when nothing else worked.”
This is the part where you thank him.
But the gratitude is stuck in your throat, your airway. So you say the next best thing.
“It’s a nice place. High-end, considering it’s Tokyo. My aunts sent me the invoice. I can only afford paying for it because they cover half of it.”
That makes the air change. Something, subtly, shifts and Satoru’s eyes narrow.
“What was that?”
You drum your nails against the handle of your mug. Fun. Sure, you’ll entertain him, tell him again that you are scraping by as it is. Seven years and you’re still broke.
“I can only afford paying for it because they cover the other half of it.”
“They are not paying any of it,” Satoru informs you and once again, your word shifts.
“W-“
“I’m paying for it.”
Suddenly, nothing makes sense. They’ve send you invoices, told you several times how hard it was on them and you’d picked up more work than you could handle in an attempt to scrounge up your part of it. If that’s a lie, then you’ve handed them tens and thousands of yen - for nothing. All while your father’s expenses were covered by nobody else but Satoru Gojo himself.
“What do you mean, you’re paying for it.”
Carefully, he straightens in his chair, shoulders squared.
“It means your aunts have not done a single thing for him. I made sure he’s on care and I payed for it all.”
You wish the floor would open and drop you all four levels, maybe even straight to hell.
Did you truly get scammed by your aunts? Shoved endless yen down their throats all while Gojo had it covered.
Shamefully, you drop your head in your hands. Endless shifts, endless tears, endless breakdowns - for nothing. Once again, you ruined it all, done it all wrong. You left your life behind to safe him, only to stumble right back into him. You pay for your father and the money never gets to him.
Despite your urge to cry, no tears come.
So your heart settles on the next best thing. Fueled by miso soup and omelet, you let yourself rage at the unfairness of it all. He’s your target because he’s the only one in reach. It’s so much easier if he would finally hate you and let you feel it.
“Why the fuck are you paying for it?” it’s a start and for a heartbeat, you catch him off guard. His face falls, gentle eyes widening in shock as you lash out. You take no prisoners. You’re here to ensure it’s all ruined thoroughly.
“Why do you think you’re entitled to do all that? You think I can’t handle it? That I couldn’t take care of him?”
It’s pathetic, you know. Grasping for straws where you admitted to your struggle just moments ago. Now you still bare your teeth, scratch and claw your way out of the corner you maneuvered yourself in.
He lifts his arms, tries to appease, like you’re something wild and dangerous.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You have to stop sticking your nose into things that don’t have anything to do with you!”
“I just tried to help,” he whispers, voice so careful that it makes your chest ache. Still, you keep biting.
“You’re gonna pay for the funeral too?”
His mouth drops open and the words themselves send a pang of guilt through your body.
“If— I mean, I c—,” You don’t let him finish. You set out to deliver the killing blow, absolutely unaware you’re going to be a casualty in it.
“Great. You shouldn’t even be here! Not with my dad, not here at Shoko’s the moment I come here! Thanks to that, you get to finance two funerals! Hope that makes you happy! Hope you get a real kick out of that generosity.”
When you stand, the legs of your chair scrape over the ground, catch on something and the whole seat topples over. Like thunder it echoes through the flat and to your surprise, Satoru stays seated.
His eyebrows are knit together, confusion lining his face as he stares at you.
You’ve said too much. You realize the moment he looks at you not with anger but with eyes that tell you he’s trying to make it make sense. He can’t yet put the pieces together, but you’ve handed him free scraps with that one.
Satoru sees you flinch and instead of your anger making him rise, it’s your vulnerability. He stands hunched over, palms up as if he was known for carrying weapons.
When you take a step back, Satoru doesn’t follow. Instead, he keeps his eyes on you and tries to hold your gaze.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” you quickly deflect but the damage has been done. There’s nowhere for you to go.
Satoru just shakes his head, undeterred. “What did you mean by that?”
Because you can’t stand to look him in the eyes, to see the worry that has no right to be there, to see the confusion instead of anger - you take off for the door, looping around the couch to rush down the hallway.
“You shouldn’t have come here, leave.”
“I just want to understand…,” you hear him trail after you, voice finally getting some bite, anger bubbling. But his steps are quiet, his presence far enough not to crowd you. You hate how every move of his is calculated - hate how his body remembers to soothe yours even when he tethers on frustration.
When you pull the door open and turn, he’s several steps down the hallway, jaw locked and teeth grinding.
“You don’t get to, okay?” you snap and see him flinch. It’s only in the eyes. They widen and you see the way his pupils shrink, even in this windowless hallway.
With your next words, your voice breaks.
“I left. I didn’t seek you out. So leave me be. Please.” You feel the tears sting, your usual weakness coming to bite you in the ass. You don’t want to cry again. Not before him, not in Tokyo, not at all.
Satoru slowly takes one step in front of the other and stops when there’s barely any space left between you.
“Nobody ever hurt me as badly as you did. I don’t think I ever recovered from it. You broke something in me I never managed to put back together. But I never stopped loving you. I think that’s the worst punishment of all.”
It’s a special kind of torture, to know you left to safe him, to keep him whole and protected and eventually happy, just to realize it broke him so thoroughly that seven years weren’t enough to put him back together. Not on the inside, at least.
“I tried to make it hurt less for you,” you whisper under tears, a hand trapping your mouth in a frail hope that he won’t hear you.
But he does.
Satoru does not answer, not really, only stares, eyes darting between yours until all you see is the ice blue of his irises.
You miss his eyes. His hair. His dimples. You miss his easy smiles and casual touches. You miss his lips on yours. You miss your hand in his. You miss the way the world felt kind while you were at his side.
He looks at you as if he sees just how shattered your own heart is, despite your actions. Heartbreak far stronger than the anger that’s wilted over the years.
Your breath hitches when he reaches out for you, his hand so naturally finding the curve of your face, settling along your jaw while his thumb brushes away a stray tear. You hate that you let him. Despite your best efforts, you feel yourself lean into his touch and fall victim to your past. All you’ve yearned for the past years was this, his touch, his comfort, his presence - him. It hurts enough to make you straighten, to try your best to twist out of his hold as his hand retreats.
“Please go,” you beg and this time, it’s enough to make him move.
One last time his eyes search for your understanding. But your task isn’t done, you’re not out of the woods, rather ran deeper into them. You have to safe yourself still, safe him, all while trying to do your dad right.
The yearning hurts in an old, familiar way. Just a bit sharper now that he’s right here and you, again, send him away.
As he moves out the door, his steps falter and take too long and you help with nudging the door closed, carefully ramming the handle into his back. Not so it hurts but enough to give the hint.
“Leave me alone,” you say wobbly and slam the door the moment he’s over the threshold. You let yourself shake and wail when the hallway is empty again and there’s another shut door between you and him.
You believe his hurt. It’s hard not to be weak for him. Your heart never really learned to let him go.
You’re not sure if it’s better or worse that you share the heartbreak.
He’s been the bigger person all your life, been the one to take the shards and glue himself back together. Maybe it didn’t work completely but enough that he appears to be whole again. You always wished for him to move on, to stay hopeful and bright and yet, when hearing he’s hurting even now, it soothes something that you feel shame for. Not being all alone in this pain is a sad thing to realize.
You bite your tongue realizing that despite it all, you have not yet apologized. Haven’t found the words or the courage or the time to tell him how truly sorry you are, that you know he will never forgive you. You have to thank him for what he’s done. Thank him, not scream at him.
Why is he not angrier with you, when you mawl everything while he’s done whatever's in his power to pick up the wreckage you left behind.
Martyr | Satoru Gojo x Reader
angst | anxiety | arguments | reader gaslighting herself | mentioned character death
IV. pain in your mouth is better than pain in your heart.
a/n: reader trying to role with the punches she's so determined to suffer alone. Happy New Year, lovelies ♥ thanks so much for all the love this series has gotten so far.
Masterlist | Previous Part | Next Part
The night has been restless. So is the morning.
Despite Shoko’s efficiency - or maybe exactly because of that -, the fridge holds nothing that could fill your stomach. The few grains of leftover rice you find are already so dry they’ve developed a crunch and the apple in the basket near the coffee machine is already covered in brown spots.
When you go for the coffee, the machine whirs and wheezes - no beans anywhere to be found.
To your very own surprise, you’re too exhausted for irritation.
You slowly pad into the bathroom to face yourself, the aftermath of returning to your own life - dark-rimmed eyes and splotchy skin. Yea, you didn’t have any hunger anyway.
The tears have irritated you to the point of lingering effects. Your eyes itch constantly, a headache at your temples and tension at the base of your nape. You feel dizzy, sluggishly making your way through the flat to collapse on the couch.
Going outside is not in the cards. Especially after you ran straight into Satoru Gojo. Not even 24 hours back in Tokyo and you’ve done the one thing you couldn’t let happen in any instance. Fear snaps at you with a foaming mouth, spittle flying, shivers chasing up and down you back.
There’s an urge to talk to someone, to lay your heart out and let everything seep through the cracks. Someone to bear witness to the horrors you have faced.
But Shoko is at work and the few other souls you’ve tried to keep in contact with are unavailable or kicked you out. Your father is unresponsive, an hour glass slowly emptying. He’ll die, if not this year, then next.
Haibara had replied eagerly at first, worried beyond belief until suddenly, he’d stopped. You think you understand because Utahime did the same. Messages coming slower and slower and eventually not at all. She’d been too hurt, unwilling to accept your choice without explanation.
You hate how good Satoru looked. That he looked - fine. That he was as vibrant and loud as ever, that his eyes haven’t lost their spark, that he fills out his clothes even better than before, scratching something in your brain.
You hate that you can’t feel relief. Hate that you’re stuck seven years ago, unable to move on while the one who’s heart you broke seems to have moved on. You should be grateful, glad he’s doing well after everything he’s been through. That’s what you’ve always hoped for, wasn’t it?
But right now, it just means you’re alone in this too, this heartbreak, the cluster what-if’s of a future you will never get to see. Alone in your fear and your sorrow and your grief that hasn’t dimmed over all those years. Like radioactive material it hollows out your chest and sometimes, when it’s dark and time stands still, you wonder if you should have fought harder. If you should have taken the heroic way out, a bullet to the brain and never-ending love as your final sacrifice. It would have made it easier, if only by the fact he would have had a grave to mourn at, a place to pour his tears and the memory of you kind and good and loving.
When your mind wanders like this, you get scared of yourself. Of the possibilities that if it ever got that bad again - would you really force the trigger to be pulled?
You tear a chunk of skin from your bottom lip, trapped between your teeth and the pain is enough to snap you out of it, tasting blood as you flick your tongue over the wound.
Kyoto had been beautiful but lonely. Never before have you realized the difference between being alone and lingering loneliness until there was nobody waiting for you to come home, until your phone had stayed empty and nobody cared if you missed your bus or not. A bad day turned bad weeks, bad months - bad years.
With a groan, you try to pull yourself out of the spiral.
“Get a grip,” you scold yourself and hear the words echo through the room. How could it not, when all the furniture is hollow and white, when the only picture on the wall is of weird shapes in different types of beige. Now that you stay in it, the flat could belong to anyone, anywhere. You wonder if you’ve stayed longer at Shoko’s place than Shoko ever really did.
When the doorbell rings, it sounds like a ghost. Like something like this never really happens, just in memories, in dreams, in wishful thinking. It fills the space more than you ever could.
Anxiety spikes with it’s usual claws. Has your stomach drop, your heart beat furiously. You tell yourself it’s nothing. A neighbor asking for flour you can’t provide, a postman delivering an early christmas present, someone just hitting the wrong button in a row of many.
For a moment, you want to ignore it.
But it’s Shoko’s place. The least you can do is step up for her.
And so, a guilty conscience forces you to your feet, padding across the room to the front door and opening without using the door spy.
You should have - fuck, you should have.
Because it’s Satoru who stands before you, hair wet from the rain, two paper cups in hand as if he heard the pitying sputters of the coffee machine all across the city.
“Please—“ he starts as you’re already trying to push the door close again. “—let me talk.”
With all your weight you push against the door, try to close it despite his foot wedged between. It makes you hiss, like a little feral cat, anxiety baring it’s teeth. You can’t let this happen. You can’t.
“Please,” you grit out and know you’ve already lost. He already has one foot inside. You know him for long enough to be absolutely aware of his stubbornness. Satoru Gojo will not just step out of the door again without getting the answers he wants.
“I brought you coffee,” he tries to bribe and if it was seven years ago, in another life, you would have thrown your arms around him and showered him in kisses for the lifesaver that is the brown bean juice. But now, it makes your muscles lock, your brain short circuit.
“I don’t want it.”
You can feel him push against the door, not full force, just enough to keep it open. An unfair check mate as he hovers.
Then he says your name. And despite his good looks, despite his laugh and the Sudoku Booklet at your father’s bedside, he lays bare all the pain as he whispers your name into the slim gap between the door frame and the door itself.
It’s enough to have you lose all fight. Staggering back, he pushes the door open with too much force, unprepared for your sudden escape.
Huffing, he straightens and looks at you with devastating clarity.
“Why?”
You shake your head, stumbling backwards, framed by endless pampas grass and a mirror that shows you just how haunted you look.
“I deserve an answer,” he tells you and you know he’s right. For years you’ve ran from this confrontation, hoped to never have to live through it, shielded by fear and ignorance and space. Still, you’ve prepared yourself. Endless times you’ve played through all the scenarios. Satoru in the bus, Satoru in the train. Satoru on the sidewalk and Satoru in front of you at the grocery store. Satoru at your work and Satoru on your walk. No version of it had him in your doorway, perfect coffee order in hand because he somehow still remembers.
You can smell it from where he stands, cinnamon and an extra shot of syrup, faint cocoa notes turning the coffee sweeter, warmer.
To your surprise, Satoru does not step over the threshold.
But your fight has already died as quickly as it started. Your night catches up to you, your body going slack as you surrender. He’s right and you know it. There’s nothing new you can tell him anyway.
When you close your eyes and try to take a deep breath, you can smell him there, too. Same perfume, same him.
You take another step back and turn, leading him without another word to the living room. Behind you, the door clicks shut. Behind you, you can hear him fight his jacket and shoes, steps hurried as he follows.
Silently, you sit back on the couch and wait for doom to find you.
He deserves to at least ask. You’ll give him what you can. Maybe then he’ll leave you alone and you can return to your lonely life.
Satoru follows you with silent steps, black socks on pale linoleum, settling in one of the armchairs at your right. He sets the coffee down between you, next to the gift basket that still pours it’s content like some magical cornucopia.
He’s always sat to your right. Your head on his chest, his heartbeat in your ear where it calmed any anxiety you might have felt back then. What fears could you have had, when all there was were assignments and badly spaced classes all over your day.
Satoru folds his hands like his father always did and stretches his legs out beneath the table, crossed at the ankles. He’s always been easy like that, never scared to take up space, always relaxed and open in a way you never managed to be.
Your own legs are folded beneath you, tipped to the side. It makes you lean a bit, a slight tilt to your torso - away from him. It’s all you manage to do as you take a pillow and hold it to your chest. The only defense you’ll get is some polyester filled fabric.
You stare at the steam that rises from your paper cup, the little plastic lid that’s covered in waterdrops, Satoru’s hair wet and curling at the tips. He drips all over Shoko’s furniture, his own jacket, the white shirt beneath.
You don’t remember a time where he dressed so eloquently. Sure, sometimes slacks and sometimes a button up shirt and sometimes, on weddings and important meetings, all of the above, but your days had consisted of library visits and blinking cursors as they waited for input. He’d worn hoodies, oversized band-tees, ripped jeans or sweatpants. The man before you is a stranger.
Satoru heaves a sigh and lifts his eyes towards you.
Endless blue in endless white, a black hole at it’s center. You drown the moment they find you. All your life you’ve been helpless to his stare.
“Why?” he asks again, even quieter now, inside this white space of a living room.
You tell him what you’ve told yourself.
“I just couldn’t do it anymore.”
“Do what?”
Appearing put together and collected is rather difficult on an empty stomach, unkempt hair and about two hours of sleep. Still, you try.
“The relationship.”
He has the audacity to laugh. Something bitter and joyless. Clipped.
“Do tell yourself that. But we both know we were fine.”
“Then you were blind.”
Satoru shakes his head very faintly. No matter how hard you try, you can’t escape his gaze. You can’t look away. Not from him. Never from him.
“You cried because you already knew you would leave, didn’t you?”
Your body is a traitor. Bottom lip and chin flexing, wobbling, you fight as hard as you can not to cry. Willpower has never kept your voice even and now, it doesn’t either.
“You remember that?”
You do, too. Because you were never one to cry. Sex was always laughter, intimacy and the fondest of touches. Not even now you can touch yourself without sobbing.
“Of course I do.”
His eyes leave you first and so, you manage to force your own from him. Gaze traveling to the cup before you, you give yourself a moment to think as you pick up the drink, warm against your palm. It is what you thought it is. Your favorite coffee order from the one place in your area that does it like this. On the brown paper, someone scrawled an emoji. Two circles for eyes and a wobbly line for a mouth. It should look happy but it looks tortured. How fitting.
Even that, he remembers.
You lift it to your face and feel the heat against your lips. Still, you drink, burn yourself, lower it back down and keep it in your hands. The pain in your mouth is better than the pain in your heart. You fidget with the lid of the plastic cap and tell yourself to stay calm.
“Nobody who’s done with a relationship breaks up over sticky note and leaves the secret family recipe. Or takes my hoodie. Or leaves their old father behind for seven fucking years.”
It’s too much to take. You burn yourself again, with cinnamon chocolate coffee on your tongue and a raging inferno in your heart. Were you that obvious? Or rather, did he really know you so well that he didn’t believe it at all- still doesn’t?
You cling to one aspect of it because the greater image he paints is too much to take in.
“I can give you your hoodie back…,” you mumble, throat numb, the item in question neatly folded just one room over, still in your suitcase.
“No, baby. Keep it.”
He hits you with the nickname so suddenly and unexpected that you feel like you’re getting whiplash from it. Eyes widening, you do a horrible job at hiding your reaction. Swallowing hurts but now you’re not so sure anymore if it’s because of the coffee or his words.
When you look back up, his eyes are already - or still - on you.
“So, why?” he asks again, demands it, a bit firmer now.
His face is that of a marble statue. Expression serious, he could have been carved out by Michelangelo’s hands. Distantly, you lament his beauty. He should be in a museum, adored by thousands, far away from your heartbreaker-self.
Instead, he sits right before you, in your best friend’s living room, cheap coffee and cerulean eyes.
You go to your next plan, the one you had when you meet him at a club.
“Someone like you just doesn’t work with someone like me.”
Another laugh but this time he leans onto his forearms, propped up on his thighs. You remember how they feel beneath your touch, all muscle and strength despite being so long.
“And what is that supposed to mean.”
The coffee in your hands slightly trembles. You’re grateful for the lid and the milk foam that stops it from spilling.
“Did you really think the heir of the prestiged Gojo Clan ends up with some broke, jobless university student.”
“Is this about money?”
No, it isn’t. It never was. You were broke and he was rich and neither of you had any idea until you were already tangled in bedsheets, exchanging morning messages and longing glances. He’d ridden the train with you and bought soda from barely functioning vending machines. He’d showed up in sweatpants to classes and carried a cracked phone.
Money had never mattered, even once he started to show it. Begrudgingly, you had let him take care of you - because you had known you took care of him in other ways.
“Yes. Sort of,” you stumble over your own words, lying through your teeth. “You always deserved someone better. Someone who could keep u—“
“Oh, don’t you dare go there,” he cuts in, voice barely a threat, despite his words. Rather, he looks at you as if you just invented a new way to crack his heart. After that, you peel your eyes from him and very carefully settle for your coffee. There’s slight smudges where your lips have touched the plastic. You take another sip and hope it will burn all the emotions with your tongue.
For a while, there’s only silence. He hasn’t touched his coffee and he hasn’t stopped looking at you.
Then, he speaks again, running a hand through his damp hair.
“You read my messages. My voice mails. You hung up on me.” He shakes his head and you know if you look, you will see all the hurt you caused. You already hear it in his voice.
Without thinking, you tell him the truth or the closest version you can.
“I didn’t. I trashed it. Whoever did that wasn’t me.”
Satoru scoffs and takes it as another lie. How ironic. You let him. Nothing in you is strong enough to fight him right now.
“But you kept in contact with Shoko…”
You can’t deny it. Not when you’re sitting on her couch, clinging to her pillow.
“I just-“ you choke on the words. There’s too much hurt all over him. You can feel the sting in yours, how the tears threaten to push even further. “-I needed someone to keep an eye out for my dad. My aunts were busy with their own lives.”
“How did that work out for you,…”
That’s cruel, even from him. And when you look to verify it, there’s enough pain for the both of you, right there on his face. An apology falls from his lips right after.
You have no words to fight him off. Verbally, he gets to throw punches. You deserve them, so you take them.
Still, a small part of yourself wants to at least tell him that you are hurting too. That you’ve never stopped hurting, either.
“I lost everything. Shoko was the only one who replied to my message when I finally send one and - and kept replying.”
“No contact to anyone else?” he asks, voice strangely hoarse. His brows are tense, fingers twisting and fidgeting where they sit in his lap. You can tell he’s trying to piece together what snippets you give him, all while fighting the open wounds you have torn back open.
“I mean my dad, I took Shoko’s number, Haibara’s and Hime’s. But—“
You wait for him to talk over you but his eyes are so sad that the words seem to be lost even on him.
“I think Utahime was too angry with me. She stopped replying. And Haibara did too, after a while. My dad couldn’t anymore, after-“ After your disappearance made him so sick he couldn’t live on his own anymore. Chronic worry dragging him into an early grave. Your aunts never really kept you up to date. “—so just Shoko.”
