time passes differently here, that’s the first thing you notice.
almost like it doesn’t pass, like you’re in a bubble where time doesn’t seem to matter at all. back then, the only thing you wish you had more of was time.
this isn’t jujutsu high, at least not the one that you left. it’s the one that you found, years and years ago when you were foolishly young and naive, too desperate to make sense of yourself and the utterly fucked up world around you. it looks the same as it does in your memory, however hazy it might’ve been toward the end of your life.
you didn’t know the hereafter would be so sentimental.
same wooden bench all carved up with initials, yours and the other first years. same dorm walls that witnessed all of your shenanigans, sneaking out past curfew with your friends, sacrificing a few hours of sleep for memories you’d rewrite into your dna.
same big trees by the pond next to the training grounds, when they were still standing strong and proud and yet to be chopped down as they were not long after your graduation. it was under one of these trees that you had your first kiss. it might’ve been the sweetest kiss of your life.
blue eyes, shy smiles, clumsy hands and tongue tied—it was a sunny afternoon when he kissed you for the first time, both of you in your second year. it may have started with an ungodly laugh from you—an ugly, ugly snort—after he said something ridiculous and stupid. it may have ended with an accidental confession from him, pulled from his heart of hearts, reckless yet devastatingly sincere.
he had even forgotten his own name, when you tugged him closer after the initial contact, still giggling on the same shared breath, still brushing noses, and asked him to do it again.
yeah, it was definitely the sweetest.
this was your very first home, the keeper of your warmest youth. it wasn’t perfect, but it was home. and for the first time in a very long time, everything was... still.
perhaps that’s why you’re here. isn’t heaven supposed to be peace? no matter how messy it could get, this was always the haven you could find solace in.
this, here, is safe.
so you wait.
for what, you don’t know.
maybe you’re waiting for a promise to be kept. it’s the only thing that kept you going all these years, the thought that there would be someone to welcome you past the finish line.
he was the reason you kept holding on for as long as you did, the reason why your life even had a story to tell.
he was with you through it all, behind every thought and in every heartbeat. he wasn’t there, but he was always with you.
languid footsteps cut through the quiet.
“come here often?”
you look the same as the day he left.
he looks the same as the day you lost him.
the sight of him is akin to a full stop to the hundreds and thousands of prayers you sent out. for the first time in decades, you can breathe. for the first time since forever, you can feel him again.
same devastating eyes, same lazy smile. same tenderness in the gaze that lands upon you.
the sky is a magnificent shade of blue.
no blindfold, no shades. just him, backlit against the sun like salvation at the end of the longest tunnel. you’ve never seen him without the weight of the world on his shoulders before; it breaks your heart a little.
“satoru.” your voice is barely audible, but his smile widens anyway. when you take off running in his direction, he’s moving too. the collision is inevitable, gravitational, atoms pulled together. it’s graceless—the way you try to hold onto his body in sheer desperation, onto everything you can find. warm, solid, real.
his forehead is pressed to yours; his hands, one on your waist, one cradling your face, the touch so gentle it hurts.
he never saw the aftermath, how everyone had to cope in a world without gojo satoru. he never witnessed the countless nights you spent crying yourself to sleep, the restless mornings you roused awake to soaked pillows, nor the anger you carried until the very end.
anger at the world, for taking him away too soon, for failing him so spectacularly in his absence. anger at yourself, for being the one who got to live. anger at him too, for leaving you behind when it was always supposed to be a story to share.
while he kept his promise to you, you can’t say that you held up your end of the bargain. because you never forgot about him, not even for a moment.
the years felt like lifetimes, because they were. his loss had been too colossal for you to bear.
if only fate had been kinder to you both.
but then he kisses you, and all of that wrath reduces to an ember, until it diminishes altogether. none of it matters anymore; it belongs to a world so far away now.
he tastes the same, feels the same. loves you the same.
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || When a routine reconnaissance job goes wrong and you're stabbed protecting him, lifelong friend and stoic protector Kim Geonwoo pushes you away with cruel words to keep you safe, only to spend every night silently watching you from three blocks back, unable to truly let go.
The air in the van tasted like iron and old coffee. Not the kind from a café, the bitter, burnt kind that had been sitting in Woojin's thermos since Tuesday. You sat in the back, your shoulder pressed against the cold metal wall, watching the city lights smear into neon streaks through the rain-soaked windows.
Geonwoo was driving.
He always drove.
You watched the back of his head. The way his dark hair curled slightly at the nape, still damp from the shower he'd taken at the gym two hours ago. The way his knuckles flexed on the steering wheel every time he checked the rearview mirror. He hadn't spoken in seventeen minutes. You'd been counting.
"You're staring," Woojin said from the passenger seat, not looking up from his phone. He was scrolling through the building schematics again, even though you'd all memorized them three days ago.
"I'm thinking," you corrected.
"You're staring at Geonwoo while thinking. Same thing."
Geonwoo didn't react. His jaw was set in that familiar line, the one that meant he was running through scenarios in his head, planning for every possible way this could go wrong. You knew that face better than your own reflection. You'd known it since you were nine years old, sitting on the curb outside his family's restaurant, watching him carefully split a single bottle of strawberry milk into two cups so you could share.
Twenty years. Twenty years of that jaw, those eyes, those hands that had taught you how to throw a punch when the boys in the neighborhood wouldn't stop pulling your hair.
"This is a simple job," you said, more to his reflection than to Woojin. "In, watch, out. We're not even engaging."
Geonwoo's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Just for a second. Just long enough to meet yours.
The building was a concrete skeleton in the industrial district, one of those half-finished construction projects that had run out of money during the pandemic and never recovered. Now it belonged to the kind of people who didn't need working elevators to conduct their business.
Kim Myeong-gil's people. Or what was left of them.