Something twitches around his lips but he plays over it by running a hand over his whole face, wiping his expression clean. It only partially works, just enough for you to take another sip of your coffee, pillow warm against your chest.
“Haibara didn’t stop because he was angry…” Satoru eventually says and you wonder if your gentle friend told Satoru you contacted him. Not that he would have spilled any secret since he didn’t know any, but enough to put Satoru at ease. In a sense of ‘I heard from her. She’s okay. She’s alive. She’s hurting, too’. For whatever good that did.
“He died.”
Around you, the world stops. Your doe-eyed friend, the one with the biggest heart, the constant grin, ever optimistic and cheerful - is supposed to be dead. You want to laugh in Satoru’s face, to tell him that he’s taking it too far.
Instead of laughing, you almost barf.
“What do you mean?”
Satoru watches you carefully, like an egg he threw down and is now waiting on to splatter. Hairline cracks just waiting to rip open. You don’t know how much more you will be able to take.
“Haibara died about six months after you left.”
All these years, you’d just thought he was done with you, too hurt over your sudden disappearance, too angry - constantly fueled by Hime’s tirades. You thought he abandoned you after you abandoned him. How could you accuse him of this, a gentle soul like Haibara.
You don’t even try to stop the tears. Now, you’ve got all the reason you need, distinctively different from the tall boy across from you. They spill and you let them.
“What happened?” you ask, words carried on a sob.
To your surprise, Satoru cannot hold eye contact. Not when you’re like this. He speaks to the face masks before him, to the essential oils and the vanilla-scented candle that sits right next to it.
“He got in a car crash. T-boned near Yokohama when he came back late from the lib.”
You are grateful, that he only gives you the essentials. But you also hate that he only gives you the bare minimum. As if Haibara wasn’t your friend. As if he’s just someone you once knew.
With ice in your veins, your realize this is exactly what it is. Seven years have passed. You don’t get to know it all, not after you left, not after almost a decade. They have moved on, lived their lives, suffered without you there to console them. For them, you are just someone who left one day and never looked back. Nobody knows that you’re stuck there, a time loop that keeps trapping you in the weeks after your escape.
“His mom lives in Yokohama,” you hear yourself whisper.
Satoru nods. “She moved back to Okayama to be with family… about - what? - Five or six years ago.”
Your own personal ice age. Frozen in a time that has long since passed.
“I thought he was angry…,” you sob and let it hurt.
He tilts his head gently, soft blue eyes finding yours as something like empathy drifts over his face. Compassion finds him in it’s most unfortunate moments.
“No…” he tells you, trying to keep you in his gaze. “He defended you till the end.”
That makes you just cry even harder, clinging to your coffee and your pillow as if they could keep your heart inside your chest. Shoko never mentioned anything. You never asked. You don’t want to ask now, either. Still, you do.
“Against who?”
Satoru shrugs. “Those who were angry.”
“So, you,” you conclude and try to give him the grace. He deserves that anger, he’s earned his fury with a broken heart.
Satoru once again declines, a gentle shake of his head as he tangles his hands. “Not angry, just… devastated.”
When there’s nothing else he adds, you just let yourself cry for a while. The tears are as hot as your drink, run in tracks down your face and you have neither head space nor heart to worry about your appearance. Seven years of no contact and within the first 24 hours, he finds you crying two times. You’re a mess and he gets to witness it. Hopefully he gets some satisfaction out of it. At least then your tears are good for something.
Trying to speak is difficult with the tears and the snot and the pain in your mouth. Still, you attempt to give yourself a voice, to continue asking because Satoru is right there and apparently willing to give answers.
“What about the others?”
“Nobody understood,” he starts and gives you a moment of pause, as if you could fill it with an explanation. It doesn’t come and he continues, eyes set on the wall behind you.
“Well, I’m sure Shoko told you what she’s been up to. Utahime did, as you already expected, not take it well. She distanced herself from the group and ended up leaving to study abroad. Somewhere in Europe if I remember correctly. She cut contact with most of us and is holding a teaching position in Kyoto right now, if I’m not mistaken.”
It rings in your ears, the name of your other home. How close have you come to running into her without realizing? How often have you two been just streets apart, totally unaware of the other?
You bite your tongue and don’t mention it. Utahime had always been resentful. You just never thought she would leave the whole group behind over that. Not that Satoru and her were ever close. She had been more your friend than his and Satoru had known from the moment he met her how to push all the wrong buttons. He’d reveled in it, the way he could make her lose composure within a few minutes.
“Nanami drowned himself in work after Haibara’s death.”
Satoro speaks it into the room like a man who’s made peace with the death of a friend. Meanwhile, you just started. It makes you sob again and Satoru gives you the time to cry, tears staining your pillow as he simply stares ahead. At one point, he hands you a tissue. You take it, soak it with your sorrow and eventually nod for him to continue.
You have yet to apologize. Or thank him.
“Had an absolute crash out about two years later, head-on sprinting into a burnout. He got admitted to a clinic, knew exactly how to get back out and is now back on the grind. Even in uni he never knew how to stop working. He’ll just work himself to the bone until he drops dead…”
You have to trap your bottom lip between your teeth to stop it from wobbling about.
All your friends have suffered. And it sounds as if your actions have torn the whole group apart.
Satoru is done with his retelling. He straightens in his seat, eyes once again traveling to your miserable self. Even now, his eyes hold something soft. And even now, you catch the twitch in his arm as he wants to reach out to you.
Instead, he sets another tissue out on the table.
You take it, hide your face and cry until even that stops on it’s own. How many tears can one person spill in a day? You’re sure you’ve reached the limit.
Just on cue, your stomach growls as if it too was exhausted from the crying.
“Have you had breakfast?”, he questions immediately and you shake your head before you can think better of it. That will only become an invitation for him to stay longer. Satoru instantly bites.
“Great!” He claps his hands on his thighs, wipes the hurt from his face and rises, brushing off his jacket. “Because I mastered the skill of making tamagoyaki and you’re going to bear witness to it. Honest review afterwards, I can handle it.”
As if nothing ever happened, Satoru slips back into a casual rhythm. You are brutally aware of how much grace he gives you. This could have turned ugly. This could have turned into a fight, a screaming match, something absolutely devastating and with you cornered, trapped, with nowhere to go.
But Satoru is kind, always has been, and even now, he lives it.
When he grabs his coffee and vanishes in the kitchen, you stare at the doorway he walked through and can’t believe it’s happening.
How did you end up here?
The boy you love coming back to haunt you, wrapping you around his finger with cinnamon coffee and homemade tamagoyaki.
How come you haven’t found the words to apologize to him yet?
modern!Sukuna brings you along to his New Year's Celebration
or you get to know the people Sukuna calls family.
wordcount: 10k
warning: cursing, playful insults, underage drinking, inappropriate themes in front of minors, found family
a/n: the companion piece to my christmas/holiday piece is here. New Years with Sukuna and his closest friends. Also some background to my modern!Sukuna bc I'm a yapper and I love him, your honour! Happy New Year and thank you so much for welcoming me so kindly into this fandom!
Part 1 (family gathering) | Part 2 (New Years)
It would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking sad.
You sit in the passenger seat, engine running to keep you warm while you watch Sukuna jog up the front porch. A cute little two-story house in the suburbs. A row of rose hedges in deep hibernation on each side of the path, an evergreen wreath decorating the front door.
He looks misplaced, even now. In winter boots, sweatpants and the black down jacket you bought him because he was always freezing in his usual fits, everything looks kind of off as he hops up the stairs, rings the doorbell and then comes sprinting back down towards you as if he’s playing ding-dong-ditch. You half expect him to sit back in the car but on the second floor, a window opens, a miniature version of him sticking their head out the frame.
“Gimme ten, Kuna!” Yuji shouts and has him stop dead in his tracks, lifting a hand, just turning enough to watch his brother’s hair vanish where it’s been poking out. The window is slammed shut again and the rest of the way, Sukuna doesn’t run like he’s being chased for sport.
When he waltzes back up to the car and leans against it’s side, his weight makes the whole vehicle shift beneath you.
Even with a running engine, heated seats and yourself bundled up in coat, scarf and one of Sukuna’s beanies, your breath fogs up before you. When he makes no move to come back inside, you open the door, unbuckle your seatbelt and shuffle your feet to the side where they dangle out of the car.
“What are you doing?” you question him, eyes narrowed as you watch the cigarette between his lips, fingers fumbling with his lighter.
“Waiting…” he offers, not looking, barely moving his lips, eyes almost crossed to watch the flame.
“You rang the door and ran off,” you mutter and he huffs, puffs of air and smoke leaving his lips as the fire finally catches.
“What else am I supposed to do?” he asks as if it’s a genuine question.
You laugh at him, kicking your feet and earning a scowl.
“Talk to your foster parents maybe?”
Just as if on cue, the front door opens and a cute old lady shuffles out onto the porch. She’s more grandma-age than his mother’s, short gray hair and a fuzzy, pink vest. In her hands is a little package, cellophane wrapping and curly bows at the top. You can’t really see what it is from here but as she steps out to the few stairs, she smiles and waves towards you - him.
Beside you, Sukuna does not move. As if he froze to the car, he keeps very very still and you need a few moments to stare, realizing he has no intention to do anything.
“Merry Christmas!” she shouts, voice frail and wobbly from age.
You kick at him, try to make him move but Sukuna stays still and quiet.
“Dude, she raised you, fucking say something!”
“She didn’t raise me, dipshit. I don’t wanna go up there.”
He doesn’t meet your gaze, keeps staring at his cigarette as if it needed supervision to properly burn down.
“Unbelievable,” you groan and push yourself out of the car. Coming to a stand beside him, you realize that he’s not as unbothered as he pretends to be. There’s a nervous tick at his temple, jaw grinding and a scowl permanent on his face. The kind of stress-scowl he’s been sporting at your family gathering, just that this one is more personal. This is his past, not yours.
The ghosts that haunt him are persistent and you give up arguing as his dark eyes flicker towards you, unsure in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. He’s trying very hard to keep it together and not run. You can tell.
So, you take the lead.
“Fine, I’ll go. Lemme check out what gift she got you.”
“Don’t—“ Sukuna starts but you’re already pushing the little garden door open, hinges squealing and walking down the cobbled path. When you climb up the few steps separating you from the woman that has taken care of Yuji for longer than you know them both, she smiles warmly at you.
There’s a weird little cat brooch pinned to her vest, knitted socks in fuzzy slippers. Her eyes are kind and her smile genuine as you come up beside her.
“Hi, I’m so sorry —“ you start, trying to apologize on Sukuna’s behalf but she doesn’t have any of it, a knotted hand settling on your upper arm as she holds out the little gift.
“He’s always been a skittish one. Don’t you worry, sweetheart.”
Safely hidden behind cellophane and a few evergreen twigs, sits a little winter-themed cookie can and a cute, little candle. There’s a decorative star hanging from the bow keeping it all together and she hands it to you without hesitation.
“Sukuna always enjoyed the cookies, I saved a few, considering Yuji eats everything he finds in a three mile radius.”
Both of you laugh at it and you turn to look for your boyfriend, still glued to the side of his car, a deepened frown and darkened eyes as he watches from afar. You lift the gift as if to show him, mouth something he will never hear.
Beside you, the woman laughs.
“Name’s Mary,” she starts and offers you her hand. You take it, give your own name and introduce yourself as his girlfriend. If he’s not here to do the talking, you’ll do it for the both of you and he’ll just have to deal with what you share.
“I’m so happy he found someone,” Mary says, watching him with a motherly smile. You can feel the pride radiating off of her, something only a mother could feel, no matter how difficult her son will make it.
Inside, you hear someone clatter down the stairs, catch a glimpse of Yuji who sprints past, still in pajamas.
Once again you make an attempt at drawing Sukuna closer, waving him over while he pouts by the car. To your utter surprise, he actually does. Pushing himself off the vehicle, you watch as he flicks his cigarette into the gutter, stuffs his hands so deep into his pockets you hope they won’t rip and shuffles over in the slowest manner he can muster.
It is really sad, you think.
The woman beside you has taken Yuji in over a decade ago, raising the boy as her own and securing him a safe and healthy environment to prosper and grow in. She’s good, you can tell, simply by the fact she fought all this time to have the brothers reunited. Going to offices and endless meetings and even court to try and get a hold of Sukuna, a lost child constantly falling through each social security net that was put in place exactly for children like him. She’d pulled him from a youth group home at 17, tried her best to help him until he cut all ties and vanished on the day of his 18th birthday, angry and bitter and willing to face the world alone as he’d always done.
His life has been unfair in more ways than one. With the two brothers separated and put into different foster homes, Sukuna had - repeatedly - been handed the short end of the stick. Wherever he ended up, there was no love to be found, only overwhelmed adults who were unequipped to deal with a teenager solely fueled by rage. He’d been handed around like loose change, moved from home to home, family to family, falling into violence and crimes. When Mary had finally found him, it had been too late. At least that’s what you tell yourself. Because why else would Sukuna have fought this family with all he’s got. Why else would he have refused a loving home?
For all the time you’ve known him, Sukuna has been a lone wolf. Doomed himself to stand and fight alone, a cold shoulder to the world in hopes he won’t be hurt again.
Now, as he idles up the stairs, the scowl is still there but you can see the insecurity in his eyes. He’s here because you asked him to, again - not because he wants to be.
You don’t think you’ll ever understand why he let you out of all people in, shutting people like this lovely lady out. He stands halfway behind you, shielded by your smaller frame and head turned away as if he can’t even get himself to look at his past.
Mary takes it with grace and greets him with a soft voice. You think of him as a stray dog, wanting to trust but unable to do so, eager to be loved and yet only ever able to bare his teeth in fear. Desperate for a loving hand he only knows for beating him.
Wordlessly you pull him beside you and wrench your hand into his coat pocket, entwining your fingers and squeezing to soothe. It’s an awkward position, arm weirdly lifted, but you bear it with a smile and hope it helps him.
A new found appreciation and gratitude floods through you, awareness for all the steps he’s taking with you, endless healing and fall-backs and gritting his teeth as he continuously tries to do you right.
“How have your holidays been?” Mary asks nobody in particular, while Sukuna desperately studies the fairy lights strung around the balustrade.
You answer because you think she’s easy to talk to, gentle and soft and motherly. How could anyone not like her?
“Oh, I’ve dragged him to my family gathering and we had soooo much to eat and a lot of presents and just—“ you look up at him, see his jaw grind as he very eagerly looks away. “— we’ve had a wonderful time, thank you so much. How about you?”
Inside, a door slams again, you hear the voice of an older man that makes Sukuna’s fingers twitch in yours, Yuji’s laugh traveling out the door.
“Splendid, dear, splendid. Yuji’s been so excited for today. Couldn’t stop talking about it.”
You watch her eyes settle on Sukuna, who strains even further to get away, ears red from awkwardness or the cold.
Quietly you squeeze his hand and get nothing in return. He’s stiff and still and can’t look at anyone. You try not to let it get to you. This part of his life is still just his. You can’t do anything but be there so he’s not so alone while facing it.
Another smile plastered on your lips, you eagerly nod. “We’re so excited we get to take him along. We’ll bring him back tomorrow, depending on how long he needs to sleep.”
Mary laughs, “Don’t let him drink too much. He goes on adventures when he does.”
She’s the last person you expected such openness from. Then again, when you have sworn yourself to raise the abandoned and lost kids of the world, drinking while underage seems to be a norm she’s willing to deal with.
You remember your own mother, who’d taken you to the side once you’d reached the rebellious age of 13. ‘Sweetheart,’ she’d said and held your hands while doing so, ‘when you’re with your friends, you’ll get ideas and do things that might not be the best choice. You’ll regret them or find yourself in situations too big for you to handle alone. I want you to know that you can always call me, no matter when, where, why. I won’t ask questions. I won’t be angry. All I ask of you is that you ask me for help when you need it and that you come to me, before anyone else.’ She’d squeezed your hands and given you a hug and only a few months later, you had found yourself exactly there. Too drunk to stand, lost in a part of the city you’d never been to before. Under tears you’d called her and she’d come, collected you and tugged you into bed with water and a bucket for your hangover and to this day, she had never asked questions. Mary seems to be the same.
“I’ll make sure to keep track of him,” you promise sheepishly and feel Sukuna tug towards the stairs. You hold onto him with all you got, flexing your arm to try and make him stay.
Then, the door swings open and Yuji is there, bundled up in jacket and gloves, a red scarf that’s too long and a grin wide enough to look painful.
“Lets go, lets go, lets go!!!” He cheers, darts out the door and down the stairs. The backpack he clearly just packed is overflowing, zipper unable to fully close, a pant leg dangling out like some makeshift tail.
Sukuna takes his cue and turns, unable to be held by you, slipping form your grasp and following Yuji down the stairs and towards his car without so much as a goodbye. Despite the departure of the boys, you linger, hold onto the little gift instead and try to find genuine words.
“I’m so sorry…” you mumble but she just pulls you into a careful hug.
“Don’t you worry, sweetheart.” There’s a sad smile on her lips as she lets go of you, eyes tracking the brothers. Despite Yuji’s growth spurt, he’s still a whole head smaller than his older brother. Eagerly telling him one or another, you watch as Sukuna scoffs, breath fogging and reaching out to ruffle his hair, familiar rough affection. Yuji leans in, red ears, eager eyes and you hate the world for being so cruel to them. “I’m just sorry I found him too late. I wish I could have made a difference for Sukuna.”
You wish that too. Wish he wouldn’t fight any love and care and tenderness with claws and fists and blood.
When you say your goodbyes, Sukuna and Yuji have already vanished inside the car. You wave at her once you close the wooden gate again and when you’re inside the car again, buckled up and ass heating, you lower the window to wave once more, talking Yuji into joining you as Sukuna hits the gas and speeds down the road.
Only then, when the windows are back up and Yuji safely secured in the backseat, eagerly swaying and kicking his feet, yapping over the obnoxiously loud music Sukuna has put on, you turn to your boyfriend with a frown.
“What the fuck was that?!”
He tries to ignore you but you reach over the center console and tug on his arm.
“Hey. The fuck was that? You being a certified asshole to the woman who’s raising your brother is a big no. Real dick move. She was trying to be nice!”
Behind you, Yuji’s feet still and beside you, Sukuna’s eyes travel from the road to your fingers that are clasped around the cuff of his jacket.
“Let go,” he growls and you’re almost ready to face his anger with anger.
Almost.
It’s the last day of the year, his little brother is in the backseat, happy and eager for what lies ahead and you’ll be damned if you let this day go to ruins because Sukuna decided it’s a good idea to fight his demons.
So, you reign yourself back in. You let go of him, fold your hands in your lap and stare out the window.
The aggressive beats of his music fill the car until you take a deep breath and address Yuji instead.
“So, got any cool presents?”
Yuji immediately wraps his hands around your backrest and starts shaking it, enough to have you jostle about as he leans closer to be heard.
“You won’t believe what they got me! Remember when I said I wanted to get a bike to get around quicker and so Rob doesn’t have to drive me everywhere? Like, he broke his foot a few weeks ago, yea? - slipped on ice or some shit - anyway, instead of a fucking bike, can you imagine, they’ve bought me a moped. I gotta do the driving lessons but they said if I continue to work in that retail store and keep my grades up, they’ll cover half of the costs. A fucking moped, Kuna, can you believe?”
Beside you, Sukuna hums. You’re not sure what goes through his mind, expression so closed off you can’t read any of it.
“That’s awesome, Yuji,” you cheer and reach your hand back. He takes it without hesitation, shakes and squeezes your finger until they hurt. Laughing is easy when the 16 year old in your backseat is sparking from joy.
“And I got new shoes since my old ones fell apart and Rob said once his leg is well again we can go to this new amusement park. Kuna, you can come too, man. He said so!”
You can’t but smile at his eagerness. Letting yourself be affected and inflicted by his joy is an easy feat, one that leaves you grinning and giddy even when none of it was even for you.
When you glance over, you can see the corner of Sukuna’s mouth twitch. He’s happy for his brother, even when he’s trying really hard to be miserable about it all. It softens the exasperation inside you, has it simmer down to mild irritation, more blame shifted towards the world than him.
“Over my dead body,” he declares still but neither Yuji or you engage with the ragebait he throws your way and so, the car once again falls silent.
You try to soothe him by raising your arm, settling it against the edge of his seat where your fingers snake into the shaved hair at the back of his head. Just before the holidays you’ve shaved out his nape line again and even now it’s still crisp and nice to the touch. He’s tense there, muscles solid as your fingernails skim over his scalp. Thankfully, he doesn’t pull away and while Yuji fills the silence effortlessly with more talk, Sukuna slowly softens beneath you.
The drive takes about half an hour. Across the whole city, roads busy and packed and all the traffic lights turned sworn enemies as they glow red for at least two minutes straight. When he finally turns the car into the parking lot before the house, most tension has melted away. Yuji has calmed, idle prattle but no shaking seats anymore as you slowly retreat your arm and busy yourself with getting out of the car.
Gojo’s house is - extraordinary. Big and spacious and modern and ugly. Ugly in the way it ruins the view. Modern in a way that it’s shaved down to minimalism and functionality, enough so that it’s just a concrete box in the middle of perfect manicured grass that even in winter looks like it’s just been trimmed earlier this morning.
For the first time since you left to get here, anxiety flutters in your gut.
It’s a silly thing, fearing them, when you know half his friends already and the other half is happy to finally meet you. You know all of them by name, seen pictures more often than you could count and have heard all their embarrassing stories already. But here you are, right in Sukuna’s shoes as he walked up to your relatives house.
Yuji is already off, down the pathway towards the door that’s tall enough to have you sit on Sukuna’s shoulders and still not have to duck your head.
“Nervous?” he asks, the first words he says since that little spat while picking up Yuji.
“Somehow, yea…” you mutter and lean into his side. He’s quick to lay an arm around you, pull you into his side as you walk up the driveway.
“It’s just my friends…”
“They’re important to you, so they are important to me… I want to make a good impression.”
That makes him stop, turn you towards him and collect your face in his cold hands.
“Hey,” he starts, looking to catch your gaze. “It’s Toji and the sort, nothing to proof, nothing to perform, alright? You know them all. And I’m right here. Not gonna let anything happen, babe.”
You huff but nod and try to believe him. What else is there to do? He’s followed you into the lions den. You can follow him to his friends.
When you look back towards the building, the front door is already ajar, Yuji vanished inside. Sukuna places a kiss to your temple and pulls you along, holding the door open for you as you step into the warmth. And inside, it’s a whole other world.
Despite the obvious lack of personality and decor, it’s so wide and open that you can look all across the house, down the hallway and along several closed doors, all through the enormous living room into the offensively large kitchen in high-gloss white. And although it’s only afternoon, the light already fades, sky darkening and having all the festive fairy lights and LED strips along furniture reflecting in the windows.
Behind you, Sukuna quietly closes the door.
You’re busy watching the space, eyes trailing up endlessly high walls, a foyer bigger than your shared living room. On the wall hang abstract paintings, some structured curves and twirls and swooshes. Everything is white and the most color you find is in Yuji’s red shoes, already neatly placed along the row of boots that lines the hallway. If you count them, there’s at least seven people waiting for you.
From the living room, you hear something plop, cheers and Yuji’s eager voice drifting down the hallway towards you. Sukuna’s fingers find your coat, helping you shrug out of it as you keep turning about.
“What is this, a castle?” you scoff, half impressed, half intimidated.
Behind you, Sukuna snorts. “You just gotta be born into the right family, I guess. His parents are on vacation in Zurich or something. I don’t know, something about skying and being rich I suppose.”
“St. Moritz,” a voice drawls and you swivel about, balancing on one leg as you take your shoes off, looking up to find Toji in the hallway. His presence alone calms you and has you call his name, a smile tentatively spreading on your face.
“Hey, doll,” he greets you, leans casually against the wall and watches you struggle with your boots.
“What did you say?” you track back, eying him.
He looks the same as always. Sweatpants and compression shirt beneath his light sweater, shaggy hair and a slight tilt of his head, sporting a lazy grin.
“His parents are in St. Moritz. Some rich alpine ski town with Gucci next door. Some shit like that…”
Sukuna passes you and gets a pat on the shoulder by his best friend, half a hug and whatever else the boys do just so they don’t have to really embrace each other.
“How the fuck do you know?” Sukuna drawls instead of a greeting.
“Gojo will tell you all about it. You’ll hear it at least four times tonight, bro.”
When you follow, Toji pulls you close, some half-assed hug for you too, but you know it’s more than anyone else gets.
The boys are a package deal.
You very quickly figured that out when you got closer to Sukuna, the other ever-present, third-wheeling with pride and casual consistency. Being with Sukuna means having Toji on your couch, shirtless and with a beer in hand more days of the week than not. It means his stuff scattered across your flat, an extra toothbrush in the bathroom and his sneakers in your shoe rag. It means he gets to pick a dinner every once in a while and it means he’ll be there when Sukuna can’t. Beside your boyfriend, Toji is the one to pick you up late at night without complain, to drive you to dates with friends, runs to the store when there’s something you need. Always a ‘needed to go anyway’ or ‘was already there’ to cover his tracks.
You’re pretty sure Toji is the only one who get’s away with this and more. Sometimes, you’re being shuffled from Sukuna’s lap to Toji’s, handed over to the black-haired menace to hold your hand, to keep you warm, to not get lost.
In a certain way, you think Toji filled the gap Sukuna’s twin forced with his death. Something that festered for years and only recently started to scab over.
The two of them act like siblings, at least. And a scary match they are. Both taller than anyone else you know, two times as wide as any other guy you’ve ever met. They don’t hesitate to throw a punch in your name and sometimes, you’re not even sure who’s more possessive when a stranger rolls up.
How funny that you of all people have found yourself sandwiched between the two of them, smothered by their rough affection and endless loyalty. Now, years down the line, you wouldn't have it any other way.
Toji is quick to track back into the living room, warm light spilling from the TV where a horribly fake fire crackles. Voices are cheerful and soft and when you tentatively follow Sukuna, Toji darts off to the kitchen, opening a ridiculously sized fridge.
“Beer, wine, something fancy?”
You don’t really notice you’re addressed until Sukuna answers for the both of you. Something easy to start with as the two of you step around the corner, a giant seating area in the middle of the room revealing itself.
Everybody’s talking, nobody’s looking and while Sukuna attempts to tug you towards his friends, you’re more than eager to buy yourself just a few more moments of time. Acclimatizing, you would like to call it and as you slip from his grip and mumble something about ‘helping Toji’. He holds you just a moment longer, making sure you’re okay before he lets go, turning towards the group while you dart into the kitchen.
Toji welcomes you with a knowing grin.
“Scared?” he mocks, pulling you closer as he dives into the fridge. Beneath your hands, he’s a wall of muscles, warm and hard to the touch, pulling you with him to stare at the stocks.
“Maybe a little bit,” you admit, staring into the rows of food and alcohol and energy drinks that line the inside of the fridge, cold light making your eyes hurt.
“Need the hard stuff? We got vodka and tequila on the terrace.”
“The terrace?”
“Fridge was too small for all the shit Gojo bought.”
You shift beside Toji, reaching for a dark bottle of beer. Conspiratory, he comes even closer, lips against your ear.
“Don’t have to be scared, doll. They’re all tame. You came with the biggest red flag, the rest of them are easy to handle.”
To your credit, you try not to laugh. But Toji is right and the both of you know it and so, when he grins like a fool and pulls two more beer bottles from the fridge, you let yourself giggle and ease into the night. He’s right. The most ruthless guy of the bunch is your boyfriend, shortly followed by Toji who happens to actually like you. Both of them are the main course of whatever toxic meal there could be and when they’re both on your side, what’s supposed to happen. You know from experience that both of them are more than willing and ready to fight for you. Neither of them will shy away from defending you just because it’s their friends. Maybe especially because of it. Not that you actually anticipate any rude comments.
Still, you linger by his side, head leaning towards the cooled air.
“I’ve never been with the whole group. What if they decide they don’t like me?”
“You? Doll, they chose Sukuna as their friend. They can’t sink lower than that.”
Half-heartedly, you slap at him. “Can you stop insulting your best friend?”
Toji snorts and finally straightens, next words loud enough to definitely be heard by Sukuna.
“No way, gotta keep the man down to earth or he’s gonna trample all over us.”
“Fuck you, whatever you said!” Sukuna shouts from the living room.
When you turn, you spot him on one of the couches. He looks right at home, man-spreading and lazily draped over the pillows, arms on the backrest behind him.
It’s Toji who lures you closer with beer and conversation. Keeping you engaged just enough that you barely notice when you follow him into the open space.
With a cackle, Toji starts running the last few steps, crossing the space faster than you just to steal your place and sink onto the one free spot next to his best friend. It throws you off, just enough to stutter to a halt. Thankfully, you don’t get to have time to worry about where to sit, because Sukuna’s hand is instantly there, pulling you into his lap, an arm around your back and his free hand at your thigh.
Across from you, Yuji wears a proud grin.
He’s got a beer in his hands, label already halfway peeled off by restless fingers. You know he’s so excited to be there, playing with the big guys, be included in whatever it is his brother gets up to. In some way, Sukuna could never do wrong in his eyes.
Eventually, there’s only so much you can look at before forcing yourself to face his friends.
As promised, you know half the people. It doesn’t do much to quench the anxiety inside of you, your palms sweaty in your grasp.
They are all already there.
Shoko and Suguru and Satoru, the infamous trio of the bunch, sit all tangled on an extra couch. You’ve heard a whole lot about them, the good, the bad, the ugly and somehow that nobody really knows who’s with who. When you look at them like this, Shoko wearing Satoru’s glasses, Satoru with his legs stretched out over Suguru’s lap and Suguru absolutely unbothered by Shoko’s fingers in his hair - you get where the rumors come from.
Then, there’s you and the guys on the couch to their left, next to the couch filled by Yuki and Choso, both of them already sporting a buzz, eyes droopy and cheeks flushed.
Yuji in the armchair across from you, proud to be included. There was talk about bringing his friends but their parents had quickly shut that idea down when Nobara had accidentally dropped Sukuna’s name. You think it’s adorable that Yuji still chose to spend New Year’s with his brother instead of his two best friends.
They greet and welcome you as if you've met them countless times. Right from the start, they let you into their midst and ensure you feel properly included. Jokes, questions, jabs.
For a while, conversation idles by and Sukuna’s hand lingers at your thigh and leg, fingers drawing mindless patterns through your leggings.
You’re glad he made you change again. You’d planned on wearing another dress, another set of heels, once again spending hours in the bathroom to get ready and look presentable. Only for him to walk in and shut you down real quick. He’d pulled out your comfy outfit. Leggings and one of his own hoodies, reaching halfway down your legs.
Now, your glad for the familiar comfort. For the second pair of fuzzy socks he talked you into wearing, for the simple hairdo and the safety it all brings.
Gojo speaks of St. Moritz, calls it ‘house sitting’ and states he’s ordered ten party-sized pizzas to feed all the hungry mouths. At some point, Toji has you shift, turns you in Sukuna’s lap until your legs are stretched out and he has a hold of them. Sukuna doesn’t complain and neither do you. You catch Yuki’s eyes and can’t read the expression that travels over her face.
Toji keeps your toes warm and that’s enough reason for you to stay exactly like this.
After a while, someone lists the games of the night.
Next to beer pong and other drinking games, there’s a stack of UNO cards and a twister game, the mat with all the colorful points already prepared. So, it’s natural that it’s the first to be done.
Yuji asks for another round when ‘everyone is really, really drunk’ and Choso complains that there won’t be any game when there’s nobody able to stand on two legs.
So, teams are divided. It’s a two round affair and the group is an uneven number. Choso, once again, is more than happy to be game master and excludes himself from the gymnastics ahead with a badly hidden sigh of relief.
When teams are randomly drawn, Sukuna’s bottle is almost empty and your nervousness has eased into barely there fidgeting. When names are pulled, you end up in a team with Shoko, Satoru and Sukuna. Relief is evident as his name is called, fingers digging into your skin and your own eyes flashing towards him, where he’s already close, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before shifting so you have to get up.
It turns out to be two mats, held together by duct tape and dreams, which creates a bigger playing field to begin with and yet the mat is more than crowded after only a handful of wheel spins. It starts easily enough, if only for the fact that you and Sukuna idle long enough to miss the first three spins.
Satoru fails his very first round when he has to place a hand on red when Toji and Yuki already occupy several of those. He topples over like some rickety scaffolding and takes Yuki with him. She, instead, starts a whole tyrade of complains but Choso is relentless and in the end, several rounds later, there’s only Yuji and Suguru and you left.
Sukuna fell the other round, having to attempt to get to a field that was somewhere behind both Yuji and Suguru. He’d been all twisted up by then, balancing on a few toes and pure willpower to get to the spot. Nothing helped and you’d almost fallen too when he’d crashed down. For just a heartbeat, you considered failing with him, falling or loosing balance or just failing to stay at his side.
But you’re the last of your team and you have to make them proud.
Yuji is next and has to place a foot basically on the opposite end of the mat and he ends up so awkwardly and off-balance that he collapses with laughter and takes you and Suguru with him.
You can’t even be mad. Simply stand and dust your clothes off, pull your hoodie back down and cozy back up in Sukuna’s lap, who welcomes you with outstretched arms and another secretive kiss to the shoulder.
“Almost got them, babe,” he praises and it has you beam with pride, even when you did very little beside balancing in an awkward angle.
Here, his love is a calm one. Warm like the sun and just as consuming. He’s so relaxed and at peace among his friends, that there’s no thought behind his motions, his affections, his words. He loves you openly and you don’t really know how to shuffle all the love about without imploding.
Sukuna’s fingers linger, his lips keep brushing your shoulder and neck, phrases of affection drift between you unhurried and honest. You sink into the night and let yourself become a part of it.
Satoru hands out more alcohol, cigarettes are lit, the pizza arrives and drowns all of you in voracious silence. You get the crust Sukuna never likes and he picks the toppings off of your slices.
Someone starts music and blasts it too loud, Shoko starts tapping through songs like she’s channel surfing on a TV and when she finally settles on a playlist with nostalgia-filled songs from your teen years, everybody is eager and ready to play another game.
‘Never have I ever’ turns out to be a horrible choice.
It takes exactly three statements before it gets dirty and Yuji’s ears turn bright red as the game goes on. At one point you try to point out that there’s a minor in the room but Sukuna waves it off, tells you Yuji can handle it and immediately shoots off a question that has your face so hot you don’t even know where to look anymore.
Steadily, you learn more about his friends.
Each statement and question sparks stories and inside jokes, all of them eagerly and patiently explained to those who weren’t present.
As it turns out, most of the group knows each other from school. Toji and Sukuna, as you’ve been aware, know each other since middle school - forced to sit next to each other in first row to keep them in check. Some trauma bonding and bad neighborhood shenanigans later, they’d become inseparable. The rest joined in high school, petty rivalries turned friendship, new additions during apprenticeships and work relations.
Yuji eagerly shares his own past, so much more open than Sukuna’s ever been, speaking of the time they got picked up from school not by their mother but law enforcement, separated and fighting years to reunite. He speaks of Mary and Rob with adoration and beams at his brother as if he shared the experience.
You realize that most of them have had it rough, with the sole exception of Satoru Gojo, who just happens to be a spoiled only-child, lonely above else, eager to make friends with kindness and laughter and money.
Shoko turns out to be your favorite.
She’s unbothered by whatever bullshit is thrown around, takes everything in strides with a roll of her eyes and a lazy grin. She smokes more than Sukuna in several days. Yet, her eyes are kind when they find you across the table and she smiles at you and you’re more than eager to smile back.
They engage you, too. Barely dampened curiosity spills more freely the more alcohol flows and soon, the girls and Satoru are nosily trying to figure out the whirlwind of your relationship. As it turns out, they don’t know as much as you had thought.
When you glance at Sukuna, he only smiles, something soft and tipsy, lips pressed against your shoulder to hide the grin. You never considered him the secretive type, then again, this is new for him too, this kind of serious relationship. In a way, you think it’s cute.
Eventually, you come back to the crux and end up on another avalanche of ‘never have I ever’.
“Never have I ever had…” Toji starts and throws a glance towards Sukuna. The crowd is silent, eagerly waiting, some hands already hovering above their drink to take another sip.
“… had a threesome.”
You and Shoko roll your eyes.
It’s progressively gotten worse. From skinny dipping to blowjobs and now this. Yet, nobody else complains. Yuji’s eyes are as big as saucers but he’s been the one to ask about the blowjobs and so, you no longer try to protect him. Several bottles are lifted to smirking lips, gulps taken, glances cast.
To your horror, it’s more than you would have ever considered. Satoru exes the rest of his bottle, Toji and Yuki take a sip and although you should have guessed it, Sukuna raises his bottle too.
Jealousy is a weird thing. It develops teeth even for things that have happened before your time. You know the story, if only vaguely. Toji and Sukuna and someone else. You never asked for the details. You don’t do now.
It shouldn’t be as outrageous as you want to believe. Apparently, almost half the people around you have given it a try.
Still, you throw a pout his way and he has the dignity to look actually guilty.
With his bottle almost empty, he leans closer, setting it down on the table behind you, lips skimming up your neck and to your ear. You feel his teeth graze the skin, just enough to chase goosebumps down your neck.
“Who’s being a jelly chocolate now?”, he whispers, your grin involuntary but obviously there as you lean into his touch, arms thrown around his neck, nuzzling closer.
“Not jealous… just-“ you don’t know what it is. Sometimes it just gets to you that he’s had so many girls and you’d only ever really had him.
You feel his lips move, a kiss placed against your temple before his fingers find your jaw and gently coax you further towards him. When he kisses you, the rest of the world melts away.
“Toji’s a slut, he’s always ready to get his dick touched-“ you snort into his mouth and he ends up laughing too hard to continue.
“Don’t talk about your best friend like this while your tongue is in my mouth,” you scold and beside you, Toji complains loud enough for everyone to hear.
“I’m a connoisseur for good pussy, nothing else.”
Satoru laughs so loud, he drown out any more complains. “You’re just desperate!”
The whole group ends up laughing and while everybody is busy roasting Toji, Sukuna’s hand at your back sneaks beneath your hoodie, warm fingers climbing up the bumps of your spine. He kisses you again, showers you in a succession of pecks that have you flustered and giggly.
You can taste the alcohol on him, feel the warmth that has settled in his bones. He’s just as relaxed as if he’s at home. It softens his eyes, his whole scowl turned into something like lazy affection.
The whole night goes by too fast.
Drinks keep flowing and have your whole body tingling. His hands never leave you again and you’ve made a home in his lap, side resting against his chest where you feel his slow and steady heart.
You play another round of twister, as per request of one single but very loud person and end up all scattered across the floor, too drunk to even balance on three limbs, your leg somewhere around Suguru’s shoulder while Shoko is awkwardly kneeling between your legs, a hand trapped inches away from Toji’s crotch.
There’s an attempt at beer pong that goes horribly wrong when Toji and Sukuna end up on opposite teams and make it their very own battle ground. Toji’s throws have enough power to knock the cups clean off the table and Sukuna knocks back the drinks in new record time.
In the end, it escalates to the guys just yeeting ping pong balls everywhere and when Toji ends up with a cut in his eyebrow, Shoko, Yuki and you break it up and try to move everyone safely to the couch again.
At one point, Yuji actually attempts to go on an adventure, suddenly rising and staggering towards the door, where you catch him pulling on his shoes all swapped.
“What are you doing?” you ask and crouch down beside him, getting a hold of his hands so he doesn’t dart away.
“I want to-,” he starts, eyes unfocused and cheeks flushed from alcohol, “Want to get us some snacks.”
There’s a whole pile of snacks in the living room, where you try to lead him to once you take of this shoes again and he’s all surprised and excited when he re-discovers the little pretzels that sit unopened in their plastic bag.
Sukuna throws you a questioning look and you just wave off, call it his ‘adventure time’ and he nods knowingly as if that explains literally everything.
Stories are told, jokes shared, Satoru goes on a crusade to defend electric cars and Toji promises to never again pick him up with his trusty Corolla.
Laughter is ever-present.
And Sukuna, Sukuna is calm, the tension from the earlier day gone, all smiles and idle touches and snarky remarks that lack any teeth.
It’s about ten minutes to midnight when you realize something fundamental.
Around you, chaos has found a home. In eager preparation for midnight, the group has scattered. Through the cracked balcony door, you hear Choso and Yuji prepare the fireworks they’ve not so legally acquired. Yuki, Toji and Satoru are somewhere out of sight, arguing and laughing.
In the kitchen, Shoko, Sukuna and Suguru pour the drinks. Shoko’s come up with something easy but as she calls it ‘aesthetically pleasing’, bought little paper umbrellas to stick in each glass. You watch fondly as they make a mess, Sukuna plopping the toothpick umbrellas into the orange drink with a frown. He’s never been one for unnecessary gadgets. This definitely counts as one.
You’ve been - courtesy of the buzz that had you almost fall into the coffee table about 20 minutes earlier - parked on the couch, blanketed by Toji’s sweater that he’d discarded the moment someone called him to work. Inside you, your very own firework lights up your heart.
Despite the tense relationship to the people who tried to give him a home, Sukuna, very evidently, has made his own.
He’s found it through trial and error and determination, his loyalty covered in bruises and cuts. How come you only now realize Sukuna has never been a lone wolf, but a cautious one. His own pack is right here, chaotic and real and very much his.
A family he wasn’t born into, but chose, one he picked himself over years instead of being handed to. He’s carved out his own little space of home, not in a building but in the shape of several people, who now don’t hold back as he knocks over a drink and spills orange juice and campari all over the marble counters.
Tears prick at your eyes as you try to blink them away. You need to get to him, hold him, hug him, tell him how far he’s come and that you see it all. All the effort, all the trials, all the love.
You make an honest attempt at standing again. You start slowly enough, shrug on Toji’s sweater and then set your feet down, one after another, before carefully rising and balancing your hands against the glass table.
The world spins and tilts around you but when you stare at the ugly center piece decoration that’s been pushed about all evening, your vision eventually evens out and you straighten, slowly and wobbly making your way over to your boyfriend.
By the time you round the kitchen island, Sukuna’s grumbling and on the floor, cloth in hand in an attempt to soak up sticky juice. Shoko pulls you into a hug, hands you a drink and cracks a joke. You’re not so sure you can stomach a whole other glass of barely watered-down alcohol, but for her, you hold onto it.
When Sukuna spots you in the arms of his friend, he abandons his task and instead whisks you away, arms slung around your waist, lifting you off the ground effortlessly and you end up squealing, trying your damn hardest not to spill any of your drink.
“Didn’t I tell you to stay seated?” he grumbles, carrying you out of the kitchen.
“Didn’t wanna sit there all alone,” you mumble in return, carefully being set down again, ingredients of your glass dangerously close to the rim.
He softens at your explanation, tilting his head to catch your gaze.
When there’s no follow up, you say what’s been so loudly ricocheting through your mind.
“I’m so proud of you.”
Honest surprise paints his features and tints his ears. “You’re what now?”
“Proud of you. I think—“ finding the words is difficult, you can even hear your voice slur, vowels swallowed to muddy each word. “—I think I got it all wrong earlier today.”