The job was reconnaissance. Pure and simple. A rival crew had been sniffing around the old Bloodhound territory, trying to pick at the bones of an empire that had mostly collapsed after Myeong-gil's death. Geonwoo's contact said they were using the fourth floor of this building as a meeting point. Your job was to confirm it, count heads, note faces, and leave without a trace.
No contact. No confrontation. No heroics.
You'd done this a hundred times.
The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time you parked three blocks away. Geonwoo killed the engine and turned to face you both for the first time.
"Woojin, you take the west stairwell. Stay on the third floor. I want eyes on the main entrance from above."
Woojin saluted lazily. "And if I see something interesting?"
"You text. You don't move."
"Boring."
"Safe," Geonwoo corrected. His gaze shifted to you. Something flickered there, something soft, barely perceptible, gone before you could name it. "You're with me. East side. We take the fourth floor together, confirm the meeting, and pull back."
"I know the plan," you said. "You debriefed us three times."
"I know."
"Then stop looking at me like I'm going to trip over my own feet."
Woojin snorted. Geonwoo's expression didn't change, but his ears went slightly pink. That was his tell. Had been since childhood. You'd called him out on it when you were twelve and he'd refused to speak to you for an entire afternoon.
"Just stay close," he said finally. "Please."
The please caught you off guard. Geonwoo didn't say please. Geonwoo gave orders and expected them to be followed. Geonwoo was the anchor, the steady one, the marine who had seen too much and felt too deeply and buried it all under layers of quiet control.
But tonight, there was something in his voice. A thread of tension you hadn't heard since the night his mother died.
You reached forward and flicked the back of his head gently.
The building smelled like wet concrete and rust. Your footsteps echoed in the stairwell as you climbed, Geonwoo in front, you behind. His back was broad, blocking most of your view, but you didn't need to see. You knew his rhythm. You matched it without thinking.
Third floor. Fourth floor. The door to the main corridor was heavy steel, propped open with a chunk of broken cinderblock.
Geonwoo held up a hand. You stopped. He listened, head tilted, eyes half-closed, every sense trained on the darkness beyond the door.
Then he nodded. Clear.
You slipped through behind him, your sneakers silent on the dusty floor. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with doorless rooms and gaping holes where windows should have been. Pale moonlight filtered through the gaps, painting everything in silver and shadow.
The meeting was supposed to be in the large room at the end of the hall. Room 412. You could see the door from here, closed, but with a thin line of light bleeding from beneath it.
Geonwoo pointed to a doorway on your left. Room 408. Empty. Good vantage point. You both moved into it, pressing against the wall, and he pulled out his phone.
Geonwoo: In position. Woojin?
Woojin: Third floor clear. Bored. There's a pigeon up here. I named it Geonwoo Jr.
Geonwoo: Focus.
Woojin: Geonwoo Jr. says hi.
You bit back a smile. Geonwoo exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased.
Four men. One you recognized, Park Junseok, a mid-level enforcer who'd worked for Myeong-gil's money laundering operation. The other three were unfamiliar. Younger. Harder faces. The kind of men who'd grown up hungry and stayed that way.
They were talking in low voices, walking toward the stairwell you'd just come from. Geonwoo pressed a hand against your stomach, pushing you deeper into the shadows of Room 408. His palm was warm through your jacket. You held your breath.
The men passed. Their footsteps faded down the stairs.
Geonwoo's hand didn't move.
You looked up at him. His face was inches from yours, illuminated by that thin sliver of moonlight. His eyes were fixed on the corridor, but his jaw was tight again. Tighter than before.
"Geonwoo," you whispered. "They're gone."
His hand finally dropped. He stepped back, putting distance between you, and typed quickly on his phone.
Geonwoo: Four men. One identified. Meeting room empty. Moving to clear it.
Woojin: Copy. Want me to stay or move?
Geonwoo: Stay. Two minutes.
He pocketed the phone and looked at you. "Quick sweep. Photos of anything left behind. Then we're gone."
Room 412 was a hollowed-out office space with a folding table in the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs. A single battery-powered lantern sat on the table, casting harsh shadows against the bare walls. Papers were scattered across the surface. Maps. Printouts. A few photographs.
You moved to the table while Geonwoo checked the corners of the room. Your phone was already out, camera ready. You snapped photos of everything, wide shots, close-ups, anything that might be useful later.
That's when you saw it.
A photograph, half-hidden under a map. It showed a familiar face.
Kim Geonwoo.
Not a recent photo, this was from years ago. His marine days, maybe. His hair was shorter, his face younger, but those eyes were the same. Dark. Watchful. Haunted.
Written across the bottom of the photo in red marker was a single word: 찾았다.
Later, you would try to piece together exactly what happened. The order of things. Who moved first. Who said what.
It didn't matter. It happened too fast.
Two men. Not the ones who had left, these were different. They must have been waiting in one of the other rooms. Maybe they'd heard you. Maybe they'd been watching the whole time.
The first one came at Geonwoo with a pipe. Geonwoo blocked it with his forearm, you heard the crack, saw his face twist, and then he was moving, all that coiled tension releasing in a single devastating strike. His fist connected with the man's throat. The man went down gasping.
But the second one was already on you.
You saw the knife. A folding blade, the kind you could buy at any hardware store. Cheap. Sharp. Coming toward your ribs.
You twisted. Training kicked in. You caught his wrist, redirected the blade, brought your knee up into his stomach. He grunted, stumbled, but didn't drop the knife.
Behind you, Geonwoo was finishing the first man. You heard the wet sound of another punch landing.
I can handle this, you thought. I've handled worse.
The man lunged again. You sidestepped, grabbed his arm, used his momentum to slam him against the edge of the table. The lantern toppled. The room plunged into shifting shadows.
But the knife was still in his hand. And he was stronger than he looked.
He shoved back. Your grip slipped on his sweat-slick wrist. The blade arced through the darkness-
The pain wasn't immediate. That was the strange thing.