You sway a bit on the spot, cling to the glass in your hand as if it could hold you upright and find Sukuna’s hands steadying you, gentle and familiar at your waist.
“How so?” he asks, very carefully, vulnerability sneaking it’s way into his eyes. It dawns on you that your judgment matters to him and that maybe, just maybe, he’s scared of your final verdict. After all, this is your first exposure to the entire group.
“I was so focused on traditional family settings that I was blind to the fact you’ve found your own little family, right here.” You gesture around the room, eyes lingering on each and every one of his friends in sight.
“You found them yourself, grew with them and have all of -“ another sweep about the room, “this.”
He opens his mouth to say something but you don’t let him, free hand settling against his chest, palm above his heart where it’s picked up pace.
“It makes me so happy for you,” you whisper and choke on sudden tears that climb into your eyes. They spill before you even know what’s happening, emotions trampling you as you drop your head in defeat.
Sukuna, overwhelmed and definitely taken off guard by your confessions, takes the glass from your hand and pulls you close. His arms are strong as they tug you against his chest and you don’t need any convincing to hold onto him as well, arms snaking around his torso where you can barely clasp your hands.
“They love you so much—“ you choke and sob into his chest.
“Oh shut up, they’re annoying as hell,” he utters but you don’t buy a single word.
“You shut up, they’re your family…”
He huffs but relents, head resting on top of yours, hold so strong you know you won’t fall even if your bones would turn to liquid.
“…they are,” he says after a while, very very quietly. “Like you. Especially you. You’re part of this family too, you know.”
You smile against the soft fabric of his clothes. “I know…”
When you crane your head to ask for a kiss, he shifts easily, dips his head down to take what you offer, lips urgent as they slot against yours.
Somewhere in the kitchen, you hear someone whistle. Very evidently Satoru starts making gagging noises and Toji out of all people calls to the two of you with a childish “Get a room!”
Sukuna, surprisingly, ignores the comments and only deepens the kiss, hand in your hair as he ensures you’re seeing stars. You're blind to the way he lifts his other hand, middle finger up to flip off his friends.
Eventually, it’s actually Yuji who breaks up your moment as he clatters back inside, bringing with him the cold of the night.
“Guys, five more minutes… move it, move it!”
It has you giggle hard enough to stumble again, reaching for your glass and failing, knocking your fingers against it where it precariously balances at the edge of the table. Sukuna’s hands do not let go of you, instead, he pulls you along to get jacket and boots, undeterred by the fact you’re already sporting a hoodie and a sweater on top.
When you make it outside, the group has already gathered. You’re drunk enough to stumble into Suguru on your way to Yuji’s side, who’s giddy and bouncing on the spot, clouds of air lingering in the cold.
It’s a cloudless night, endless stars only dampened by familiar light pollution, turning the sky some dirty kind of purple. The moon is full, some off-white glow that turns your boyfriend’s skin all pale. He follows you like a puppy, stands behind you as you find your spot between Yuji and Toji. With his arms securely around your front, you lean against him and ease into his embrace.
The drink in your hand is cold enough to have your fingers ache as Choso and Satoru fight with the fireworks. The property is big enough that they will get away with it, whatever nonsense they get up to blocked from view by trees and privacy fencing.
The grass is already peppered with fireworks of all kinds. Yuji presses a whole heap of jumping crackers into your palm and begs Sukuna for a lighter.
From inside, where the TV drones on, you hear a count down towards the new year.
Around you, out of sight in adjoining gardens and houses, people already cheer and laugh and celebrate.
“Ten…”
Beside you, Toji takes a sip of his drink and pokes himself with the toothpick decoration, a curse falling from his lips before he can stop it.
“…nine…”
Shoko forces Suguru and Satoru to hold hands, grinning proudly as she throws her arms around both of them.
“…eight…”
Yuki produces another lighter out of her leather jacket and hands it to Yuji, who by now holds onto four of the cheap things.
“…seven…”
Sukuna, behind you, shifts, once again stealing your glass from you and setting it on the ground before taking both your hands in his, jumping crackers falling to the floor where most of them don’t even trigger.
“…six…”
Choso stumbles and steps on the whole pile on the floor, starting a whole festive explosion on the stone slaps, Shoko and Satoru squealing in surprise.
“…five…”
Toji throws an arm around Sukuna and pulls him close, whispering something you don’t quiet catch.
“…four…”
Satoru remembers the sparklers he bought and scrambles to hand them out, dropping most of them on the floor.
“…three…”
You hold onto Sukuna’s hand and take the sparklers for the two of you, the thin wires already crooked as Satoru frantically tries to light them.
“…two…”
The sparklers start sparking. You look around, finding the family Sukuna’s had for years, different than yours, but just as important and worthy and real. Everybody eagerly stares at the sky and shouts numbers and holds hands.
“…one…”
Happiness floods you unprovoked. You beam so brightly that it strains in your cheeks, watching as Yuji crouches before his row of fireworks, already trying to spark the first lighter. Beside him, Choso does the same.
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
As the first fireworks go off and shoot into the sky, Sukuna turns you around, hands traveling from your hips to your face, cradling you with all the care in the world, tilting your head up so all you can see is him.
His eyes are molten gold, softened and tinted by the sparklers that light up around you. He’s developed a flush that darkens his cheeks and nose. When you reach up towards him, his skin is cold but he leans into your touch, tugging you closer before he kisses you.
He tastes of campari and oranges, old smoke and mochi. You deepen the kiss and let him devour you until you’re breathless and shaking in his hold, hands clasped at the back of his neck where your sparklers burn down.
Distantly, someone - probably Toji - pats your hair.
When you separate from him and smile as wide as he does, you know the new year will bring nothing but luck. Luck and fortune and the fruits of a relationship you both worked so hard for.
“Happy new year, Sukuna,” you tell him and steal another peck.
“Happy new year, love,” he says back and leans his forehead against yours.
Both of you have been nothing but disgustingly sappy over the holidays. From love confessions to long-term plans, you’re eager for the future. Eager, because he’s with you, right by your side, willing to take each step necessary to make the both of you happy.
Then, someone slams into your side and it’s Yuji, hugging you both simultaneously, stars in his eyes.
“Best. New Year’s. Ever!” he shouts over the colorful explosives and Satoru's screams. You hug him with a laugh and wish him everything he could ever need for the year ahead. Even Sukuna holds him close, mumbles something into his hair and presses a sneaky kiss to Yuji’s forehead.
You could cry all over again, watching the brothers embrace. Then there’s Toji, tugging you against his chest and wishing you a grumpy new year while ruffling your hair. You try to stop him and fail, smack his chest and push at his abs to get him to let go. He, instead, just laughs and crushes you against him.
“You don’t get to not hug while you’re wearing my shit,” he drawls and you make a point at huffing and puffing, pushing at him in playful fights until he finally lets you go.
When you turn to Sukuna, he’s trapped in a group hug, Shoko’s arm waving desperately towards you in an attempt to pull you in.
This is where you start crying again, tears languidly dripping down your face as you’re pulled into the hug alongside Toji, who for once shuts his mouth and instead, squishes you somewhere between Shoko and Choso.
When Satoru sees your tears, he’s all but too kind about it, a heartfelt “Aww, sweetheart,” before he guides you into your boyfriends waiting arms.
Sukuna dries your tears with gentle fingers and an even gentler smile. You let him take care of you, try to tell him he’s to blame and get showered in kisses once more as Yuji, Choso and Satoru set off the second round of fireworks until your ears ring.
He pulls you into his side and you find a home there, cuddled up, tugged beneath his arm like a little baby bird.
“I love you,” you tell him and he tips his head to the side, glancing down at you.
“I love you too,” he offers and you watch contently how the sky lights up in reds and greens and golds, sparks flying and wooden sticks clattering faintly around you.
The world is yours and this new year, it’ll be the best you’ll ever have.
You’re not naive enough to believe it will be without fights or setbacks or drama. But you draw strength from this, knowing that no matter what happens, neither of you are alone in it. He has people who love and adore him, who pull him into unwanted hugs and ensure his glasses and plates are never empty.
Most of you stand and watch until you don’t feel your feet anymore and your shoulders are so tense you feel like they’re up to your ears.
Sukuna guides you back inside, helps you out of jacket and boots and settles with you back on the couch, a throw blanket around your shoulders and your head resting against his chest where his heart lulls you in.
Outside, Yuji and some others still go at it, occasional explosions and bangs rocking through the house while the rest gathers in the living room again.
Everybody gets a say about their new years resolutions and there’s another attempt at a round of UNO, only to fall flat when Suguru accidentally wipes all the cards from the table when he’s supposed to draw +12.
After that, conversation becomes clustered, Yuji and Choso - the last men standing when it comes to staying outside - file back in to curl up by the fake fire as if it could give them any warmth. You watch contently for a while and eventually the two of you rearrange, both stretched out on the couch that belongs to only the two of you now, your head on his chest and your legs tangled beneath the blanket.
You close your eyes and hold his hand and his fingers knead your hair until you drift off into sleep. The smile on your face never dims and Sukuna catches himself watching everyone around him, you fast asleep and content on his chest, the rest of the group busy planning the yearly summer vacation.
It’s not perfect, but it’s his, his little family of misfits and rebels and lost ones and he wouldn’t change it for the world.
With a secretive smile on his lips that he hides in your hair, Sukuna realizes he’s happy.
the concept of satoru having an amnesia due to an accident & forgets that u guys are dating .. and he remembers u as like,, his friend,, and he doesn't seem to recollect his old memories and he goes off to marry someone else,, and u js let it happen bec satoru doesn't remember u as his lover so u js kinda watch as ur heart breaks,, & when the wedding comes and he goes face to face w his soon to be wife his old memories come crashing down to him AND HE REALIZES THAT NOOOO HE DOESN'T WANNA MARRY HER HE WANNA MARRY UUU !!! and he rushes out of that chapel and drives to ur place ... do u guys see the vision. TELL ME U DO.
— summary: You woke up near a military camp without remembering how and why you got there, you didn’t understand why they were dressed like ancient Greeks, all you knew was that you weren’t safe and you needed to get out of that place as soon as possible. Too bad for you that you found yourself attracting unwanted attention from the Macedonian King and he won’t let you go so easily.
— genre: yandere, dark!au.
— warnings: time travel, obsessive and possessive behavior, murder, mention of torture, kidnapping, angst, fluffy (very rarely), dub-con, eventual smut, pregnancy.
— word count: 3,364.
— tag list: @devils-blackrose, @faerykingdom, @hadesnewpersephone, @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 , @kadu-5607, @zoleea-exultant, @borntoexplore11-blog, @elvinapandra, @jennifer0305 , @his0kaswife, @animetye-23.
— the lost queen series masterlist.
Chapter 19
"This is madness, Alexander, and you know it!" Cassander exclaimed, his voice thick with indignation as his eyes flashed with barely contained anger. He fixed his gaze directly on the King, his rigid posture conveying both courage and a dangerous streak of recklessness. In the tent, lit by the flickering flames of the lamps, shadows danced across the fabric walls, reflecting the rising tension.
Alexander looked up from where he sat, his imposing posture, even in repose, exuding authority. His eyes narrowed like blades, and a dangerous expression shaped his face. When he spoke, his voice was low, but filled with a restrained fury that rumbled like muffled thunder.
"Do you disapprove of me, Cassander?"
The silence that followed was deafening. The generals gathered in the tent exchanged uneasy glances, aware that the situation was about to escalate into something irreversible. The air seemed heavier, and the crackling of torches became the only sound that dared to break the tense moment.
Everyone was still much more wary of Alexander after the incident with Cleitus, and for a moment it seemed that Antipater's son remembered that.
Cassander swallowed, instinctively taking a step back. His confidence wavered for an instant, and he seemed suddenly aware of the fatal mistake he had made in confronting Alexander in this manner. The color drained from his face, but his eyes, though hesitant now, still held a hint of defiance.
How stupid.
Before the atmosphere could explode into chaos, a tall, composed figure stepped forward. Hephaestion, the only one capable of calming Alexander’s nerves, intervened with deliberate calm, his voice cutting through the stifling air like a much-needed breeze.
"Alexander," Hephaestion began, his voice firm but tinged with caution. He shot a warning look at Cassander, who returned it with a mixture of anger and humiliation. "What I believe Cassander means," he continued, choosing each word carefully, "is that this decision... Is unwise. Attacking Babylon in this manner, without adequate preparation, could result in catastrophe."
Alexander turned to him, his eyes still shining with fierce determination. The king took a deep breath, as if absorbing Hephaestion's words, but there was no sign of hesitation in his posture. He stood, his imposing figure now completely dominating the space.
"I will not abandon my wife," He declared, his voice brimming with passion and authority. "Our queen is in danger, and every second we wait is an affront to my honor and my love for her. I will not wait another second."
Alexander's words echoed through the tent like an absolute decree. The silence that followed was heavier than ever as those present absorbed the king’s unwavering determination. Hephaestion, though worried, said nothing more, only nodded, knowing that when Alexander made up his mind, there was no force in the world that could change his mind.
Ptolemy, who had remained silent until then, stepped forward, his thoughtful features carefully hiding any trace of doubt. His voice, hesitant but controlled, cut through the tension that still hung in the tent like a suffocating fog.
"All right," He said finally, after a moment of consideration. His hand slid to the central table, touching the maps spread out with an almost reverent caution. The parchments were covered in markings, tracing borders, routes, and fortresses. He studied them briefly before looking up to meet Alexander's fervent gaze.
"Where do we begin?"
Ptolemy's calm tone contrasted with the simmering fury still emanating from the king, but there was a pragmatic acceptance in it that seemed to bring a slight sense of focus to the room. The surrounding generals relaxed slightly, realizing that at least one of them was willing to follow the course Alexander had decided, even if it defied prudence.
Alexander leaned slightly across the table, his fingers pointing to a route plotted along the Euphrates River. His determination was palpable.
"We begin here," Alexander said, his voice firm. "We will march swiftly down the valley, using surprise and speed as our greatest weapons. Babylon will not be expecting a direct attack — and that is why we will win."
Ptolemy nodded slowly, but his expression still held a shadow of doubt. He knew that defying Alexander would be futile, but he also knew that the success of this endeavor would depend on more than bravery and speed.
"Then we need adequate supplies and logistics," Ptolemy stated cautiously. "If we are to move quickly, we will need experienced scouts and a plan to keep the troops supplied. We cannot afford to fail due to lack of resources."
Hephaestion, who was still nearby, crossed his arms and looked at Alexander, as if waiting for the king’s response to Ptolemy's sensible suggestion.
Alexander straightened, his expression unchanging, but there was a flicker of respect in his eyes. He knew he needed men like Ptolemy and Hephaestion at his side, those who could temper his impetuosity with practical wisdom.
"Then see to it that you arrange it, Ptolemy and Hephaestion," Alexander ordered, his voice still thick with authority. "Make the necessary preparations. But know this: we will not hesitate. I want the troops ready to march at dawn."
Ptolemy nodded again, this time with more conviction, and began studying the maps with renewed attention, along with Hephaestion. The room was filled with a mix of movement and tension as each of the generals took their turn in preparing for the campaign.
May the gods be on their side.
Dawn was slowly creeping in, bringing with it an uneasy silence that seemed to extend throughout the royal tent. Alexander sat in a chair near the table, a glass of wine in his hands, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the flickering candlelight. The dark liquid swayed in his cup as he swirled it absently, lost in thought. Anxiety weighed on his chest like a suit of armor he could not remove, preventing him from giving in to sleep.
The solitude of the moment was interrupted only by the occasional crackle of the flames and the soft sound of footsteps in the distance. He knew he should rest, prepare for the imminent march, but his mind would not give him a break. His wife’s face haunted his thoughts, and every second that passed without action felt like a personal defeat.
It was then that the uneasy tranquility was broken. One of the guards at the entrance to the tent appeared, bowing slightly in a gesture of respect before speaking.
"My lord, there is someone who wishes to speak with you." The guard announced, his voice low but firm.
Alexander frowned, irritated by the interruption, but his curiosity was piqued when the visitor's name was revealed.
"Aslan?" He repeated, his voice thick with suspicion. He leaned back in his chair for a brief moment, considering his options, before waving his hand, indicating that the man could enter.
Aslan was an enigmatic figure, and Alexander did not trust him for a moment. There was something about his presence — perhaps the furtive glances, the measured tone of his voice, or the way he always seemed to know more than he should — that made him deeply uncomfortable. There were many rumors surrounding Aslan, and Alexander was not naïve enough to ignore them.
But despite his reservations, Alexander could not deny that Aslan had been valuable. It was he who had brought him the crucial information about his wife's whereabouts, knowledge that none of the king's other allies had been able to uncover. For this, Alexander was somewhat grateful, though that gratitude was tempered by constant vigilance.
Aslan entered the tent with deliberate steps, a hint of a smile on his lips. He bowed slightly, but his posture remained casual, almost insolent.
"Your Majesty," Aslan began, his voice silky but heavy with a subtext that Alexander had yet to decipher.
Alexander raised his cup, eyeing the man like a predator studying its prey.
"I hope you have something important to say, Aslan," Alexander replied, his voice cold and clipped. "I am not known for tolerating pointless interruptions."
Aslan laughed softly, tilting his head as if recognizing the danger in the king's every word.
"Certainly, my King. I would never dare waste your time," He said, taking a step forward and lowering his voice.
Aslan smiled broadly, his teeth gleaming in the flickering candlelight. His posture was impeccable, almost theatrical, as if every movement had been rehearsed for maximum impact. Alexander watched him closely, unease building within him. There was something about Aslan that made him shiver — perhaps it was the intense gaze, or the air of someone who always knew more than he should.
The visitor tilted his head slightly to the side, keeping his eyes fixed on Alexander, like a predator assessing its prey. The silence that followed seemed endless, until Aslan finally spoke, his voice soft but heavy with a weight that pierced the air.
"Your queen is with child."
Those words struck Alexander like a thunderbolt. He did not react immediately, but his hand, which was holding the cup, gripped the object so tightly that it seemed about to break.
Aslan continued, as if savoring every second of the tension his words provoked.
"My sources tell me that she is being well looked after in Babylon," He added, his voice taking on an almost condescending tone. "But as you well know, she is surrounded by enemies. Anyone who wishes to weaken you will spare no effort to use this situation against you." Aslan paused dramatically, his eyes shining with something Alexander could not identify. "I thought you should know."
Alexander stood still for a moment, trying to process the maelstrom of emotions churning inside him. Anger, worry, joy, and protective fury all fought for space in his heart. His wife, his Queen, pregnant, carrying his heir, amid mortal enemies. The mere thought of something happening to her — or the child —was enough to make his blood boil.
"Are you sure about this?" Alexander asked finally, his voice low but filled with an intensity that made even Aslan feel uncomfortable for a brief moment.
"Absolutely." Aslan replied without hesitation, his tone far too confident for Alexander's liking.
The king placed the cup on the table with a controlled movement, but the tension in his body was evident. He took a step forward, closing the distance between himself and Aslan, his eyes fixed like blades.
"If your information is wrong, Aslan, you will answer for it personally." Alexander declared, each word laden with menace.
Aslan did not flinch. Instead, he held Alexander's gaze with an enigmatic smile, as if he were aware of something no one else was.
"I trust my sources, Your Majesty," He said calmly. "But what you do with that information... That's up to you."
Alexander took a deep breath, trying to control the storm raging inside him. The fate of his wife — and now his heir — was at stake. There was no room for error or hesitation.
"Leave." Alexander ordered, his voice icy, though he felt a whirlwind of emotions inside.
Aslan inclined his head in an almost courteous gesture before turning and disappearing through the tent entrance, leaving Alexander alone with the news that changed everything. The king stood still, the candles flickering around him as his thoughts raced.
Alexander felt the weight of Aslan’s words settle over him like a storm about to break. His wife, his queen, pregnant. The concept swirled through his mind, carrying with it a torrent of emotions he rarely experienced so intensely. He looked down at his hands and realized they were shaking. This was not something that usually happened — he, the invincible conqueror, was now shaken by news that should have been a cause for joy.
Happiness. Pride. Fear. Anger. All of these emotions fought for space in his heart at once.
Finally, he would have an heir. A son. A child to whom he could pass on not only his empire, but also his lessons, his vision, and, in some way, his immortality. Alexander felt a pang of pride at the thought. An heir who would carry on his blood and his name, someone who would carry on the legacy he had spent his life building.
For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine the child. A son or daughter with (Y/N)'s eyes and her kindness. He imagined teaching the child to ride, to fight, to rule with wisdom and strength. His heart warmed at the thought of this life he could shape and love.
And perhaps, finally, his mother, Olympia, would be silent. He thought wryly of all the letters she had sent him, pressuring him relentlessly to produce an heir. "The empire needs continuity," she always said. As if that were the only reason for him to have a child. Now, he would have the heir she so desperately demanded – but he did not do it for her, or for the empire. He did it because it was with (Y/N), because...
Alexander took a deep breath, trying to order his thoughts that were racing against each other. He loved (Y/N). It was a truth he had never said out loud, perhaps not even to himself. But now, she was far from him. Far from his protection. Surrounded by enemies who could use her and the child she bore as weapons against him.
Fear gripped his heart, quickly turning into cold, dangerous fury. He was Alexander, undefeated in battle, and he would never allow anything to happen to the woman he loved or the child she carried.
He stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back with such force that it nearly fell over. His breathing was heavy, and his fists clenched at his sides. Babylon, the place where (Y/N) was, became, in that moment, more than a military objective or a strategic dispute. It was the place where everything he valued was, everything that truly mattered.
By dawn, Alexander was already shouting orders and preparing to go and get his wife and child. Whatever the cost.
The days in Babylon were heavier than usual. The heat felt suffocating, but that wasn't what was tightening your chest as you stared out your bedroom window. Your hands gripped the balcony tightly, your fingers almost digging into the cold stone. Your eyes were fixed on the horizon, but your mind was elsewhere, struggling to process the news that had arrived earlier.
Alexander was coming.
Your heart skipped a beat when you heard those words, but the initial joy soon gave way to a mix of conflicting emotions: hope, worry, and a touch of despair. He was coming to rescue you, you had no doubt about that, but what did that mean for Babylon? For the city that was now seething with panic and preparation? For its people?
You definitely didn’t want to see an entire city massacred and the survivors sold into slavery.
Darius had received the news only a few hours ago, and since then, the tranquility of the city had been replaced by noisy chaos. Soldiers were rushing about, carrying weapons, building barricades, and reinforcing the walls. The raised voices of commanders echoed through the streets, mingling with the sound of hammers and shouts. Supplies were being piled up, and civilians were being forced to work to prepare the city for a siege that everyone knew was inevitable.
The satrap of Babylon, Mazeus, tried to bring some sense to the discussion, arguing that surrender was the only sensible option. He mentioned how Bactria, by capitulating without resistance, had avoided the terrible fate that awaited the stubborn. But Darius, influenced by Bessus — that arrogant fool — rejected the suggestion with disdain.
"Fools," You muttered to yourself, gripping your hands tighter on the balcony. Your eyes closed for a moment, the weight of everything that was to come bearing down on you. "They are all fools."
You knew what Alexander was capable of. He was not just a conqueror; he was an unstoppable force. If Darius and his followers insisted on fighting, Babylon would be razed, its inhabitants slaughtered. Blood would run in the streets, and the walls they now reinforced would be useless against Alexander's military genius.
There was a small hope that if they surrendered, the city might be spared. But you also knew that your presence here complicated everything. Your kidnapping was both a symbol of resistance and a personal insult to Alexander. Even if the leaders of Babylon surrendered, Alexander would show no mercy to those who defied him by taking you from his arms.
You took a deep breath, trying to control the storm of emotions inside you. You felt trapped, powerless, a pawn in a game of power far greater than you. And yet, there was something comforting in the idea that Alexander was coming. He would take on everyone, tear down walls and armies if necessary. Because he was coming for you.
You hadn't quite come to a conclusion about how you felt about him yet, but you knew that you cared in some way. He was your husband, even if forced, and he was the father of your babies. A part of you cared enough.
"Hello."
You whirled around at the sound of Aslan's voice, your heart leaping into your throat with shock. He was there, standing casually near the door, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His posture was relaxed, and his lips curved in a smile that never seemed to reach his eyes. It had been days since you had seen him, and you had been relieved by his absence. But now, he was back. Only the gods knew where he had come from.
"A kiss for your thoughts, my dear?" Aslan asked, his voice calm and tinged with amusement.
You crossed your arms instinctively, trying not to show the discomfort you always felt in his presence.
Aslan tilted his head slightly, his smile widening as his eyes fell on your noticeably rounded belly. His gaze was so intense that you almost cringed.
"You’re getting more beautiful every day, (Y/N)," He commented, his voice low and honeyed, as he leaned casually against the nearby wall and crossed his arms. "Pregnancy suits you well."
You felt your throat go dry. There was something about the way he was looking at you — or maybe the babies you were carrying —that made every instinct in you scream in alarm. Trying to maintain your composure, you straightened your posture and met his gaze with as much steadiness as you could muster.
"Aslan," You finally replied, your voice sharp. "What do you want?"
His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes sparkled even brighter, as if he’d been waiting for this very question.
"I just wanted to see how you were doing," He said, his tone so innocent it was hard to believe. He tilted his head again, his eyes boring into you in a way that seemed to read every thought that passed through your mind. "And, of course, to make sure our future little prince and princess are well taken care of."
You didn't want to know how he knew you were expecting twins or why he assumed it was a girl and a boy. You wanted to ask but knew you would be met with no answer, just rambling.
"I’m fine," You replied dryly, your voice firmer than you expected. "And so are the babies. You don’t have to worry."
Aslan laughed softly, the sound echoing around the room disconcertingly.
"Oh, but I do, my dear," He said, pushing off the wall and taking a step toward you. "You carry something very valuable, something that could change the course of many things."
Your body tensed, and you took a half-step back, holding your head high. "What do you mean by that?"
Aslan stopped, as if realizing he’d reached his limit. He raised his hands in a theatrical gesture of surrender.
"Nothing much, just the musings of a man who likes to watch the game board," He replied with an enigmatic smile. "But for now, I just wanted to say how good it is to see you, and how... Radiant you look."
Aslan glanced at you as he turned his back to leave, but he didn't bother to move.
"Do you want to leave?" His words were calm, but loaded with something you couldn’t identify.
"I... What?" You began, trying to process what he had just said.
Aslan raised his hand, a mysterious smile playing on his lips as if anticipating your confusion. "I mean, my dear," he continued, his voice as soft as a serpent whispering in your ear, "back to your time, to the twenty-first century."
— lady l: I know it took a while to come out but as you know I was sick and busy with personal things, then I got better and got the flu 🤡 but I hope this chapter was worth the wait! I personally really liked how it turned out and forgive me if there are any mistakes.
ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)
ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.
ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s
ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!
ᰔ chapter. 1/x (probably 10)
ᰔ words. 7.8k
a/n. hellooo omg welcome to this debut chapter!! tysm to everyone who wanted to be on taglist for this!! i was gagged at the amount of people!! yall are amazing omg n thanks for supporting my works :''') hope you enjoy this chapter and i will see all you lovelies at the bottom <33
nav. ch1 :: ch2 :: ch3 :: ch4 :: ch5 (pending)
Love thy neighbor.
Cherish thy neighbor.
Tolerate thy neighbor.
Peacefully coexist with thy neighbor.
Fuck thy neighbor? No, wait, not that one.
It’s murder thy neighbor. That was the phrase you were looking for.
Murder thy neighbor so gruesomely that you’d leave no trace behind. Murder him and bury him somewhere no one could ever find him, so that even in millions of years from now when some other highly advanced mammalian species overtakes the planet and embarks on journeys to acquire fossils, thy neighbor will still never grace the atmospheric oxygen of the earth ever again. It’s the punishment he’d deserve for thoroughly pissing you off at the worst times possible and in the worst ways possible. The smallest of prices to pay.
“SATORU!!!” you yell, storming up the sudsy driveway of your next-door neighbor’s house at eight in the morning, clad in your dirty scrubs from the hell of a night shift you just endured working at the hospital, glass containers inside the lunchbox you were holding hitting painfully against the poor joint in your knee but you just don’t care. Anger is all you can see right now.
Your neighbor (derogatory) stands there in his pajamas with a spray nozzle in his hands, passively spraying water across the top surface of his car, and when he sees you, he pulls his left airpod out of his ear and looks you up and down once. You’re pretty sure there’s steam coming out of your ears. “Uh, do you mind? I’m trying to wash my car.”
“How many fucking times do I have to tell you not to park your stupid boat in front of my driveway?!” you yell at him, voice hoarse and nails digging into the skin of your palms by the clench of your fists.
“Hm?” he leans back a little to glance past you to his boat. “Oh, you mean my 2023 Boston Whaler 220 Dauntless with low profile bow rail welded stainless steel, Mercury FourStroke hydraulic power steering and, not to mention, a platinum gelcoat hull? That silly old thing? It’s not even parked in front of your driveway.”
“Yes. It is. Are you blind? I can’t move my car into my garage, hence why it’s running idle on the fucking street right now. Your boat’s on my property.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Uh. Yuh-huh.”
“Honey. I’m a real estate agent. You don’t think I’d know where my own property line starts and ends?”
“Park. It. On. Your. Drive. Way.”
“I spent a lot of money on that boat,” he sighs, “I intend to show it off on the street. Stop acting like there isn’t more than enough room for your tiny prius. It’s not my fault you have the motor skills of a toddler and don’t know how to pull into a driveway,” he pauses for a second and tilts his head upwards in thought, “Oh. Motor skills, haha, get it? Fuck, that’s funny. Hold on, I gotta jot that down,” he pulls his phone out of the pocket of his cotton plaid pajama pants, “my niece would love that. She gets all giggly about puns these days. It’s her birthday next weekend, by the way, turning five.”
“Oh, right,” you scratch the top of your head (been too busy to wash your hair), and realize the ponytail you threw your hair up into at the beginning of your shift last night is now barely hanging on for dear life, “I forgot to tell you, but my cousin said he can’t rent that pony out for her birthday party anymore. Apparently it died.”
He stares at you. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Damn.”
“Mm.”
He shrugs. “That’s fine, thanks anyway,” he swipes up on his phone, “they had crazy hair day at my niece’s elementary school yesterday, wanna see a picture?”
“Sure.”
He turns his phone to show you. “My sister let her cut her hair a little shorter this time since she wouldn’t stop asking. I guess all her friends at school were cutting theirs short too so they wanted to be matching.”
“Aww,” you pout with a small smile when you see the picture, “I think it suits her. That’s a lot of glitter though, y’know that stuff’s really bad for the environment.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, turning his phone screen back to face him, “anyway. I was halfway convinced you just came from some crazy hair day when I saw you stomp up my driveway just now.”
“I’m gonna guillotine your head off with the trunk door of my car. Now move your boat.”
“Hold on one sec,” he says, holding a finger right up to your face, and you flinch backwards slightly before going cross-eyed to stare at it, and then you’re glaring at him again. His phone is ringing in his hand. “I gotta take this.”
“Wha–” you try to interrupt him, but he just says shhh and shakes his finger in front of you, which makes you want to bite it off.
“Hi, Donna!” he exclaims into his phone, “so good to hear from you. Oh, no, not at all, you caught me at the perfect time. I’m just washing my car. Nah, you’re not interrupting anything.”
The urge to smack him consumes you.
“Oh okay, cool, I’m glad you took some time to think about it. Let me know when you want to meet again, if you’re still interested in the house, we can make an offer. Uh huh. Yeah. Sorry, what’s that? Oh,” he pulls his phone from his ear to look at the time, “yeah, that’s fine. Is that the one on 6th street? Sure, I’ll see you then. By the way, how was little Tommy’s soccer game yesterday?...Aw, that’s okay, he’ll get the next one. Hm? Yeah, what’s up? Oh, you know that I’d love to, and there’s no one that enjoys your green bean casserole more than I do, but I’m actually busy tonight! I know! Bummer! Maybe some other time? Alright. Yeah, thanks, you too. Take care. Bye.” He presses the end call on his phone, and there’s an awkward silence as he narrows his eyes at the screen in concentration for a moment while typing something onto it, and then the corner of his eye catches sight of something in his periphery, that something being you, and he jumps a little.
“Oh fuck,” he places a hand on his chest and exhales, “I didn’t know you were still standing there.”
“I’m seriously going to whack you across the face with my lunch box right now.”
“That gigantic industrial lunch box you carry around for your 12-hour shifts?” he points at your hand, “you’d have blood on your hands. I’d be dead.”
“Yeah, that’s the goal, idiot.”
“You’re so fucking violent, jeez, I bet the inside of your head looks like the inside of Jeffrey Dahmer’s. How do you sleep at night?”
“With fifteen milligrams of melatonin, blackout curtains, a satin sleeping mask, and in the mornings.”
“...that didn’t make you sound like any less of a serial killer.”
“Whatever, at least I don’t have a complex for elderly divorced women. You know that what you do for work isn’t any better than prostitution, right?”
“Okay. Now I have to hear where you’re going with this.”
You cross your arms across your chest, and your gigantic industrial sized lunch box with the millions of glass containers inside of it hits your hip painfully, enough to warrant a wince, but you keep a straight face as to not show any weakness. “You flirt with vulnerable women who have just gotten out of probably extremely heartbreaking marriages from their cheating country golf club husbands, and pretend to care about all their drama, just so that they’d buy a house from you. I literally heard you say to a lady the other day,” and you do your absolute best to mock him in the most insulting way possible, “‘it’s okay Lorraine. If you’re still struggling to fill your new house with someone new too, then you know where to find me.’”
“Yeah. She wanted to rent out her guest bedroom. I was gonna help her look for tenants.”
“O-Oh,” you stutter, but stand up straighter, “doesn’t matter. You still pimp yourself out for a sale.”
“So what if I do? I’m hot, why wouldn’t I take advantage of that? You could’ve done the same thing too, but you didn’t, and now you’re stuck working miserable nursing shifts that are probably taking years off of your lifespan.”
“You’re the one taking years off of my lifespan. Now move your fucking boat.”
He sighs and slips his phone back into his pocket before walking past you to your car, that still had the driver’s side door open and was idle in the middle of the street.
“W-Where are you going?” you ask.
“I’m gonna park your car in your garage for you,” he says, waving his hand up in the air dismissively because he knows you’re about to protest, and then he ducks his head into your car, reaching his arm in for the lever that moves the seat backwards, and adjusts it all the way back before he’s able to take a seat at the wheel. And your yelling is a pestering he pays no mind to as he shuts the door.
“Wait– I didn’t give you permission to–” you shout as you step into your driveway, holding your arms out because you’re scared he’s gonna chip off your side mirror on the stern of his boat, but he deftly pulls your car into the driveway. He also almost runs you over in the process.
When he gets out of your car inside your garage, you storm right up to him and yank your car keys out of his hand. “You almost flattened me over my own driveway.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have been standing there,” he easily retorts and leans against your car before crossing his arms over his chest. “Also, case proven, there’s more than enough space to pull your car in. You’re just piss poor at parking.”
“I swear to fucking god. If you’re ever in a life-threatening emergency and wind up at my hospital, your emergency isn’t going to be the thing that kills you, it’s gonna be the cocktail of deadly meds I inject straight into your veins. And I’ll have it charted like it was a death of natural causes.”
His brow furrows and he frowns, but it’s in that sarcastic way that tells you he’s not threatened by you, and the idea of using the taser in your purse on him is briefly entertained in your mind, “I’ve got Kaiser, hun,” he says, “I wouldn’t go to just any regional hospital for healthcare. Put some damn decorum on my name, Jesus.”
“How is it you’re stupid, an asshole, have a sick fetish for elderly women, and also somehow classist at the same time? Can you pick a struggle please?”
“Stop saying I have a fetish for elderly women,” he hisses at you, “especially with that loud obnoxious voice of yours. Our neighbors are gonna think I’m a creep.” He pretends to shiver.
“But it’s true. I bet you lost your virginity to a fifty-year-old cougar the day you turned eighteen. And to one that was probably grooming you even before then, too.”
His eyes widen. “Damn. How’d you know.”
“That you’re a victim?” you ask, tone derisive, “your entire personality is living proof. Please seek help.”
He rolls his eyes. “I was never groomed, and I didn’t lose my virginity to an elderly woman,” he corrects you, “...although said woman was a little older than me.”
“I’ve literally got no fucking interest in this conversation anymore. Get the fuck out of my garage,” you practically spat at him, “the last thing I need to deal with after getting off of a 12-hour night shift is coming home to your stupid face out on the street.” You push past him, making sure to nudge him with your shoulder but he hardly budges, and you lose balance from your own attack, and now you’re doubly pissed off before you make it to the door with your keys jingling in your hand to find the right one to unlock it.
“Good night,” he calls out to you, and you click the button on the garage door so that it starts closing, and watch him as he panics before ducking his head underneath it to make it outside before you can essentially lock him to rot inside of your garage, and then you shut the door behind you, finally inside the comfort of your home.
Ah. Silence.
But it was never a comfortable one.
“Mom?” you call out as you open the door out of the laundry room to make it into the living room, and your eyes scan the floor. You don’t see her in the kitchen, or on the couch in front of the TV, sometimes she spends time in the pantry room but she’s not in there today. You round the corner over to where the front entrance of the house is, and you see her standing there, peering out of the window to the other houses on the streets. She holds her hands loosely behind her back, and she’s so still she could be a statue.
“Hey,” you say to her, softly, so as not to startle her. “I’m home.”
She looks over her shoulder at you, and you realize her line of sight was set to next door, where you see Gojo has resumed the wash of his car. “Why are you yelling at that sweet boy across the lawn?” she asks you, “he helped me fix the air conditioning last week.”
Your eyes widen slightly, but then you sigh. Typical Gojo getting involved where he should really just mind his own business. “I’m pretty sure by fix you mean he just pressed a bunch of buttons on the thermostat until it started working again.”
She doesn’t respond as she continues to stare out onto the street, tilting her head slightly while deep in thought, like she’s trying to make sense of what she sees.
“Mom,” you gently tug her sleeve, “I think you should get away from the window and get some rest. You look tired, and I need to take you for chemo in the afternoon.”
She gently pulls her elbow away from your grip of her sleeve and turns to look at you. “Mom?” she repeats after you, “why are you calling me ‘mom’? Who are you?”
Your blood runs cold from her words, but you don’t have the time or the luxury to react in the way that you want to, and so you suck in a deep breath. It was one of those days. But it’s cruel that she’ll remember your neighbor and not her own daughter. “I’m your daughter,” you gently reintroduce yourself, to the woman who gave you life, “I know that might be a little weird to hear right now.”
“No…” she says, “I think that makes sense. I’m sorry, dear, I think I have a bad memory these days.” She looks at you with concentration, studying the features of your face. “My daughter, yes. You look…oh, dear, you look like you should sleep.”
You nod slowly, releasing the breath you were holding. “Yes. You too, mom.”
You place your gigantic industrial lunch box on the kitchen counter, and come back to hold your mom’s hands as you lead her to her bedroom downstairs. By the time you fix her a small meal in the kitchen, bring it to her and make her eat so she can take her pills, she’s ready to take a small nap and you know that you’ve earned some sleep now too.
The upstairs master bathroom beckons you the second you get upstairs, and even though you’ve been using the master bedroom & bathroom in this house ever since moving your mom downstairs four years ago since she had trouble getting up the stairs, it still feels odd to stand in front of the sink without a stool underneath your feet, like what you had to when you were a kid and your mother would braid your hair. You’re a grown woman now, and as you stare at your reflection, you’re not sure if you can recognize yourself anymore. But rather than dwell on if it was because of any profound reason, you figured you just needed a shower and to get some sleep before you have to wake up again in five hours. Exhaustion is evident on your face, and you swipe under your eyes to get the smudge of mascara off before it tattoos your skin forever.
Hot water on your skin does little to help your drowsiness, but at least now you feel clean of your shift, and then you remember there are blood stains on your shoes from the stab wound patient that rolled in at 2AM last night, and you should really let them soak for a few hours while you sleep, but you just can’t bother right now. Instead, you slip into something comfortable, draw your curtains back to mimic the dead of night in your room as best as you can, grab the bottle of melatonin sitting at your nightstand and pop a few tablets, feeling feverish as you slip into your sheets. You pull the comforter up over your eyes, a decision that is less ideal than using a sleeping mask since you’ll be breathing your own carbon dioxide until you fall asleep now, but it’s okay. It’s cozy under your blanket. Just this once. And you count sheep to make you sleepy. At least until the melatonin beats you to it.
—
“You’re looking better,” Dr. Johnson says to your mother as he accesses the port on her chest, “were you able to get a good rest?”
Your mother nods and points to you. “My daughter made me take a nap.”
“That’s good,” he coos, “it’s good to get rest before chemo. Your daughter really cares about you.”
“I know,” your mother smiles up at you, “I’m so lucky.” You return her smile with one of your own.
Dr. Johnson starts to push the line of chemo into your mother’s port as she sits on the chair in the treatment lounge, and then stands up from his rolling chair before the nurse quickly moves to twiddle with the drip of the IV bag.
“Ready for consult?” he asks you.
You grip your binder to your chest. “Yeah.”
You walk into the doctor’s office, one you’ve more than familiarized yourself with over the past couple of years, then take a seat across from Dr. Johnson’s desk as he clicks through his computer before handing you a copy of your mother’s recent lab work.
“Her tumor markers are rising,” you say as you sift through the papers.
“They are, we’ll likely switch to monitoring them every four weeks going forward. But it’s okay, not to worry,” he says, “tumor markers can raise for all sorts of reasons unrelated to cancer.”
“She had a cold last week,” you say, “maybe it’s the inflammation?”
Dr. Johnson lets out a small laugh. “I’m sorry, y/n, sometimes I forget you’re a nurse.” He hums to himself as he pens down something on the notepad in front of him. “When was your mother’s last PET/CT scan?”
“It was in February,” you say, “she’s due soon. I was going to ask if you could order one for her.”
“Yes, I will, I’ll do it right now,” he says as he types something into the computer. “You still have the standing orders for her routine lab work, correct? Do my MAs need to send you the scripts?”
“No, that’s okay, I got them already. Good for six months,” you reassure him.
“Alright, perfect.”
There’s an awkward silence that settles in the room as you shift in your seat with the binder in your lap, full of all of your mother’s medical information and emergency department discharge packets and recent lab work and imaging. You mess with the plastic cover on top of it nervously.
“It’s good she remembers you today,” Dr. Johnson comments, “I remember last week you were upset she didn’t.”
“Oh,” you say, “yeah, I’m sorry. Sometimes it’s hard.”
His eyes leave his computer screen for a second to look at you. “Are you doing alright?”
You nod slowly. You had to be alright, you had no other choice. “I’m fine, thanks,” you say, “um, actually, doc, I just wanted to share with you that I’ve been keeping track of my mom’s Alzheimer’s progression.” You open your binder in your lap, pulling out a packet of papers and placing them on his desk, turning some of them towards him but he doesn’t really spare a proper enough look. “I’ve just been noticing she’s progressively worsening a bit faster than her neurologist had projected.”
“Okay,” he says, sounding curt, and that nervousness comes back. But goddammit, you’re a nurse, you know how to deal with stubborn doctors. And it’s for your mother. There was no one else left to advocate for her except you.