First came the pressure. A deep, wrong pressure, like someone had punched you with a fist made of ice. You looked down. The knife was buried in your left side, just below your ribs. The man's hand was still on the handle.
Then he yanked it out.
That's when the pain hit.
White. Blinding. A scream tore out of your throat before you could stop it. Your knees buckled. You went down hard, one hand pressed against your side, and the warmth that flooded between your fingers told you everything you needed to know.
Too deep. Too much blood. This is bad.
The man with the knife was saying something, cursing, maybe, or gloating, but you couldn't hear him over the roaring in your ears. He raised the blade again.
He never brought it down.
Geonwoo hit him like a freight train.
You'd seen Geonwoo fight a hundred times. Sparring in the gym. Scraps in alleys. The brutal, efficient violence of a man who had been trained to kill and had chosen not to. But you had never seen him fight like this.
This wasn't technique. This wasn't controlled.
This was rage.
He grabbed the man by the throat and drove him into the concrete wall. Once. Twice. The knife clattered to the floor. Geonwoo's fists kept moving. Punch after punch after punch, each one landing with a sound like raw meat hitting a counter. The man's face dissolved into red. Still Geonwoo didn't stop.
"Geonwoo." Your voice came out wrong. Thin. Wet. "Geonwoo, stop."
He didn't hear you.
The man went limp in his grip. Geonwoo let him drop. He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, knuckles dripping, staring down at the crumpled body like he was deciding whether to keep going.
Not horror. Not fear. Something worse. Something that looked like recognition. Like he had seen this exact moment before, in a different place, with a different person bleeding out in front of him.
His mother. He was seeing his mother.
"Geonwoo." You tried to sit up. The world tilted. "I'm okay. I'm-"
He was on his knees beside you in an instant. His hands pressed down on your side, hard, and you screamed. You couldn't help it. The sound ripped out of you, raw and animal, and something in his face fractured.
"Woojin." His voice was steady. Too steady. The voice of a man holding himself together by threads. He pulled out his phone with one blood-slick hand, the other still pressed against your wound. "Fourth floor. Now. Bring the kit."
"Geonwoo-"
"Don't talk."
"I'm fine-"
"You're not fine." His eyes met yours. They were wet. Kim Geonwoo, who you had seen break bones without flinching, who had carried his mother's coffin without shedding a single tear at the funeral, was crying. "You're not fine, and you're going to stay awake, and you're going to keep looking at me. Do you understand?"
You wanted to make a joke. Something about how bossy he was. Something about how this was definitely going to scar and he'd owe you for life.
But the darkness was creeping in at the edges of your vision, and all you could manage was:
"Geonwoo."
"Stay awake."
"Geonwoo, I-"
"Don't you dare." His voice cracked. His hand, the one not holding pressure on your wound, cupped your face. His thumb brushed your cheek. It was shaking. "Don't you dare close your eyes. You don't get to do this. Not you. Not tonight."
You wanted to tell him you weren't going anywhere. You wanted to tell him that you'd been by his side for twenty years and you weren't about to stop now.
But the darkness was so heavy. And his voice was so far away.
The last thing you heard before everything went quiet was him screaming your name.
The room was white. Too white. Too bright. Your side felt like someone had replaced your ribs with broken glass and then set the glass on fire. You blinked against the fluorescent lights and tried to remember how you'd gotten here.
Woojin was asleep in the chair next to your bed, his head tilted back at an angle that was going to destroy his neck. His hand was wrapped around yours, loose and warm.
Geonwoo wasn't there.
"Woojin." Your voice came out as a croak. You tried again. "Woojin."
He jerked awake so fast he nearly fell out of the chair. "What, you're, you're awake. You're awake. Oh thank god." He was on his feet, hovering, his hands fluttering like he wanted to hug you but was afraid of breaking you. "Do you need water? Pain meds? I should call the nurse-"
"Where's Geonwoo?"
Woojin's face did something complicated. It was there and gone in an instant, but you caught it. Guilt. Worry. And something that looked like anger.
"He's... around," Woojin said carefully. "He's been handling things. Cleanup. Making sure those guys don't come back."
"Has he been here?"
Woojin hesitated.
"Woojin."
"He was here the whole time you were under," Woojin admitted. "Three days. Didn't sleep. Didn't eat. Just sat in that chair and stared at you like you were going to disappear if he blinked." He ran a hand through his already-messy hair. "And then you woke up this morning, briefly, you probably don't remember, and he just... left. Said he had to take care of something. Hasn't come back."
Something cold settled in your chest. Something that had nothing to do with the knife wound.
"He's blaming himself," you said.
"He's always blaming himself."
"This is different."
Woojin was quiet for a long moment. Then he sat back down, took your hand again, and said, "Yeah. This is different."
They kept you for four more days. Observation. Antibiotics. Pain management that never quite managed enough.
Geonwoo didn't visit.
Woojin came every day. He brought food you couldn't eat and jokes you couldn't laugh at because laughing felt like being stabbed all over again. He told you about the cleanup, the men you'd encountered were low-level, no major connections, nothing to worry about. The photo with Geonwoo's face had been a coincidence, probably. Old intel from Myeong-gil's network. Nothing actionable.
You didn't believe him. But you were too tired to push.
On the fifth day, they discharged you. Woojin drove you home in Geonwoo's van, because Geonwoo had apparently been taking his motorcycle everywhere since the night you got hurt. The van still smelled like him. Like cheap coffee and the cedar soap he used and something underneath that was just Geonwoo.
You sat in the back, your hand pressed against your bandaged side, and watched the city blur past.
A week after you got home, you decided to stop waiting.
Your side was healing. Slowly. The stitches pulled every time you moved too fast, and you couldn't stand up straight without a sharp reminder of exactly where the blade had gone in. But you could walk. You could function. You could fight, if you had to.