“I was just wondering if we could also order a brain MRI for her?” you ask, “just to rule out anything…her brain fog has been bad, worse than usual, and I’m just really worried about metastasis, especially if it’s a glioma, I’d just want to catch it as soon as possible.”
You have sympathy for oncologists, really, you do. They must deal with paranoid family members all the time, but how could someone blame another for wanting what’s best for their loved one? You don’t think that’s an empathy that anyone should ever lose, regardless of how long you’ve been practicing medicine.
He sighs. “There’s no indication for that right now, not with her response to treatment as well as her lab work. I’d suggest we just wait on her next PET/CT results, and we can go from there. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?”
“I know,” you say, “but her next scan isn’t for another couple weeks, plus the week it’ll take to have it read, it’ll be far out, so…if we could just order it now?”
He interlocks his fingers and places his hands in front of him on the desk, looking at you with a stern face, but he glances down at the paperwork you’ve sprawled in front of him with scribblings of all the detailed notes you’ve been taking of your mom’s responses to her Alzheimer’s treatments, with time stamps and descriptions of her mental state, and his furrowed brow relaxes slightly. He breathes in deep. “Alright. Fine, I’ll order one. I highly doubt we’ll find anything, though. But since there’s no clear clinical impression warranting a brain MRI right now,” he mentions as he directs his attention back to his computer, “I don’t think insurance will cover it for you with the diagnoses I put in.”
“That’s okay,” you quickly respond, “I’ll pay for it.”
You collect your imaging orders from the medical assistants at the center of the oncology floor. The chemo nurse, Mai, informs you that your mother still has about two hours left before her treatment is done, and she gently suggests you go eat something while you wait. You tell her it’s okay, that you want to wait with her, but she tells you the hospital cafeteria is serving tater tots today for tater tot tuesday, and those tater tots are to die for. But before you go downstairs to the cafeteria, you find a few minutes to cry in a one stall bathroom.
—
“God damn,” you hear your coworker, Hana, dreamily sigh as she leans on the handle on your standing mobile nursing work desk, and you trail her line of sight to the tight asses of the EMT men that walk by while rolling a stretcher. “It’s like being hot is a part of their job requirement.”
“Uh-huh,” you agree mindlessly as you try to catch up on charting for the rounds you just ran on your patients around the emergency department beds.
4/20/2024 0200: patient notified of the importance of taking ibuprofen. Attempted to give pt the medication. Pt responded “suck on this, bitch”, gestured to his general groin area, then threw ibuprofen tablets at RN. pt upset and requests narcotics instead. Informed MD of pt’s behavior and request. MD will not order narcotic pain medication at this time. Will continue to monitor
“How’s your mom doing?” Hana says, interrupting your typing as she turns to face you now.
“She’s okay,” you say, continuing to punch keys as you stare at your monitor, “she has a PET/CT soon. It’s always nerve wracking when the next scan is coming up.”
“Have you given hospice any more thought?” she asks.
You stop typing and stare blankly ahead at your screen as your heart sinks a little. You have given hospice more thought, and you came to the decision about a week ago that you would go through with it. It’s becoming so increasingly difficult taking care of your mom at home, more than you can manage with all of her doctor’s appointments, radiation appointments, chemotherapy appointments, all of which happen during the late mornings or early afternoons so you can’t even properly rest on most days that you come home from night shifts. Even though you only work three shifts a week, you can’t remember the last time you got a full, uninterrupted eight hours of sleep because of how messed up your circardian rhythm has become. You were practically a walking zombie, and you hardly felt like a person anymore. You’re not going to switch to the day shift, because that would make it difficult to take your mom to her appointments, and also because you get paid extra with the night shift differential, and above all other necessities, what you really needed right now the most was money. Forget the fact you’re still in debt from nursing school, but you co-signed on the medical loans your mother had taken out for treatments, and five years of high acuity medical bills was a living nightmare. And you were living that nightmare.
“I did,” you say, “I’ve been looking into hospices, but a lot of them are further away than I’d like.” You glance down at your keyboard. “I…I’m going to miss having my mom home. Even though it’s hard to deal with her mood swings and stuff sometimes, I just think the house would feel really empty without her.”
“Aw, my dear,” Hana sighs and rubs her hand up and down your arm soothingly, “I’m sure you’d love to have her home, but I think it’s becoming too much for you. I say this with love and care, but I can’t remember the last time I saw you genuinely smile.”
Your eyes widen slightly from her words, and you release some of the tension in your shoulders, tension you didn’t even realize you were holding onto during this conversation.
“It’s too much for just one person,” she continues, “while I understand you want to spend more time with your mom, the quality of time you’re spending with her could be so much better if you had some weight lifted off your shoulders, where you’re not worrying about her medication schedule or doctor’s appointments or blood draws and all that.”
You nod slowly and manage to give her a small smile, then place your hand over hers that was still soothing over your arm. “Thanks, Hana. I know, I appreciate you looking out for me. I…I think I’ll look more seriously into hospices. It’s just they’re really expensive, too, so I have that to consider as well.”
“Hmm,” she withdraws her hand from you and juts her bottom lip out as she looks up at fluorescent emergency department lighting. You hear a patient cough in the distance as your senses take in the ambient environment once again. “Y’know, there’s this really great new hospice in town that functions as a general facility and also helps manage a lot of chronic diseases too. They have nurses there that do blood draws and everything, and they also transport patients to their affiliated hospital for treatments, like dialysis and chemo and stuff. My friend’s mom has breast cancer and was recently accepted into that hospice,” she tells you, pulling her phone out and looking through some of her messages, “I think it’s only a fifteen minute drive from your house.”
You tilt your head at her with interest, wondering why it didn’t come up on your provider search through insurance, but regardless, it sounded too good to be true. “It’s probably really expensive. My mom’s under the state insurance right now, but I’ve explored government insurance plans too and they’re still really pricey. I just can’t afford it, not with all of her cancer treatments, and adding her under my insurance isn’t really going to be any better either.”
She groans. “I know. What’s with our healthcare plan? You’d think as a hospital, they’d choose better plans for their employees,” she sighs, and then stops to read some of the messages on her phone, “but my friend said that her husband was able to add her mom as a dependant, and his insurance covers 90% of it. I’m sure it depends on the illness, but they only pay a few thousand per month out of pocket.”
You blink at her. “Really? T-That’s insane…do you know what insurance her husband has?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a Kaiser facility.”
“Oh,” you sigh, “well, they wouldn’t accept state insurance. That’s a private HMO.”
“Shoot,” Hana looks at you apologetically, “I’m so sorry, love, I forgot about that. Sorry to get your hopes up.”
“That’s okay,” you smile at her, “thanks for trying. I’m glad it worked out for your friend, at least.”
Hana glances at her watch and realizes her break is over, so she heads back to her side of the emergency department, and you’re left standing at the nursing station with thoughts running through your head now, and still catastrophically behind on charting.
Hmm.
Kaiser.
You swear someone mentioned that to you recently.
Or maybe you were just remembering another one of those ads you see on television at night. No, no, you’re pretty sure it came up in conversation with someone, but you can’t remember when or why or what or where or who. Hmmmmm. Kaiser, Kaiser, Kaiser.
Nope. Nothing.
Oh well, maybe it’ll hit you later.
—
It hits you in the form of an intrusive memory when you wake up on a Thursday afternoon in a cold sweat after having a hallucinogenic melatonin dream where you were getting chased by a giant rabbit (don’t ask).
Kaiser.
Gojo said he has Kaiser insurance.
And the idea that comes into your head after that is so ridiculous, so absurd, so positively bonkers that you have to slap the sleepiness off your face for a second to make sure you’re still not in some dream state of living, and the harsh sting on your cheek proves that you’re not. And the idea still persists. And now you’re swinging your legs over the edge of your bed, and grabbing your laptop, and opening it, and inputting your pin, and then spending a good three hours researching if this little idea of yours actually has any good level of merit to it, if it could even succeed, if it was even legal? You even find yourself on the phone with insurance representatives, and you stare at the tens of thousands of dollars of debt on your Excel spreadsheet where you keep track of your finances, and you feel the exhaustion in your bones, and you also remember how fucking annoying Gojo is. And yet still, the idea persists.
And when the pieces of the plan start to unfortunately fall into place, you say, fuck it. What was worse than potentially getting into six figures of debt? It’ll be fine.
But you can only hope he says yes.
.
.
.
[reading commercial break]
hello!! this is ellie, the author. so sorry to interrupt, there is still a bit left for this chapter, but i just wanted to jump in here real quick to explain for some of my readers that may not be american so they may understand reader’s desperation to financially cover the costs of her mother’s healthcare bills. this story is set in suburban america lol, where the healthcare system is so messed up honestly, and this excerpt from the book the body by bill bryson kinda explains:
“Where America really differs from other countries is in the colossal costs of its health care. An angiogram, a survey by The New York Times found, costs an average of $914 in the United States, but only $35 in Canada. Insulin costs about six times as much in America as it does in Europe. The average hip replacement costs $40,364 in America, almost six times the cost in Spain, while an MRI scan in the United States is, at $1,121, four times more than in the Netherlands. The entire system is notoriously unwieldy and cost-heavy.” p360; “...America spends more on health care than any other nation–two and a half times more per person than the average for all other developed nations of the world. One-fifth of all the money Americans earn–$10,209 a year for every citizen, $3.2 trillion altogether–is spent on health care.” p359
unfortunately, a lot of how much you end up spending at the end of the day, depends significantly on the health insurance that you have. it could make the difference of spending a few hundreds to a few thousands to a few tens of thousands and beyond, just based on the insurance plan, even if the illnesses/treatments are exactly the same.
but yeah, just wanted to provide that context lol!! so you must understand reader’s desperation to save a buck!!!
ok back to regularly scheduled broadcasting!! 🧚♀️💕✨
[end of reading commercial break]
.
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—
You’re sitting at a table outside your favorite cafe in town, leg bouncing up and down underneath the surface impatiently and nervously, and you glance at the time on your phone for the fifth time within the past five minutes because you’re unable to alleviate any of the anxiety you’re experiencing right now. You hear the jingling of the cafe door behind you and then you’re a little startled when someone emerges in your periphery by your side.
You look up and see Gojo standing next to you, and you see he already went inside and grabbed a coffee to-go for himself.
“Hey,” he greets you.
“Hi,” you say with a small wave.
He takes a seat across from you. “What did you want to talk about?” he asks while he settles in and smooths down the fabric of his suit jacket. He’s not wearing a tie, and has a couple of the top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal some of the skin at his collarbone. Probably to seduce the divorced single moms, you think. “And if you called me here to try and convince me for the millionth time to pitch in for that fence you built six months ago, I’m just gonna say no again. I didn’t even want that fence built in the first place. It fucked up the roots on my avocado tree.”
“It’s a joint fence. Neighbors usually pitch in for that kind of stuff, asshole. At least normal neighbors do. You know I talked shit about you to everyone in the neighborhood when you refused to pay and all of them agree that you’re being a stuck-up prick about it?”
“You know that I also talked shit about you to everyone in the neighborhood and they said the same exact thing about you?”
“Wha–” you gasp, blinking a few times from the betrayal, then mutter “...those two-faced bitches” under your breath.
“So,” he pulls his sleeve back to glance at his watch, “what did you want? I’ve only got thirty minutes to talk before I need to head to an open house.” He brings his cup of coffee to his lips.
“Oh. Right. Just a favor,” you say, “I was wondering if you could marry me.”
He almost spits out his coffee.
“E-Excuse me?” he croaks out, exasperated, and he’s coughing a little bit as he hits his chest with a fist to alleviate the irritation in his throat from some hot coffee that went down the wrong pipe.
“I mean, if it’s not an issue, I’d really appreciate it if you could marry me,” you attempt to clarify, but you realize you probably should’ve thought a little more about how you were going to ask him this, and now you’re too deep to backtrack, so you just hope you’ll find the conversation along the way.
He’s looking at you like you’ve got six heads, brow furrowed and mouth hanging open slightly with that what the fuck? face you see him wear sometimes. But then he sits up a bit straighter, expression morphing into a curious one as he studies your face, head tilting a little in his scrutinization. Then, his face relaxes entirely. He has this knowing look as he nods up and down slowly, like he just figured something out, and then he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose in some type of faux frustration. And you don’t understand why you’re already seethingly angry about what he’s going to say next.
“Oh god,” he sighs, “I knew this day would come.”
“Huh?” you squeak out.
“Listen,” he says as he crosses his arms, but one of his hands comes out from where it was tucked in his elbow to waive around in the air as he articulates his words, “I know that I’m very charming, and handsome, and chivalrous, one might say the modern knight in shining armor–”
“Satoru.”
“–and yes, I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he dramatically sighs, “when I’m taking the groceries up the driveway…when I’m out mowing the lawn…when I stretch on the sidewalk before I go for a run. I feel your eyes on me like a hawk. Quite frankly, you look at me like I’m a piece of meat, and I feel very violated by it sometimes–”
“What the fuck are you talking about???”
“But I get it. Really, I do. There’s no need to be embarrassed about it–”
“I’m not embar–”
“It was really only a matter of time before you would do this. So overcome by your feelings for me that you just had to go against the grain of centuries of matrimonial standards and swallow your gigantic pride to propose to me.”
“Oh my god, what the fuck are you saying–”
“But,” he says, collecting himself now, and taking in a deep breath, “my answer is no. I mean, I shouldn’t have to explain why. But I will. First of all, where the hell is my ring? Secondly, why aren’t you on one knee in front of me right now? Also, in a cafe? Really? I thought you would’ve known I’d have liked something a little bit more romantic than this. Y’know, private, but also where my family’s somewhere around the corner. Maybe by the beach–”
“Can you stop talkin–”
“–while the sun is setting, and I’m wearing a nice dress, and there’s bubbles in the air and rose petals on the sand, and you tell me how enamored you’ve always been of me, and how you can’t wait to spend the rest of your life with me,” he indulgently sighs, “I mean, it’s every guy’s dream. But nooooo, of course you’ve got no taste or sense for romance in any capac–”
“OH MY FUCKING GOD, FORGET THIS,” you stand up out of your chair, fast enough to where it almost falls backwards, and you grab your purse to sling over your shoulder, “I cannot believe I actually thought this plan would ever fucking work.” You’re about to walk away from the table, because you’re realigned with the wisdom of exactly why you can’t stand this man, when his hand reaches out quickly to grasp onto your wrist, to keep you still, and you jump a little from the contact. You look down, his hand unrelenting in its grip as his knuckles flex slightly, and you’re not sure if he’s ever touched you from how foreign the sensation feels.
“Wait,” he says, and when you look at him, his eyes are a little wide like a puppy, “you’re being serious?”
You yank your wrist out of his grip, but the warmth of his touch still lingers, and you wrap your own hand around it to distract yourself from it. “Why would I just ask you to marry me out of nowhere if I wasn’t being serious?”
He gives you a look like the answer to your question is obvious. “Uh, to fuck with me?”
You’re still holding onto your wrist, protectively pressing it against your chest with your back turned away from him slightly, and you look up at the sky for a brief second. Hm, perhaps you could have brought the favor up a bit better, and you realize it might’ve sounded insane on his end, and you’re also still thinking about the tens of thousands of dollars you could save if he said yes, and so you hesitantly open your body language up to him again.
“Just sit,” he sighs.
You take a seat across from him again, hands finding the warm coffee cup in front of you and you purse your lips together before tucking your bottom lip under your front teeth. You take a deep breath before speaking again. “I…I’m being serious. I was wondering if you could marry me as a favor, and not because I think you’re some type of irresistible man candy, god, where do you get your gigantic ego from?”
“I–”
“Rhetorical question, shut it.”
He blinks at you. “What favor are you asking for that’ll be satisfied by me marrying you?”
You twiddle with your thumbs. “I want to put my mom in hospice,” you say, eyes flickering down slightly because you’re worried you’re about to tear up from the words, but when you realize you’ve got enough conviction not to, you look back up at him, and his eyes on you are a little too observant, “most of the hospices in town are further away than I’d like, and really expensive, but I heard there was a Kaiser one nearby…and that a lot of the costs are covered by insurance. So, if you married me, I could send my mom there. And also, under your insurance, the care network would be better, so I could get her a new oncologist and neurologist, and I’d know she’s being taken care of. And…” you clear your throat, “well, it’ll be a lot less expensive, so I can start to catch up on…well, whatever, you get the picture.”
His eyes narrow at you in thought, and he glances at your hands on the table that are nervously fidgeting, and then his eyes meet yours again. “I’m not sure if you can add a…spouse’s parent to a healthcare plan?”
“You can,” you say, “I already called to ask.”
“Oh.”
“Mhm.”
Gojo hums to himself, laying his palms flat on his thighs and rubbing them back and forth on the taut fabric a few times as he thinks with his gaze set off somewhere in the distance. It seems like he’s running through some algorithm of thoughts in his head, and then he slowly nods to himself when he’s made a decision.
“Sure, I’ll do it,” he says.
“Y-You will?” you ask him. You’re uneasy at how easy it was to convince.
“Yeah. I like your mom. She’s a sweet lady, and I want to see her get better.”
His words touch you. And not from the distance of a ten foot pole like you’d usually allow, but more intimate somehow. And you get the feeling you should thank him, but you’re still pissed off from when he almost ran you over on your own driveway earlier this week.
“Really?” you make sure, almost like you’re hoping he’ll change his mind because now you’re suspicious as to why he agreed so quickly. And you realize he’s already making you paranoid.
“Yeah. I’m saying yes to your proposal, y/n,” he says, “I mean, a marriage is just a legal agreement. Not a big deal. I’d want a prenup though, for obvious reasons. In case you’re a gold digger.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re too cheap to even pitch in for a fucking fence. You think I’d believe you’ve got any gold to dig?”
He sighs. “I said in case.”
“Well, anyways, we can work out logistics and paperwork or whatever later,” you say, and you extend your hand out for him to shake it.
He raises an eyebrow at you. “Um. You’re going to make me shake your hand over this?”
“Yeah,” you shrug, “it’s the diplomatic thing to do.”
“Yes,” he says, “for a diplomatic agreement.”
“Precisely,” you say. “That’s exactly what this is.”
He hesitantly brings his hand up to shake yours, but you quickly withdraw yours at the last second. “Nevermind. I don’t want to touch you.”
“Okay,” he easily accepts, “not how I expected to celebrate getting engaged, but whatever. By the way, when’s the wedding? Are we doing, like, a shotgun destination type vibe? Or something a bit more grand?”
“Just be at the courthouse at noon on Sunday.”
“What?! This weekend? That’s too soon,” he panics, “I need time to pick out a dress, and I need to figure out who my bridesmaids are going to be, and–”
“Satoru. Seriously. Just–...just shut the fuck up. Before the headache that you’ve already given me gets worse.”
You two sit in silence for a moment, him just mindlessly staring at a butterfly that landed on the plant at the center of the table, and you just stare off into the void past him while contemplating every life decision you’ve ever made. But that’s how it always was between you two. As much as you hated to admit it, you were jealous of him in a lot of ways. In every way that you were fucked up, he was nonchalant without a care in the world. You wish you knew what that sort of peace felt like, and you wondered if he could show you. Maybe someday when he doesn’t piss you off.
“So,” he interrupts your thoughts, “are you gonna take my last name?”
“Fuck no, I’d rather die.”
“Alright, jeez, I was just asking.”
.
.
.
[end of chapter 1]
a/n. yayy!!! he said yes!! omg congrats on ur engagement!!
haha this was a lot of fun to writeee :'') i've got sm fun ideas for this fic. yea this chap was supposed to be longer lol there's still some groundwork to lay w the side quests, but will def cover more of that in the next chapter!!! tysm to everyone that wanted to be on taglist omg i hope that you enjoyed <33 love uuu guysss smmmm
also my bad if some stuff doesnt make sense i'm tryna be less perfectionist when i'm editing so that i don't go insane 😍
ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)
ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.
ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s
ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!
ᰔ chapter. 4/x
ᰔ words. 10k (omg a whole number...very sexy)
a/n. hellooo my ihm friends! hope you're all doing well. ahh i'm glad to finally be posting this chapter lolol. it's a littleee off tangent from what happens in ch3, but still has some important plot developments. it does dive into feelings of depression & anxiety, so just wanted to give a warning on that! but yea other than that i hope you enjoy and see you at the bottom!! :) also so sorry if there are errors i only had time to skim through it once :((
nav. ch1 :: ch2 :: ch3 :: ch4 :: ch5 (pending)
“Just go ahead and sign right here for me.”
You take the pen from the hospice nurse’s hand. It’s cheap black plastic with a pink fuzzy pom pom attached to the end of it with peeling glue.
Your eyes briefly flit across the paragraphs detailed in printed ink until your gaze lands on the highlighted lines at the bottom of the page. Your signature. Spouse’s signature.
“We’ll need to have your husband come here to sign the paperwork as well, since he’ll have to add your mother on his list of dependents, but we can certainly get started on expediting this process for you since the insurance has already been pre-approved,” the nurse tells you as she accepts your signed paperwork and then neatly tucks it into one of the compartment holders.
The afternoon goes by smoothly, with your mother surprisingly patient as she sits in the waiting room while you wait for the nurses to formally show you to her new room.
You thought that you could put off putting her in hospice for a little longer, because in all honesty, you weren’t prepared to let her go just yet. You weren’t prepared to not have her in the house anymore. But lately, she’s been putting herself in lots of danger, like attempting to take her own medications when she does not know the correct dosing, and forgetting things on the stove when she attempts to cook.
But the last straw was when you came home from a very brief run to the grocery store at night a couple days ago to see a handful of your neighbors out on the front lawn with your mother at their side. She had apparently gotten out of the house and walked down the neighborhood, then fallen on the sidewalk but was unable to get up. When your neighbors had found her, a miracle as they were just coming home from dinner and caught sight of her in the illumination of their headlights, they tried to help her get up but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even tell the firefighters that came by to help her what her name was, or what year it was, or where she lived.