You pulled on a loose hoodie, laced up your sneakers, and went to find him.
He wasn't at the gym. Wasn't at his apartment, you had a key, you let yourself in, the place was empty and too clean, like he hadn't been sleeping there. Wasn't at any of the usual spots.
You finally found him at the boxing gym near the river. The old one. The one where he used to train when you were teenagers, before everything got complicated.
He was alone.
The gym was closed, it was past midnight, but the back door was unlocked. You pushed through and heard it before you saw it. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of fists against a heavy bag. The harsh exhale of breath. The sound of a man trying to punch his way through something that couldn't be reached with fists.
He was shirtless. His back was to you. You could see the muscles shifting beneath his skin, the scars scattered across his shoulders and spine. Old wounds. New ones. The fresh bruises on his knuckles from where he'd beaten that man into unconsciousness.
He was hitting the bag like it had personally wronged him.
"Geonwoo."
He stopped mid-swing. His whole body went rigid.
"Go home," he said. He didn't turn around.
"I was in the hospital for a week. You didn't visit. I came home. You didn't call. Woojin's been lying to me about where you are and I'm tired of it." You took a step forward. Your side screamed in protest. You ignored it. "Turn around and look at me."
He didn't.
"Geonwoo."
"I said go home."
"And I said no."
He turned.
The sight of him stopped you cold.
He looked wrecked. Not just tired, destroyed. Dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes. His cheeks hollow, like he hadn't eaten properly in days. His lips cracked. His hair unwashed, hanging limp across his forehead.
But it was his eyes that hit you hardest. They were empty. The way they'd been after his mother died. Like someone had reached inside him and scooped out everything that made him Kim Geonwoo, leaving only the shell behind.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
"I shouldn't be a lot of places. I'm here anyway."
"You're still healing."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." His voice was flat. Dead. "You almost died. Because of me."
"Because some asshole with a knife got lucky. That's not your fault."
"He got lucky because I let my guard down. Because I was too slow. Because I-" He stopped. His jaw clenched. He looked away. "It doesn't matter. You're done."
Something cold slithered down your spine. "What do you mean, done?"
"You're not coming on jobs anymore. I already talked to Woojin. We'll handle things without you."
You stared at him. Waiting for the punchline. The moment where he'd crack a smile, that rare, precious smile, and tell you he was joking.
It didn't come.
"Geonwoo, it was one hit. I'll heal. I've had worse-"
"That's the problem." His voice cut through yours like a blade. "You've always been too slow. Too weak. I've been covering for you for years. I'm tired of it."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You actually took a step back, your hand pressing against your wounded side as if to protect it from this new, different kind of pain.
"That's not true." Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. "We've been doing this together since we were kids. You taught me-"
"I taught you because I felt sorry for you."
The gym went very, very quiet.
"You were this pathetic kid with no one," he continued, each word deliberate and cold. "Following me around like a stray dog. Sitting outside my family's restaurant every day, waiting for scraps. I didn't have the heart to tell you to leave then. I'm telling you now."
You couldn't breathe. Your lungs had forgotten how.
"Geonwoo." His name cracked in your mouth. "You don't mean that."
He looked you dead in the eye.
"I mean every word."
Nothing. There was nothing in his gaze. No warmth. No recognition. No trace of the boy who had split his strawberry milk with you, who had taught you how to make a fist, who had let you sit beside him in silence on the worst night of his life.
"You're a liability," he said. "You almost died because you were too stupid to watch your own back. I can't afford to babysit you anymore. Grow up. Find something else to do with your life." A pause. Then, quieter: "Stay out of mine."
He turned back to the heavy bag.
You stood there for what felt like hours. Waiting for him to take it back. Waiting for the mask to crack. Waiting for something.
He started hitting the bag again. Slow. Methodical. Like you weren't even there.
You made it three blocks before your legs gave out.
You sat down on the curb outside a closed convenience store, your hand pressed against your side, and you waited for the tears to come.
They didn't.
You were too empty for tears. He had scooped out everything inside you and left nothing behind. Twenty years. Twenty years of friendship, of partnership, of something that had always felt like it might become more if either of you were brave enough to name it.
And he had thrown it away like it meant nothing.
Like you meant nothing.
You sat on that curb for a long time. Long enough for the streetlights to flicker. Long enough for the distant sound of the river to become familiar.
Then you stood up. You went home. And you didn't look back.
You didn't go to the gym. You didn't answer Woojin's calls, not after the first few, when he'd tried to explain, tried to make excuses, tried to tell you that Geonwoo didn't mean it, that he was just scared, that he'd come around.
You blocked his number.
You found a job. A boring one. Safe. A coffee shop near your apartment that needed someone to work the morning shift. The pay was terrible and the customers were worse, but it was something. It was a reason to get out of bed.
You were walking home one night, late, after closing, the streets quiet and damp with recent rain, when you felt it.
That prickle at the back of your neck. The sense of being watched.
You didn't turn around. You kept walking, your pace steady, your hand drifting toward the pocket knife you still carried out of habit. At the corner, you paused under a streetlight and pretended to check your phone.
In the reflection of the screen, you saw him.
A figure. Three blocks back. Tall. Broad shoulders. Standing perfectly still in the shadows of a closed pharmacy.
Kim Geonwoo.
You didn't turn around. You didn't call out. You just stood there, staring at his reflection, waiting for him to move.
He didn't.
After a full minute, you pocketed your phone and kept walking.
The next night, he was there again.
And the next.
And the next.
He never approached. Never spoke. Just watched you walk home from a distance, a silent guardian who had told you to stay out of his life but couldn't seem to stay out of yours.
You didn't know what to do with that. So you did nothing.
You walked home. You locked your door. And you tried very hard not to think about the boy on the curb, the strawberry milk, or the way his voice had sounded when he screamed your name in the dark.