It was when you realized you couldn’t even keep her safe anymore that you had to let go.
“Is that a wedding ring?” your mother asks, pointing a trembling finger to it as she lays tucked inside her new hospice bed, “are you married?”
You glance down at the ring Gojo gave you in the courthouse, almost surprised to find that you were still wearing it in good faith. “Yes, mom. I am.”
“Why am I here?” she asks you, “I don’t want to be here.”
You stiffen a little. Although you were mentally preparing yourself to answer these questions, the preparation didn’t make it any easier. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just for a little short while, okay? The doctors want to run some tests on you.”
“Who are you married to?” she asks.
“To Satoru,” you tell her, “our neighbor.”
She lets out a small gasp. “The sweet boy who fixed our A/C?”
You roll your eyes. not sure why your mother has hyper fixated on that memory with Gojo when most days she’ll look at you like you’re a stranger. “Yes mom.”
“Oh, I like him,” she tells you with an affectionate nod. She hesitates slightly, wearisome of some other thought that flashes through her mind. “How long have you been married?”
You let out a small sigh. This is already a conversation you had with her a couple days ago, and it doesn’t feel good to lie to her. It was hard enough to do once, but to have to constantly lie to her over and over again over all the smallest things just so that she stays calm and safe and happy seems to drain you of all your energy and happiness you had left in your bones.
Little white lies, that’s what they are. Harmless ones. That’s what you tell yourself to absolve yourself of the guilt.
“I’ll come back soon, okay? I’ll tell you more about him some other day,” you say to her, speaking gently in the way an adult would speak to a child. The way she used to speak to you. You could never exactly pinpoint when those roles became reversed.
You finish discussing some more insurance matters with the front-desk nurse as she puts together a small folder of documents for you. While she works, you glance at the little counter shelf that includes a plethora of pamphlets on how to deal with the complicated feelings that arise from putting a loved one in hospice care, and dealing with the emotions of having a relative with advanced stage dementia. They are pretty brochures, lovingly creased at the folds as if looked through multiple times by people who walk in and out of this facility, but seemingly only few take them home. You slip one of each into your folder when the nurse hands it to you, manage the best smile possible, and then turn on your heel to head out the hospice doors.
The sun is setting outside as you take the walk back to your car, which was purposefully parked a half mile away to afford you the luxury of a melancholic stroll. Somehow, you feel like you’ve left a piece of yourself back at the hospice. A feeling you can’t quite shake from your bones.
Your feet stop walking somewhere along the sidewalk on their own, the street lights above you flickering brighter into life as the sky is now a dusty gray with only streaks of purple. There’s a liquor store you spot across a small parking lot to your right, and you’re guided towards it, but not without a sickening feeling in your chest.
When you open the door, the bell at the top jingles, and you glance to the right where you see a lanky young man playing some sort of shooter game on his phone by the cash register. You grab a bottle of vodka, a bottle of white wine, some packs of skittles, one of the mini pizza boxes at the hot food station, and then dump it all onto the counter.
The young man scans all your items without even so much as sparing you a glance, but does take a look at your ID, then says, “Total’s $68.65, cash or card?”
“Card.”
Just before you tap your card, something displayed behind the cashier counter catches your eye. Something familiar, something tempting, something you weigh in your head about twenty times within one millisecond all due to the cortisol coursing through your veins and you eventually say, “Uh, and could I get one of those, too?”
The cashier looks behind himself to what you’re pointing at before turning around. “Sure.”
The same jingle is heard on top of your head as you leave the store, now with a burning hot mini pizza box in your hand as well as a plastic bag that carries your candy and the two clinking bottles of alcohol.
“Oh!! omg, y/n,” you hear a feminine voice call out and you’re instantly wincing. The last thing you wanted was to be bothered right now. You just wanted to go home and get drunk and then pass out on the floor of your living room. But alas, the world is small.
You turn around to see Hana come running across the sidewalk lot towards you, and when she’s about a few feet away, she glances down at your hands and all the things you were carrying. You quickly shove your last-minute purchase into your jacket pocket with a shameful conscience, and try to hide the plastic bag of liquor behind your calves. There was no hiding the pizza box, but at least that was the least incriminating.
“Oh, Hana, wow! What a coincidence seeing you here,” you say to her, pressing your lips into a small smile.
“Yeah, I um,” she points over her shoulder towards the hospice that’s standing tall in the darkness of night, cells with windows illuminated with light. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was a prison. “Remember I told you my friend’s mom is sick and she’s at this hospice?”
“Yeah,” you say.
“I was just visiting her mom with her,” she tells you.
“Aw,” you comment, “I see, I see.”
You adore Hana, you really do. She was there for you when the whole Yuna and Choso thing went down, picking your shifts up for a good week when you couldn’t stomach going into work when your ex-best friend’s stupid face was gloating in the halls over how she stole your boyfriend. Hana was there for you when you were a new hire and all the doctors were being bitchy about a “newbie in the ED”, but she stood up for you, even cussed the fuck out of one of attendings for the whole hall to hear when you were being disrespected by one of them. She’s someone you can beam about how hot the EMT and Firefighter men that stroll into the ED are, too. A priceless companion.
And even though you two have hung out after hours sometimes, it was still always a little awkward to see a coworker outside of work.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I actually, um, was going to tell you at our shift tomorrow, but I just admitted my mom to the hospice too,” you say, “and…thanks a lot for telling me about it. I really appreciate it. It seems like a wonderful facility.”
Her eyes briefly widen with surprise before they soften once again. “Oh, that’s wonderful, love. I hope all goes well. And your little insurance scam worked! Good for you!”
“Shhh,” you hiss at her, looking around yourself with paranoia, “the feds are everywhere.”
She laughs, sweet in the air, before the sound settles and she looks at you with something reminiscent of well-intentioned concern. Her eyes flit to the plastic bag you were still holding behind your legs. “Hey…um, if…if you ever want some company when you come to visit your mom, just let me know. I hope you know you don’t have to do everything alone.”
You blink at her, sucking in a short breath to respond, but it only leaves you as a slight puff of air. There’s a silent gratitude that you give her, because it’s hard for you to express any feelings with words, but you’ve found that the people in your life who know you best can always read you without them.
“Thank you, Hana,” you manage to say with a slight croak to your voice because you were fighting back tears.
She smiles at you. “Take care, okay? And see ya tomorroooowwwwww,” she coos at you, coming up to you to give you a small hug, a squeeze of your upper arm, and then she heads back towards the direction of the hospice.
You watch her walk away until you can’t see her anymore. And then you head towards your car.
When you arrive at your neighborhood, you park in front of Gojo’s house. You have a feeling that you won’t be able to bear the vast emptiness of your home now that your mother is elsewhere, and so you drag your feet up the stone stairs of his house with a heavy heart instead.
The spare key that he gave you weakly pushes into the keyhole with about as much force as your fingers can manage, and you realize they almost feel atrophied.
The house is dark when you step inside, spare for the ambient street lights shining through cracked open blinds on the windows, and the curtains rustle gently from the draft of the AC, a chill that reaches you too by the time you make it to the staircase.
It doesn’t seem like Gojo’s home. A glance at the clock tells you it’s close to 8pm. You briefly consider texting him to ask where he’s at, why he’s out so late, when he’ll be home, and what’s for dinner, but you can’t even bring yourself to pull your phone out of your coat pocket.
Weak legs manage to take you upstairs and you’re about to pass through to your room when the slightly open door to the master bedroom taunts you, like a peephole into some other wordly dimension. Like the wardrobe in the chronicles of Narnia. A portal into your fake husband’s life.
With a palm pushing on the door, you slowly crack it open, and you know the anxious voices in your head are getting worse by the day when the creaking of the door hinges sounds like a lullaby to you.
Was this an invasion of privacy? And did you really care if it was?
The room is big, with a king sized bed off to the left, sheets neatly made and duvet primly tucked under, like the way hotel beds are set up. You feel a slight flush of embarrassment when you remember you haven’t been making your bed in the mornings for the past couple days you’ve been living here so far, and you wonder if Gojo would judge you for something like that. If he’d think you were a messy or undisciplined person. If he would think less of you.
Truthfully, in a lot of ways, you still felt like a child. You barely weathered a lot of your formative adolescent years when dealing with your parents’ divorce, and you’ve had to put so much of your life on pause to take care of your mom ever since she got diagnosed. So here you were, in the body of a 29-year-old woman, yet still feeling so painfully juvenile. One that forgets to make her bed in the mornings, and on most nights can’t seem to stomach anything other than cereal for dinner. It was like you were still at a party that everyone else had left, except all it ever was is hell. Your life was such a stark contrast to the lives of other adults you’ve come across. The ones that wake up at six to go on runs, the ones that have paid off mortgages with five figures in their retirement accounts, oh god, the ones that meal prep, and the ones that, all things considered, have their lives together. The ones that don’t spend at least an hour of every day, in fetal position on their bed, sobbing until tears soak through the sheets of the pillow down to the feathers like bone, because you’re so overwhelmed with stress and preparing yourself for the grief of losing your mother which you know that, no matter how hard you try to save her from, will inevitably one day come.
You used to cook dinner every night, make your bed every morning, and go to pilates on the weekends. Back when you were a little younger and healed and excited to live life. But now, you barely get by. Your priorities are with your mother. You can’t remember the last time you did anything nice for yourself, including something as simple as the luxury of getting to come home to a clean house because you hardly ever had time to clean it, not with all the doctor’s appointments you were driving your mother to, not with all the extra shifts you were picking up at the hospital to pay off your debt, not with all the times you felt too depressed to even get out of bed.
But your mother is in hospice now, so you’ve made time, right? You’ve made the decision that everyone in your life has been begging you to finally do. So why do you still feel so empty inside?
By a quick survey of the room, you notice Gojo doesn’t really have many framed photos hung up on the walls or perched up on surfaces. None, actually. Only a contemporary painting above his bed frame and then a faded vintage horror movie poster plastered up near his desk. Not terribly odd, since in your experience most men don’t really do the whole “cluttering the house with millions of photos of their family” thing until they at least have a couple of kids and some purebred dog. The thought of Gojo someday setting up a little portrait photo at his desk with his wife’s—his eventual real forever wife’s, pretty face in it, posing with their two beautiful kids, makes an oddly melancholic feeling waft through you. You wonder if he would keep a two-by-two in his wallet, too.
Your feet move one in front of the other as your finger traces the surface wood of a dresser cabinet, something that looks a little vintage and oaky, in stark contrast to the modern minimalist vibe Gojo has set up in the rest of the room. A family heirloom, maybe? There’s no dust that coats your finger, which surprises you. If you were to run your finger across your dresser at home you’d have collected enough dust to snort down your windpipes like a recreational drug. But Gojo’s a real estate agent, making a living off of dressing houses up in perfect cosplay so that monetarily stable middle class families feel inclined to buy them. So you’re not exactly surprised he’s invested in keeping his own house in pristine condition too.
There is a little bit of chaos, though. Like the shirt he has haphazardly hung over his chair at his office space over to the right. There’s a coffee mug sitting there too, porcelain and reflecting the moon light off, but upon peering inside you see that it’s half empty with stale coffee. He’s got pens sprawled across the desk, in a fashion that suggests he accidentally knocked them over in a rush, and slowly, like some grounding exercise, you place them one by one back into the paper mache pencil holder. It briefly occurs to you that he has a lot of paper mache containers of sorts around the house. You lift up the pencil cup, turning it in your hand until your eyes catch something written on it with glittery pink gel pen.
i luv u unkle toru! -yur BEST FREND 4EVUR juno!!! :D
A small smile makes it onto your face. The handwriting was messy, more like scratches than smooth lines, and nothing less than what you would expect of a child. You remember making paper mache and clay trinkets at preschool for your mom and dad when you were younger. And you’re sure if you were brave enough to open the box of memorabilia that sits in your attic some day, you’d see your own scratchy scribbled handwriting on them. An innocence that is long gone and buried, never again to be delicately placed on desks or counters for all the living.
The draft from the AC reaches you once again, brushing over your skin and causing a chill to shiver down your spine. It kicks at the curtains as well, causing them to ruffle up towards you, baring the dark outside world into the streets. And you notice in that momentary glance that there’s a roof just outside the window that overlooks the backyard. A roof? Spotted by a depressed woman going through a quarter life crisis? There was nothing more tempting than that.
The window was easy to open, which only caused unease over the revelation of how easy it would be for someone to rob this house. You make a mental note to tell Gojo to get a ring camera or security system of some sort since he doesn’t seem to have one, but you can already picture him telling you something about how statistically low the crime rates are in this neighborhood compared to all the other neighborhoods, and then you’d tell him that it’s just for your peace of mind. But whether he’d compromise or not after that, you’re really not sure.
You take a seat on the roof, a little scared as you sit because of the slight slope, but it’s comfortable once you’re settled. You sit criss-cross-apple-sauce, staring out into the neighborhood of perfectly lined up suburban houses. You’ve got a better view into some neighbors' backyards, noticing that a couple of them had pools while some of them have big gardens. There's a cat resting up on a fence in the distance. A car drives by with headlights illuminating everything in its proximity briefly before zooming off. You glance up at the sky, and notice the full moon, but it’s too cloudy to see any stars. Or perhaps it was just the light pollution from the lamps making it difficult to see.
On instinct, your hand reaches inside your coat pocket for your phone, but your knuckles hit something else instead. A moment of brief confusion flickers through your head, but then you immediately recall the last-minute purchase you made at the gas station.
Your hand pulls out the object, and then you stare down at it. Squinting your eyes a little, because it’s a sight that feels familiar but also one you haven’t seen in so long: a pack of twenty Marlboro red cigarettes.
You’ve tried a lot of things to manage your stress over the years. Excessively working out, eating a lot of sugar, going on six hour hikes to touch grass, flirting with random men at bars, fucking Choso until he was rendered speechless, multiple types of antidepressants, you almost tried smoking weed once with your roommate in college but you wimped out last second. But the habit that had gotten you through the years of 21 to 24 is held loosely in your hand right now. It’s been five years since you quit, but resolve was often a fickle thing. As the saying goes, once an addict, always an addict.
There’s a brief moment of hesitation as you slowly peel the plastic off of the back, but then it all comes back to you like a reflex you’ll never forget up to where you slide a cigar up out and then pinch it between your two fingers. Forgetting to buy a lighter with the cigarettes is definitely something you would do, but because you remembered it was something that you would do, you remembered not to do it. The flick of the flame coming to life is ASMR you didn’t know you were painfully nostalgic for, and you balance the cigarette between your lips in that sort of movie-star way people used to obsess over back in the day. But just as you bring the lighter up to the end of the cigarette, and just before you can light it—
A hand shoots out in your periphery, grabbing your wrist and entirely stalling the movement.
You gasp, lips parting enough for the cigarette to fall from them and into your lap. The hand wrapped around your wrist is large and masculine, and you briefly consider screaming, but when you snap your neck to look at the perpetrator, you see Gojo crouched down next to you on this roof. You notice he’s wearing a black suit, a tie that was loosely secure hanging from his neck into the space between his spread thighs as he’s crouched, and whatever gel he had in his hair from earlier only barely remains as strands fall over his forehead haphazardly. He looks like he’s on the other end of a long work day.
You blink at him, expression plastered with surprise, but his is only earnest. With breathtaking blue eyes that you realize he could easily use to surrender a person just by looking at them, like the way he’s looking at you right now. His lips are pressed together into a firm line, as if to suppress some emotion, but the slight crease to his brow makes you feel like you’re in trouble somehow. Like he was silently scolding you for something.
“I—” you stutter.
He lets go of your wrist and discreetly pulls the lighter out of your hand. And then his hand reaches for the pack of cigarettes you were balancing on your knee, but on some reflex that you don’t even think about, you try to snatch them away from him, and now you’re both tugging at the same pack of cigarettes.
“y/n,” he says, “let go.”
“No,” you say stubbornly.
He sighs and tugs a little harder. “Give them to me.”
“But—” you stammer, voice becoming softer to see if that’d work on him, “I’m…” Your grip on them tightens. “I’m stressed.”
He raises an eyebrow at you, then finally loses his patience and snatches them right out of your hand. He stands up from his crouched down position to toss the pack off to the side onto the roof somewhere. You’re surprised when he lets out a sigh and sits down next to you on the roof, as if he felt the obligation to. His legs stretch out in front of him, but still bent slightly at the knees, and he leans backwards with his body weight braced on his palms laid flat on wood paneling behind him. “There are better ways to relieve stress,” he tells you candidly.
“Like what?” you ask, and just when he opens his mouth to speak, you clarify, “and don’t say sex.”
He shuts his mouth and his eyes flit up to the sky for a brief second. “Damn. I didn’t have a back-up answer.”
You roll your eyes, releasing a deep breath, then draw your knees to your chest before resting your chin on top of them.
“I didn’t know you smoke,” he says after a century-long minute.
You wince a little, because you were half hoping he was going to just drop the subject all together.
You bite your lip nervously and hug your knees to your chest tighter as if to hide yourself from him. “I don’t. Well, I haven’t. Um, not for a while.”
“Huh. I see,” he says.
Another silence passes, and as he shuffles next to you, the fabric of his suit brushes against the fabric of your coat, and you’ve become entirely too aware of the feeling.
“So,” he says, breaking the awkward silence, “your mom’s in hospice now?”
You nod, enthusiastic enough to where you won’t look like you’re entirely depressed about it.
“That’s good,” he says, “no issues with the insurance?”
You shake your head. “They need you to sign some papers by the end of the week though,” you tell him. “We’ll have to go in person.”
He nods slowly to affirm he’ll make time for it. “I really hope things get better for your mom,” he says, voice soft as he stares off into neighbors homes like you had been doing ten minutes ago. You see the cat that was resting on the fence get up, do a big stretch, and start walking along the length of the fence. Your eyes briefly glance at Gojo, and you notice his gaze is tracing the cat’s path.
“My—” you start, hesitant all of a sudden by the vulnerability you already feel swelling within you, most definitely due to sitting with someone on a rooftop late at night, but you decide that you’ll be nice to him for once, “…my mom seems to remember you a lot. More than she remembers me.” You let out a small humoring laugh, as if that fact doesn’t completely destroy you. “She was blabbering to me again for the seventh time about how you apparently fixed our AC.” You try to bite your tongue, but can’t help it when you say, “although I’m pretty sure you just pressed a bunch of buttons until it started working again.”
“Yup. That’s exactly what I did.”
You roll your eyes and sigh.
Another awkward silence.
“Can I ask you a question?” you say.
“Sure.” His voice sounds deeper, like he’s sleepy.
“Why did you agree to marry me? That’s not something people just do out of nowhere.”
He glances over at you, and you flicker your eyes to him. “Why? Having regrets?” he teases, with a slight nudge of his elbow to your side.
“Just answer me.”
He lifts his palms up from behind him and leans forward, placing his hands on his knees instead. “I don’t know. If something I could do would help someone out that much, I wasn’t going to say no.”
You hum quietly, still confused by his intentions. But you’re too jaded to question them.
“It costs nothing to be nice,” he adds.
You run soothing circles over your thigh through the fabric of your jeans. For some reason, your mind wanders to Choso. Thinking of all the years you wasted staying with him even though you knew his affections were long gone, just because you didn’t want to break his heart. Only to realize that you never had that privilege in the first place.
“I think,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you draw your knees closer to your chest, “that sometimes it does.”
A gust of autumn wind breezes by, ruffling the trees that the two of you are at eye-level with at the moment. You're pretty sure you’ve completely lost Gojo’s interest at this point, where he’s finally too tired to deal with your oddly cryptic attitudes and overall generally displeasing vibe, assuming this based solely on his prolonged silence beside you. You’re ready for him to get up and abandon you here on this roof, left to ponder every single thing you’ve done wrong in your life. It was any second now.
“Sometimes,” he instead speaks up, and it’s so surprising to you that you jolt a little bit, “you can do everything right, and people will still find a way to fuck you over. But I don’t think that’s any reason to stop being nice to others.”
You glance over at him, your eyes widening slightly, but he just continues to peer off straight into the night. His blinks are slow, lingering on being closed for a moment before he opens them again, and you’re mesmerized by the sight. The skin under his eyes is slightly dark from exhaustion, heavy with character that makes you aware that he’s just a person too. And for what feels like the tenth time this week, you realize that he’s—…handsome. And for what feels like the tenth time this week, your heart flutters in your chest.
He scoffs suddenly and dusts his hands off. “I sound like a fucking youth pastor.” He lets out an exhale before suddenly standing up onto his feet before you can think more on it. He looks off into the night again and lets out another exhale that sounds more like a sigh this time. “God, it’s getting a lot colder these days. Might have to start running the heater.”
You blink up at him with no commentary to add.
He looks down at you. His face is relaxed, but you can tell those eyes are distracted. A shimmering blue ocean in its own world while he attempts to stay present in this one.
He holds his hand out to you, and you stare at it blankly like you’ve got no clue what he intends for you to do with it. But you finally take the hint and curl your hand around his palm so that he can pull you up onto your feet too.
You stumble a little, falling forward from the sudden blood flow to your brain, but he holds you steady by the strong grip of his hands on your elbows. He’s close to you, close enough to where you can smell the faint lingering scent of his cologne. Something different than that expensive one he wore to the courthouse, but it’s comforting somehow. A fragrance that’s more him. And you feel nervous as you look up at him underneath pale moonlight.
He lets go of your elbows. You feel cold from the loss of his touch. But his right hand moves to gently hold your left hand in his palm, holding it curled as his thumb barely grazes the stone you wear on your ring finger; the one he gave you.
The way his thumb prods at the silver band is like he’s inspecting its quality, as if it has to pass some test to be worthy of sitting on your finger. Or maybe just any finger, if you were to quell the delusion. You’re not sure if he’s satisfied with his inspection.
“Where did you get it—” you blurt out.
His gaze flickers up to your face briefly before he’s back to examining the ring. “It was my mom’s.”
Your mouth gapes slightly in shock, heart dropping a little in your chest, and all of a sudden you feel guilty. Guilty that he put his mother’s ring on your finger for something that was fake, something that was essentially a business deal, something exchanged to you out of fraud when it was a precious family heirloom that should be exchanged with love. And maybe he didn’t care about it much, some people don’t care about the sentiments of objects. But your mind thinks of the oaky vintage dresser in his room, so out of place in the aesthetic of its surroundings, a decision you can only imagine him of all people, mr. “everything in this house has to look like an IKEA catalog”, would do if the dresser held some importance to him that was more than meets the eye. And so you’re compelled to think that maybe this ring did, too.
“Why would you give me this?! You could’ve just gotten a cheap fake diamond ring from a pawn shop and called it a day,” you ask him, suddenly feeling burdened by it.
“Well I wasn’t exactly given much time to think of other options.”
“But—” you start, only to realize you have no counter arguments for that.
He lets out a huh noise, like the sound someone makes when they’re pleasantly surprised by something, as he looks down at your hand that he still held in his. “It’s kinda crazy that it fits you perfectly. I wasn’t sure.”
Your mind wanders to when he slipped the ring onto your finger in the courtroom, followed by the kiss. Soft, sweet, the lingering warm sensation of his palm on your cheek as he cupped your face, the same way those heartthrob actors do in all those romance movies and kdramas that you watch on Friday nights while snuggled up in a blanket, wondering when anyone will ever kiss you like that. You remember the ghost sensation of his hand hovering over the small of your back, fingers lightly grazing the nape of your neck, his frame blocking out everything around you as he kissed you, just to pull away and for the two of you to then pretend like it never happened, as if it wasn’t one of the sweetest kisses you’ve ever known.
You slowly pull your hand out of his, the moment feeling too tender for your liking, and you clear your throat before flitting your eyes up to his.
“Rule #1,” you remind him with a soft whisper, “no touching.”
You purse your lips, watching his round eyes blink once, then twice, before he shoves his hands in his suit pockets. He rocks back and forth on his heels for a few seconds, nodding slowly in submission, and then he turns on them to head back to the house. You’re standing a little stunned from the abrupt ending to this trance of a moment on the roof, and you’re also a little surprised with how your chest is heaving a little bit with fast breaths, but you eventually snap out of it to follow him inside too.
You two make it back inside the house, with little words exchanged. You pretend to not notice the way Gojo tilts his head at his desk, like he’s confused about why it looks tidier than when he left it. You’re prepared to feign innocence or ignorance, but he doesn’t press you about it.
“Y’know,” he says from behind you, his chest briefly brushing against the back of your head as he pushes the bedroom door in front of you open so that you can head out into the loft, “those oversized 1800s-esque nightgowns you’ve been wearing around the house kinda make you look like a less-hot version of Ebenezer Scrooge.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•
“Sign right here for me, sir.”
You watch as the nurse slides the papers across the high-raised counter of the hospice nursing desk towards Gojo, his eyebrows narrowing as his eyes skim the words on the paper and land at the highlighted lines where he’s been intended to sign. You feel nervous for some reason, as if he’d suddenly find something disagreeable and refuse to sign, then take you to the courthouse first thing to finalize a divorce and send you off to prison while claiming he was blackmailed into the whole marriage in the first place.
Instead, he pulls a pen from the chest pocket of his suit jacket, clicking the end of it and scribbling his signature onto the paper with some jet black ink that looks like it takes a second to dry. How pretentious of him. The pink pom-pom pen was right there.
The nurse behind the counter continues to chat with him about something, blah blah dependents, blah blah tax claims, blah blah you’ll receive an itemized bill in the mail. You’re trying your best to eavesdrop in on the conversation, but most of your senses are being occupied by examining all your surroundings. When you dropped your mother off at the hospice, your feelings were at the forefront of conscience, but now that you’ve had a couple days to come down from that overwhelming emotional high, you’re here to scope out the quality of this place you’ve just dumped your mom at.
The facility is clean and sleek, with a color theme of red and an ocean blue across the signs, the furniture, even with the paperwork they hand out. All the workers had color-coded scrubs based on their occupation or specialty, and none of them had stains on the fabric. You take a glance down at the modest leather pumps you were wearing past the creases of the long skirt, and notice that the floor was shimmering off their reflection in a perfect polish. It wasn’t bad, this place.
“Thanks, you too,” you hear Gojo say to the nurse behind the counter. He has a professional smile on his face, but still kind and genuine, which makes the woman at the computer something bashful and unable to make eye contact. He folds something that looks like a receipt into his chest pocket before tucking his pen back in there too and then turns to face you. You make a mental note to pay him back for whatever he just paid for, at least once you move some money around.
Your eyebrows lift, feeling a little dazed as you blink at him blankly.
“Alright,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, the sound of his shoes on the polished hospital floors satisfactorily tapping in your ears as he took a couple steps towards you, “where’s your mom’s room?”
“Huh?”
“What’s her room number?” he asks you.
“Y-You wanna go see her??”
“Of course I want to,” he says, “she’s my mother-in-law.”
You roll your eyes and pet the fabric of your skirt to smooth the wrinkles out. “You’re getting a little too invested in this role of fake husband.”
“I get to annoy you all day and ride the adrenaline rush of committing a federal crime,” he says, “of fucking course I’d get invested.”
You sigh, tossing some of your hair to behind your shoulder before glancing up at the signs, squinting slightly to locate the ward where your mother’s room is, before you hear an extremely high-pitched and somewhat catty feminine voice call out from behind you. You glance at Gojo’s face as he peers off to whoever’s behind you, and you see him visibly stiffen a little.
“Is that Dayton county’s sexiest realtooorrr???” the voice purrs, and you turn on your heel to see a blonde bombshell of a woman clacking her kitten heels down the glistening floors of the hospice, with another brunette bombshell just a few paces behind her. Bombshell #2 sighs something like “it issss” before they walk right up to your fake husband and take turns at giving him a playful squeeze of his bicep. You have to physically stop your jaw from dropping at the sight.
“Wow! Ladies, so–...so great to see you two,” he says out of polite obligation, and you immediately clock the fact that he doesn’t address them by name.
Bombshell #1 turns to look at you, all of her hair moving as one solid entity with the motion from all the hair spray that’s probably holding it up, and she points at you with a long slender finger that narrows into a french-tip. “Oh who’s this?? Another one of your clients??”
“Oh, no, she’s my–”
“I’m his wife,” you interrupt him, irritated for some reason.
Both the women chirp something out like oh! before their faces twist with confusion.
“I didn’t know you were married,” Bombshell #2 says in a thick New Jersey accent.
Gojo lifts his left hand up, the silver band on his hand glimmering under fluorescent hospice lighting. “Very happily,” he says, as if someone was holding a gun to his head.
Bombshell #1 crosses her arms, and you try not to stare at how nice her boobs look in the low scoop-neck jaguar print top she was wearing. You were no better than a man. And now you’re pissed off at the idea of Gojo glancing down too, but a flick of your gaze up to his face tells you he’s safe. For now.
“You weren’t married when I asked you if you were a month ago,” Bombshell #1 sneers at him. It’s true, the math wouldn’t make sense, but in his defense, this marriage was a fraud.
“Or when you took me out for dinner last week after I bought my house,” Bombshell #2 snarls with an undertone of hurt.
Gojo clears his throat beside you before pointing at Bombshell #2. “How is that, by the way?” he asks in an attempt to change the subject, “the half acre down on Maple Ave, right? You, uh, enjoying the pool?”
The woman let out an offended scoff and–were her eyes sheening with tears?? She puts her hands on her hips. “No. Mine is the three bedroom house with the cedar gazebo on 14th street.”
Her friend next to her rolls her eyes and smacks her gum between her cheek. “I’m the one that bought the half acre down on Maple Ave, jerk. Ugh!” She grabs her friend’s arm with a high-pitched hmph noise leaving her throat, and you can hear the other one sniffling subtly as she wobbles on her heels with her friend’s pull of her arm.
Right before leaving the two of you alone, Bombshell #1 turns to you and says, “I hope you find someone who treats you better,” and then they storm off together down the hallway, their perfectly blow-dried hair bouncing in sync with each stomp.
You blink at the sight, a little flabbergasted from the interaction, and then flit your faze up to Gojo. You see him awkwardly scratching at the back of his head with a grimace on his stupidly handsome face.
“That’s what you get for being a manwhore,” you tell him.
“I’m not a manwhor–”
“You went on a date with another woman while you were maaaaarrrieeeddd?!” you coo as you let out a fake gasp and slap your cheeks with your hands, “despicable, really.”
He lets out some disgruntled noise, the source coming from deep within his throat. “No. We weren’t fake-married yet,” he vindicates himself, “and it wasn’t a date. I just bought her dinner as a congrats for buying a house. Not a big deal. I do it for all my clients.”
“Satoru. You do realize you’re leading these women on, right? I mean, I’ve seen the way you talk to them. Even if you think you’re just being friendly, please know that your definition of friendly is most people’s definition of flirting.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s true.”
He raises an eyebrow as he glances down at you. “Alright, how come this flirting in disguise of friendliness hasn’t worked on you then?”
You scoff in disbelief before crossing your arms. Maybe you did deserve a better fake husband. “You’re never friendly with me. You’re always rude to me.”
“What? I’m not always rude to you.”
“Well, you’re certainly much more rude to me than you are to other women,” you say, tapping the tip of your shoe with irritation.
“Can we not do this right now? We’re in the middle of a hospice.”
“God, you’re such a cop-out,” you mumble as you forcefully push past him towards the hallway that’ll lead you to your mother. You can hear that Gojo’s on your tail, following you down one of the more dimly lit hallways, and you can tell he needs to stall the strides of his Daddy Longlegs to not overtake your pace.
“What the fuck is a cop-out?” he asks you from behind.
“Look it up on urban dictionary, Grandpa. Unless you don’t know what the Internet is, either,” you spat.
You waltz right up to your mother’s room just in time to see a nurse making her way out with a clipboard in her hands. She glances over to you when she sees you approaching in her periphery.
“Hi! How can I help you?” she asks.
“Is it alright if we visit my mother?” you ask her.
“Oh! Sure, let me just clean her bed pan really quick.”
Your brow furrows. “B-Bedpan?? Why is she using a bedpan??”
The nurse stops in her movements. “Well, yesterday and today, that’s just what she has decided to use.”
You immediately become hostile. “That’s not right. She never needed to use one at home. Why is she suddenly using one here? Is that not a clear sign of deterioration? The restrooms must not be kept well enough here if she doesn’t want to use them.”
The nurse becomes something meek, her eyes widening as her mouth gapes slightly. “Ma’am,” she squeaks out, “we see this commonly with patients as they begin to adjust to hospice life. We’ll urge her to use the restroom, but as of right now, we need to prioritize what she finds most comfortable.”
Your expression softens, your shoulders relaxing from their tense position, and you duck your head a little with guilt. “Right…I’m sorry.”
The nurse presses her lips together with a well-meaning smile before shuffling into the room and closing the door behind her. You sigh and lean your back against the wall next to the number plate, cheeks flushing slightly from the confrontation. You have no idea how loud your voice was or who heard you. But you try to convince yourself that you’re just stressed and trying to look out for your mother, although the guilt still sits.
You glance up to see Gojo staring at you with slightly wide eyes, his hands shoved into his pockets, and he tilts his head to study your expression.
“What?” you snap at him.
“Are you doing okay?”
“Just fine, thanks.”
“Are you sure?”
“Satoru,” you cut his questioning off by raising a palm into the air, “just—…just stop.”
His brow furrows together slightly, but before he can show any further concern, the nurse exits the room and holds the door open for the two of you.
“All set!” she chirps, and Gojo moves to hold the door open in her stead, and then the nurse bolts down to disappear somewhere down the hallway.
You hear Gojo let out a small huff of a scoff as he stares down in the direction the nurse ran off in. “Glad to know I’m not the only one that’s scared of you.”
You roll your eyes and walk into the room through the open door.
Your mother lays in her bed, looking out the window with her hands resting on top of layers of white linen sheets, her skin looking slightly paler than usual. You approach her bedside slowly and she finally turns her head to look at you.
“Hi mom,” you gently greet her, sitting down on the stool beside her bed, “how are you doing?”
Her eyes dart across the features of your face, and you briefly glance towards the wall to the right where you see Gojo standing from a slight distance.
“Oh, hi dear,” she says with a smile, and relief washes over you.
You match her smile with your own. “Mom, I brought someone here to see you.” You glance over at Gojo, who starts to close distance now as he approaches the foot of the bed, “this is Satoru, my husband.”
Your mother’s eyes widen, “Oh! I know him,” she scoldingly swats a hand at you, like you’ve embarrassed her somehow by assuming that she doesn’t know who he is, “he’s my neighbor!”
You sigh, “yes mom, the one that fixed the A/C?” You attempt to finish her sentence for her.
She looks confused for a moment, but slightly nods as if to avoid any further confusion for herself. “But—…but, why…” she trails off and then looks at you, “I’m sorry, are you my nurse?”
Your shoulders drop slightly. “No, mom, it’s me. Your daughter. Do you remember?”
Her face scrunches before it entirely relaxes to keep some image of composure despite the haze you know she feels in her head. “Oh…yes, yes…my little girl. I remember you, of course!”
Your eyes become layered with a slight sheen of tears, “I’m glad.”
“Where’s your father?” she asks, “he said he’d bring me some…oh dear, what—…he said he’d bring me tea. I’ve been waiting.”
“Mom, dad is—” you pause for a moment to think on your feet. You could either tell the truth, or a little white lie. You never know what to do. And either one comes with either guilt or sorrow. “Well, he’ll be here soon, I just wanted to come see you.”
“Oh okay…” she trails off, her eyes squinting at you once more with that same look of confusion on it, but then they drift towards Gojo. “Oh you’re a very handsome young man! You look just like my neighbor.”
Your eyes flicker up to Gojo, and he walks up to your side by your mom’s bed. “Yes, Mrs. l/n, I am your neighbor.”
“With the lemon tree!”
“The avocado tree,” you correct her with a small sigh. “And he’s my husband mom. And also our neighbor.”
“Oh I see I see…” she says, looking up at him, and in a moment that shocks you, she holds her hand up for him to take.
There’s a slight moment of surprise on his face too, but he accepts her frail hand in his, and you glance over to your mom to see her look at him with some look of peace on her face.
“Oh, sit down here, won’t you?” she tells him, and you both blink at her in a moment of hesitation.
He pulls a stool up to the side of the bed right next to you and takes a seat down onto it. Your mother holds his hand with both of hers now, soothing her palm over the back of it before she taps on it lightly.
“Oh, my little girl is very sweet. She would bring me flowers from the garden when she was,” she glances at you, confused once more, “well I remember her when she was so little but she looks…a little older now. Ah, but she would bring me such pretty flowers.”
Your heart aches in your chest. You never knew what version of you your mother would remember. Some days, you’re still supposed to be an angsty teenager that shuts doors in her face, some days you were just as you are right now, and other days, you were just her little girl. And it confused her, the image of not seeing you in the way that she remembers. In the only way she knew how.
“You’ll take good care of my sweet girl, won’t you?” she asks him.
And it knocks the wind out of you.
It drops your heart to the center of the earth.
The thought that, after so many moments where she doesn’t remember you, she still knows that you’re someone she wants to keep safe.
Your mouth gapes slightly, tears welling in your eyes and you try your best to blink them away, but you see Gojo’s hand slip out from being held by your mother’s hands, to instead use both of his to hold hers. Your eyes snap to his face, and you see that same earnest expression you’ve been growing used to seeing these days.
“Yes,” he responds, eye contact level with hers, “I will.”
A small puff of air leaves your lips, a single tear streaming down your cheek and you quickly swipe your trembling fingers to remove any evidence of it before you huff out a shaky, “excuse me.” And then you’re standing up off the stool, and in a few hurried steps across the room as more tears continue to stream down your face, you make it to the door to push out into the suffocating air of the hallway.
It’s hard to breathe, huffs and puffs barely leaving your lips as you struggle to pull air into your lungs while you storm down the hallway at a fast pace, your heels clicking underneath you in a way that only sets you off further. Suddenly, all the sounds around you make you sick to your stomach, a wave of nausea washing over you, and your nose burns with the intensity of the tears that continue to stream down your face. A few hospice staff look at you with concerned expressions, and you eventually reach a heavy-duty door that leads you out into a secluded staircase hallway where the dim lighting serves to relax at least some of your senses, but you still feel like you’re about to pass out.
Even in the haze of your emotions, there’s this glimmer of a memory that comes to mind. One from when you were younger and you were pushed on the playground at school. You cried and cried and cried in your mother’s arms, but even then, you didn’t want her to baby you. You would say to her, I’m a big girl now! in that same way a child knows nothing of what it truly means to brave the world.
That little girl had no idea that one day, there would be moments where she wouldn’t be remembered as her mother’s little girl anymore.
No matter how old you grow, you will always be my little girl, your mother’s voice echoes to you, the feeling of her squeezing you in her arms as she holds your sobbing little form in hers casting a ghost sensation across your skin.
In a mother’s eyes, you’ll always be her baby.
And that’s why it hurts.
Because it’s all fake.
It’s phony.
It’s not real.
This arrangement you have with Gojo.
And if your mother were to die tomorrow, there would be no one to take care of her little girl anymore.
Not in the way she believes there will be.
Of all the white lies, this one pierces you straight through your heart in a way that leaves you gasping for air.
Amidst your whirlwind of thoughts, you hear the door push open harshly, and when you glance over, you see Gojo standing in this dimly lit hallway as he turns his head quickly to the left and sees you standing there.
“Hey,” he says, catching his breath as he lightly jogs up to you, “hey, hey, hey,” he repeats with more concern now when he sees the state you’re in, and he seamlessly pulls you into a hug, your cheek pressing against his chest that feels warm even through the fabric of his suit jacket and shirt, and that familiar scent of him completely engulfs you.
You sob quietly, wiping your snot on his tie and your tears on the felt fabric beside it, your hands balled into tiny fists at your chest, squeezed between the two of you. You feel him tuck your head under his chin and his arms wrap around you tighter. You don’t even realize it at first, but suddenly, it has become easier to breathe.
Then, you wail, and you cry, and you sob, because you don’t have the words to even explain how you feel, about not just this, but with everything, a buildup of everything that has been suffocating you in your life that just comes crashing down on you all at once.
“I know,” he says, his palm resting on the back of your head as he holds your face to his chest, his voice soothing in your ears while you sob until there’s nothing left to cry. “I know.”
You two stay like this for another minute or so as you come down from the cries, your remnant sniffling echoing in the hallway while you wipe more of your snot on his jacket. You make the first move to pull your face away from his chest, but he still keeps his arms wrapped around you when you look up at him.
With your gaze darting across his face, you take in the blue in his eyes. Eyes that are looking at you so softly it’s suddenly hard to breathe once more. And when those eyes flit to your lips, your mouth parts slightly as you two breathe in unison.
It’s possible that you could have dreamed the moment you saw him lean down slightly towards you, his eyes still set on your lips, but it didn’t matter because you’re pushing him away with strong fists before you can even register the thought in your head.
He lets go of you entirely, his eyes wide once more, and you glance down at your feet.
A tender moment, just like on the roof, broken just because you can’t handle that—…that way, that intense way that he looks at you. New rule, no looking at me longingly like you want to kiss me. I won’t allow it.
“I want to go home,” you whisper, still examining your shoes. And you suddenly feel embarrassed that he had to see you this way. He’s supposed to be scared and intimidated by you, not holding you in his arms while you cry.
He’s silent for a moment, but you can tell he’s searching for things to say. “You don’t want to say bye to your mom before we go?”
You swipe your palm against the wetness on your cheek. “No. I just want to go home.”
“y/n,” he tried to convince you.
You finally look up at him. “Please.”
He breathes in a few breaths as he studies the features of your face in a way that makes you feel so seen that it’s frightening. But he slowly nods, then says,
“Okay.”
.
.
.
.
.
[end of chapter 4]
a/n. hi friendsss i hope you enjoyed :'') yea like i said at the a/n in the beginning, this chapter is a slight off-tangent from last chapter, but ch5 will continue with a lot of the stuffs that were brought up in ch3. but yea i wanted to explore the whole process of emotions reader would go through putting her mom in hospice, since it kinda felt like a big thing, hence why it got its own chapter.
aaa i hope to see you in the next one!! much love from me :''0
➸ you're all caught up!
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It is said that a beautiful princess named Calvalia from a lost kingdom in the east (once known as Atlantis) drank a tonic of this poisonous flower to escape an arranged marriage. Moved by the lengths she went to find escape, the West Wind Zephyrus resurrected her as one of his kin and brought her with him to Mt. Haemus. It is believed that where her tears fall, a lily of the valley sprouts in its place. Thus, the delicate white blooms began to thrive in the lands of Ancient Greece.
These flowers would catch the attention of the God Apollo, who was intrigued by their unique appearance and medicinal qualities. Following a trail of them led him to the weeping anemoi, whom he comforted with a song. They formed a bond as they sang together, and having won her trust and affection, she pledged her loyalty to serve him on Mt. Olympus. His fondness for her flowers, the lily of the valley, would also earn it the name “Apollinaris.”
*some versions of the myth claim that Apollo took Calvalia from Mt. Haemus to spite Zephyrus, who had caused the death of his lover Hyacinthus.