Four weeks since Geonwoo had looked you in the eye and told you that twenty years of friendship had been charity. Four weeks since you'd walked out of that gym with his words lodged in your chest like shrapnel.
You were healing. Physically, at least. The wound in your side had closed, leaving behind a raised pink scar that pulled tight when you stretched too far. You'd trace it sometimes at night, lying in bed, unable to sleep. A reminder. Of the knife. Of the blood. Of the way his voice had sounded when he told you to stay out of his life.
The coffee shop job was mind-numbing. You'd gone from running recon in abandoned buildings to remembering that the woman in the green coat wanted oat milk, not almond, and no foam, and for the love of god make sure it's extra hot. It should have been peaceful. Safe. Exactly what he wanted for you.
You hated every second of it.
But you kept showing up. Because the alternative was sitting in your apartment, staring at the wall, replaying that conversation over and over until you drove yourself insane.
You were walking home after closing. The streets were slick with rain, reflecting the neon signs of the late-night pojangmacha stalls that lined the main road. Your shoes made soft sounds against the wet pavement. Your side ached, it always ached when it rained now, and you were focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
Then you felt it.
That prickle. That awareness. The distinct sensation of eyes on the back of your neck.
You'd been in enough fights to trust your instincts. You didn't turn around. You didn't change your pace. You just kept walking, your hand drifting casually toward the pocket of your jacket where your keys were, heavy enough to do damage if you gripped them right.
At the intersection, you paused under a streetlight. Pretended to check your phone. Tilted the screen just enough to catch the reflection behind you.
A figure. Three blocks back. Tall. Broad shoulders. Standing in the shadow of a closed bookstore.
You knew that silhouette. You'd known it your entire life.
Kim Geonwoo.
Your heart did something complicated. A lurch. A twist. A surge of anger so hot it burned going down.
What the hell are you doing?
You wanted to turn around. You wanted to march back there and demand answers. You wanted to grab him by the collar of whatever dark jacket he was wearing and shake him until his teeth rattled and ask him why, why, he was standing in the rain watching you like some kind of ghost when he'd made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with you.
But you didn't.
Because you remembered his eyes in the gym. Empty. Cold. Like you were a stranger. Like twenty years meant nothing.
Always the same distance. Three blocks. Never closer. Never further. A silent sentinel in the dark, watching you walk from the coffee shop to your apartment, disappearing the moment you stepped through your building's front door.
You started to notice details against your will.
He'd lost weight. His clothes hung looser than they should. His posture was wrong, still straight, still soldier-straight, but there was a heaviness to it now. Like he was carrying something that was slowly crushing him.
His knuckles were always wrapped. Always fresh. Like he'd been at the heavy bag before coming to stand in the rain.
One night, you saw him bring a hand up to his face and press the heel of his palm against his eyes. Hard. Like he was trying to push something back in.
You were closing the coffee shop, wiping down the espresso machine for the fifth time because you weren't ready to go home yet. The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy with the promise of more. You heard the bell above the door chime and didn't look up.
"We're closed."
"Good. I'm not here for coffee."
Your hand stilled on the machine. You knew that voice. You'd known it almost as long as you'd known Geonwoo's.
Kim Woojin stood in the doorway, dripping rainwater onto the welcome mat. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His jacket was soaked through. He looked like he'd been standing outside for a while, working up the courage to come in.
"Go away, Woojin."
"No."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." He walked toward the counter, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. "You blocked my number. You haven't been to the gym. You're working at a coffee shop, of all places. What are you doing?"
"Living my life. Safely. Like I was told to."
His jaw tightened. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" You set down the rag and finally looked at him. Really looked. "You want to talk about fair? I took a knife for him, Woojin. I bled out on a concrete floor while he screamed my name. And then he told me I was a liability. That he only ever tolerated me because he felt sorry for me. That I should stay out of his life." Your voice cracked on the last word. You hated that it cracked. "So don't stand there and tell me about fair."
Woojin was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out something wrapped in a plastic bag. He set it on the counter between you.
"Open it."
"I don't want-"
"Just open it. Please."
You stared at him. Then at the bag. Then back at him. With a sigh that came from somewhere deep and exhausted, you pulled the plastic apart.
It was a photograph.
The three of you. Teenagers. You couldn't have been more than fifteen. Geonwoo was in the middle, taller than both of you, already broad-shouldered, already carrying that quiet weight in his eyes. You were on his left, grinning at the camera, your hair a mess, your cheek pressed against his shoulder. Woojin was on his right, throwing up a peace sign, mid-laugh.
Geonwoo's mother had taken this photo. You remembered the day. She'd made tteokbokki and insisted on documenting the moment because, in her words, "You three are going to be trouble together. I can tell."
She'd been right.
"He keeps this on his nightstand," Woojin said quietly. "Has for years. It was facedown when I went to his apartment last week. First time I've ever seen it like that."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because he's destroying himself." Woojin's voice was raw. Stripped of its usual humor. "He doesn't sleep. He barely eats. He spends hours at the gym hitting that bag until his knuckles bleed, and then he wraps them up and goes to stand outside your coffee shop like some kind of, of guard dog who forgot what he's supposed to be guarding."
"He told me to stay out of his life."
"He lied."
"I know he lied." Your voice rose. "I know he lied, Woojin. That's the worst part. He looked me in the eye and said things he knew would break me. On purpose. Because he decided, without asking me, without talking to me, without giving me a single say in the matter, that pushing me away was better than letting me make my own choices."
Woojin was silent.
"He doesn't get to do that." You were shaking now. Anger and grief and something else, something that had been building for five weeks, pressing against your ribs like a second wound. "He doesn't get to decide what I can and can't handle. He doesn't get to throw away twenty years because he's scared. And he sure as hell doesn't get to follow me home every night like some tragic hero in a drama while pretending I don't exist."
"You're right." Woojin's voice was soft. "You're absolutely right."
"Then why are you here?"
He met your eyes. And for the first time, you saw how tired he looked. How worried. The dark circles under his eyes matched the ones you'd seen on Geonwoo's face in the reflection of your phone screen.
"Because if you don't do something, I'm going to lose him." His voice broke on the last word. "Not to a fight. Not to a knife. To himself. He's been drowning since the night you got hurt, and he won't let me pull him out. He won't let anyone pull him out." He swallowed hard. "Except maybe you."
The coffee shop was very quiet.
"He's at the old spot," Woojin said finally. "Behind his mom's restaurant. He's been there for hours. I don't know if he's drunk or just... sitting. But I've never seen him like this. Not even when she died."
Behind his mother's restaurant. The curb where you'd sat with him in silence, sharing strawberry milk, waiting for him to be ready to talk. The place where he'd finally cried into your shoulder, three hours after the funeral, when he thought everyone else had stopped watching.
"I can't fix this for you," Woojin said. "But someone has to try. And I'm out of ideas."
He turned and walked toward the door. Paused with his hand on the frame.
"He meant what he said in the gym," he said without looking back. "Just not the way you think. He meant that he can't survive losing you. And he thought making you hate him was better than watching you die."
The bell chimed. He was gone.
You stood behind the counter for a long time, staring at the photograph. At Geonwoo's face. Young. Unburdened. Before the marines. Before his mother. Before everything.
Then you grabbed your jacket and went to find him.
After his mother died, Geonwoo couldn't bring himself to sell it. Couldn't bring himself to reopen it either. So it sat there, gathering dust, the sign faded and the windows dark, a monument to everything he'd lost.
You rounded the corner and saw him immediately.
He was sitting on the curb. Same spot. Same posture. Knees drawn up, forearms resting on them, head bowed. His back was to the street. To the world. He looked smaller than you'd ever seen him. Diminished. Like someone had let the air out of him and he'd never bothered to fill back up.
Your footsteps echoed in the empty street. He didn't move.
You stopped a few feet behind him.
"Woojin sent you."
His voice was rough. Raw. Like he'd been screaming or crying or both.
"Yeah."
"Go home."
"No."
Silence. A car passed on the main road, its headlights sweeping across the alley, illuminating him for just a moment. His knuckles were bloody. Fresh. Unwrapped. He'd been at the bag again.
You walked forward and sat down next to him on the curb.
Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to be present. The way you had when you were nine. When you were fifteen. When you were twenty-three and his mother was in the ground and he had no one else.
He didn't look at you. But you felt him tense. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, like he was bracing for a blow.
Five minutes passed. Ten.
The rain started again. Soft at first, then steadier. Cold droplets soaking through your jacket, plastering your hair to your forehead. You didn't move. Neither did he.
"There was so much blood."
His voice was barely audible. A whisper dragged over gravel.
"You were on the ground and I saw her. I saw my mother. I saw you dead in that alley and I couldn't breathe." His hands were shaking. You watched them tremble against his knees. "I carried you to the van. You were so light. Too light. Like you were already-" He stopped. Swallowed. "I kept thinking, 'This is it. This is what I deserve. Everyone I love dies.'"
"Geonwoo-"
"I sat in that hospital room for three days." He kept going, the words spilling out like he'd been holding them back for weeks and the dam had finally broken. "I watched the machines beep. I watched your chest rise and fall. And every time you twitched in your sleep, I thought you were crashing. I thought you were leaving. And it would be my fault. Like her. Like always."
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. Hard. His shoulders shook once.
"When you woke up, I couldn't-" His voice cracked. "I looked at you and I saw her. I saw the funeral. I saw the coffin. I saw everything I'd have to do if you, if you didn't-"
He couldn't finish.
"So I decided to make you hate me."
The words hung in the rain-soaked air.
"I thought if I made you hate me, you'd stay away. You'd be safe. You'd live." A laugh, broken, bitter, nothing like the rare smiles you remembered. "I thought I could survive you hating me. I thought anything was better than watching you die because of me."
You sat there, rain dripping down your face, and let his words settle.
Then you spoke.
"I've been living without you for five weeks, Geonwoo."
He flinched like you'd struck him.
"I wouldn't call it living."
Silence.
"I got up every morning. I went to work. I made coffee for strangers. I smiled when I was supposed to smile. I went home. I slept. Or tried to." You stared straight ahead at the darkened restaurant. "And none of it mattered. None of it felt real. Because you weren't there."
"Don't." His voice was raw. "Don't make this sound like-"
"Like what? Like you're the most important person in my life? Like I've spent twenty years by your side and I wasn't planning on stopping?" You finally turned to look at him. "You don't get to decide that for me. You don't get to push me away because you're scared. That's not how this works."
"I was trying to protect you."
"You were trying to protect yourself."
He went still.
"You thought if you pushed me away first, you wouldn't have to watch me leave." Your voice was softer now. The anger draining out, leaving only the truth behind. "But I wasn't going to leave, Geonwoo. I was never going to leave. You're the one who left."
He turned to look at you.
And god, he was a mess. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. His cheeks were wet, from rain or tears, you couldn't tell. His jaw was trembling, that strong jaw you'd watched set itself against the world for two decades, finally cracking.
"I don't know how to do this," he whispered. "I don't know how to keep you safe without losing you. Tell me how. Tell me and I'll do it. Anything. I'll do anything."
You reached out and took his hand.
His fingers were cold. Bloody. Shaking. You laced them with yours and held on.
"You stop pushing me away," you said. "You let me fight next to you. And if I go down, I go down knowing I was where I belonged. Not hiding in some apartment. Not making coffee for strangers. With you."
"I can't lose you."
"Then don't push me away."
"I'm scared." His voice broke on the word. "I'm so scared. All the time. Every time you walk into a room. Every time you spar. Every time you smile at me like I'm worth something. I'm terrified."
You squeezed his hand.
"Then be scared. But be scared with me. Not without me."
He stared at you for a long moment. Rain dripped from his hair, traced the lines of his face, clung to his lashes. He looked like a man who had been drowning for weeks and had just realized someone was holding out a hand.
He didn't take the hand.
He pulled you into his chest instead.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't smooth. It was desperate, his arms wrapping around you like you might disappear if he didn't hold tight enough, his face pressing into your rain-soaked hair, his whole body shaking with the force of everything he'd been holding back.
You felt his shoulders heave. Once. Twice. A sound escaped him, raw and broken, muffled against your scalp.
Kim Geonwoo was crying.
You wrapped your arms around him and held on.
"I'm sorry." His voice was wrecked. Barely recognizable. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean any of it. You were never weak. You were the strongest person I knew. You still are. I was just, I was so scared. I'm still scared."
"I know."
"I thought if I said it enough, I'd believe it. That you were better off without me. That I was doing the right thing."
"You were wrong."
"I know." A shaky exhale. "I know."
You stayed like that for a long time. Kneeling on the wet curb, wrapped around each other, the rain falling around you like a curtain. His heart was pounding against your ear. Fast. Too fast. Like he was still bracing for you to pull away.
You didn't pull away.
Eventually, his grip loosened. Not completely, he kept one arm around you, like he couldn't quite bring himself to let go, but enough that he could pull back and look at you.
His eyes were red. His face was a mess. He'd never looked more beautiful.
"I meant what I said in the van," he said quietly. "That night. When you were bleeding out."
"You said a lot of things."
"I said stay awake." His hand came up, trembling, and cupped your face. His thumb brushed your cheekbone. Gentle. So gentle. "I said don't close your eyes. I said you don't get to do this. Not you. Not tonight."
"I remember."
"There was more." He swallowed. "I said it while you were unconscious. While Woojin was driving. I didn't think you could hear me."
Your breath caught.
"I said-" His voice cracked. He pushed through it. "I said I loved you. I said I'd loved you since we were fifteen years old and you fell asleep on my shoulder during that terrible movie Woojin made us watch. I said I was sorry I never told you. I said if you woke up, I'd tell you every day for the rest of my life."
The rain fell. The city hummed in the distance. And Kim Geonwoo looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"I'm telling you now," he whispered. "I love you. I've always loved you. And I'm sorry it took almost losing you to say it."
You kissed him.
It wasn't graceful. Your noses bumped. His lips were cold from the rain. You could taste salt, his tears or yours, you weren't sure anymore. But his hand tightened on your face, and his other arm pulled you closer, and he kissed you back like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it.
When you finally broke apart, he pressed his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your lips. His eyes were still wet.
"Stay," he said. Not a command. A plea. "Please. Stay."
"I was never going anywhere," you said. "You just had to let me come back."
He laughed. Wet and broken and real. The first real laugh you'd heard from him in over a month.
"You're still an idiot," you added.
"Yeah." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I know."
His couch, specifically. You were wrapped in a blanket that smelled like cedar soap and him. Weak morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the ceiling.
Geonwoo was sitting on the floor next to the couch, his back against the cushions, his head tilted back. Asleep. Finally. His hand was wrapped loosely around yours, like he'd fallen asleep holding on and couldn't bear to let go even in unconsciousness.
You watched him breathe for a moment. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The way the tension had finally eased from his jaw. He looked younger like this. Softer. Closer to the boy you'd fallen in love with fifteen years ago.
You reached down with your free hand and flicked his ear.
He startled awake so fast he nearly hit his head on the coffee table.
"What, I'm up-"
"You're drooling."
He blinked at you, disoriented. Then his gaze focused. On you. On your joined hands. On the fact that you were here, in his apartment, wrapped in his blanket, alive.
Something shifted in his expression. Softened. Warmed.
"Hey," he said. His voice was rough with sleep.
"Hey."
He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. His lips were warm. Gentle. His eyes didn't leave yours.
"I meant what I said last night," he said quietly. "Every word. I'm going to tell you every day. Until you're sick of hearing it."
"I don't think I'll ever get sick of it."
"Good." Another kiss to your knuckles. "Because I have twenty years of it saved up."
You smiled. A real smile. The first one in weeks.
"Then start talking."
He did.
And on the nightstand, the photograph of the three of you, young, laughing, alive, was facing up again.
It was late, past midnight, the kind of hour when the city outside grew quiet and the only sounds were the rhythmic thud of fists against leather and the occasional creak of old plumbing. You were sitting on the edge of the ring, legs dangling, watching Geonwoo work the heavy bag with that focused intensity he brought to everything.
Your side was still healing. The scar had faded from angry red to soft pink, and the doctor had cleared you for light activity. Geonwoo had interpreted "light activity" as "absolutely no sparring, no bag work, no anything that might make you bleed again." You'd argued. He'd given you that look, the one where his jaw set and his eyes went soft at the same time, like he was trying to be stern but couldn't quite manage it because he kept looking at you like you hung the moon.
You'd lost the argument.
So you sat on the ring and watched him. Which wasn't exactly a hardship.
He was shirtless. Sweat gleamed on his shoulders and back, tracing the lines of muscle and scar tissue. His movements were precise, economical, every punch landing exactly where he intended. You'd watched him train a thousand times over the years, but something was different now. Maybe it was the way he'd glance at you between combinations, checking to make sure you were still there. Maybe it was the way his ears went pink when he caught you staring.
Maybe it was the fact that you were allowed to stare now.
"Okay, I'm going to be sick."
Woojin's voice cut through your thoughts. He was sprawled on a bench near the mirrors, a towel draped over his face, pretending to be exhausted from the minimal amount of bag work he'd actually done.
"You've been watching him like that for twenty minutes," he continued, voice muffled by the towel. "Twenty. Minutes. I've been timing it. You haven't blinked once."
"I blinked."
"You didn't. I was watching you not blink while you watched him not blink while he watched you. It's a closed loop of non-blinking. It's unnatural."
Geonwoo's rhythm on the bag didn't falter, but his ears went from pink to red.
"Woojin," he said, not turning around. "Shut up."
"I'm just saying." Woojin sat up, letting the towel fall. His hair was a disaster, sticking up in twelve different directions. "This is worse than before. At least when you two were silently pining, it was tragic and interesting. Now it's just... domestic. You keep handing her water bottles. You fixed her hand wraps three times even though she told you they were fine. Yesterday you made her soup."
"I like soup," you said.
"He made you soup at 2 AM because you mentioned you were hungry. He went to the store. At 2 AM. For soup ingredients."
Geonwoo stopped hitting the bag. His shoulders tensed.
"It was cold," he said quietly. "She needed something warm."
Woojin stared at him. Then at you. Then back at him.
"Oh my god," he said. "You're that couple. You're going to be the couple that shares a single blanket and feeds each other at restaurants and calls each other pet names in public."
"We don't have pet names," you said.
"Yet," Woojin countered. "Give it a week. He's going to call you something disgusting like 'jagi' and you're going to melt into a puddle and I'm going to have to find new friends who don't make me want to vomit from secondhand sweetness."
Geonwoo walked over to the ring and grabbed his water bottle. He took a long drink, his throat working, and you watched a drop of sweat trace down his neck and disappear beneath his collarbone.
Woojin made a gagging sound.
"You're doing it again," he said. "The staring thing. Right now. In front of me. Like I'm not even here."
"You're always here," Geonwoo said flatly.
"That's my point! I'm always here! Which means I have to witness-" He gestured wildly between the two of you. "This. Whatever this is. The longing gazes. The casual touches. The way you stood behind her yesterday while she was making coffee and just... hovered. Like a very large, very anxious bodyguard who also wants to kiss her forehead."
Geonwoo's jaw tightened. "I don't hover."
"You hover."
"I stand nearby."
"You hover like a helicopter. A handsome, emotionally repressed helicopter."
You laughed. The sound bubbled up before you could stop it, bright and genuine, and Geonwoo's gaze snapped to you. His expression shifted, the tension in his jaw easing, his eyes warming, his lips twitching like he was fighting a smile.
"There," Woojin said, pointing. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. You laughed and he looked at you like you just invented laughter. It's been a week and I'm already exhausted."
"You could leave," Geonwoo suggested.
"And miss this? Absolutely not. Someone has to document this for posterity. For science. For future generations who will want to study the exact moment Kim Geonwoo became a lovesick puppy."
Geonwoo threw his towel at Woojin's face.
Woojin caught it, grinning.
"See? Defensive. Classic symptom." He stood up and stretched, his joints popping audibly. "Anyway, I'm leaving. Not because you told me to, but because I have a date. A real date. With a real person who isn't my childhood best friend."
"You have a date?" you asked.
"Don't sound so surprised. I'm delightful. Charming. Incredibly handsome." He struck a pose in the mirror. "The total package. Unlike this one, who needed twenty years and a near-death experience to confess his feelings."
Geonwoo's hand twitched. You reached out and caught it before he could throw something else.
"Go," you said to Woojin. "Have fun. Be safe."
"Always." He headed for the door, then paused. Looked back. His expression was softer now, the humor giving way to something genuine. "Hey. I'm glad you two figured it out. Really. Took you long enough, but... yeah. I'm glad."
Then he pointed at Geonwoo.
"Hurt her again and I'll break your other hand."
Geonwoo nodded once. Serious. "I know."
"Good." Woojin's grin returned. "Also, use protection. The walls in this gym are thin and I don't need to hear-"
The water bottle Geonwoo threw hit him square in the back of the head as he fled through the door, laughing.
Just the hum of the fluorescent lights. The distant sound of traffic. The soft rhythm of Geonwoo's breathing as he stood beside you, his hand still caught in yours.
"He's not wrong," you said.
"About which part?"
"All of it. The hovering. The staring. The soup at 2 AM." You tugged his hand gently, pulling him closer. He came willingly, stepping between your knees where you sat on the edge of the ring. "You're very obvious, Kim Geonwoo."
He looked up at you. His hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead. His cheeks were still flushed from the workout. His eyes, those dark, watchful eyes you'd known your whole life, were fixed on your face like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"I don't know how to be subtle," he admitted. "I never learned. With you, I just..."
"Just what?"
"Want to be close." His free hand came up, fingers brushing your knee. Light. Tentative. Like he was still afraid you'd disappear. "All the time. It's annoying. Even to me."
"It's not annoying."
"It is. I know it is. I keep-" He exhaled, frustrated with himself. "I keep checking. Where you are. If you're okay. If you need anything. I wake up in the middle of the night and I have to look at you to make sure you're still breathing. Woojin's right. I hover."
You reached out and cupped his face. His stubble was rough against your palm. His eyes fluttered half-closed at the contact, leaning into your touch like a cat seeking warmth.
"You spent five weeks thinking I was going to die," you said softly. "You spent years thinking everyone you love leaves. It makes sense that you need to check. I don't mind."
"I should be better."
"You're perfect."
His eyes opened fully. Something raw flickered there. "I'm not."
"You are to me."
The words hung between you. His hand tightened on your knee. His other hand came up to cover yours where it rested against his cheek.
"I love you," he said. Quiet. Certain. Like it was the most obvious fact in the universe. "I don't say it enough. I'm trying to say it more."
"You said it this morning."
"I want to say it more."
"Geonwoo-"
"I love you." He turned his head, pressing a kiss to your palm. "I love you." Another kiss to your wrist. "I love you." Your forearm. "I love you."
You were laughing now, breathless, your heart doing something dangerous in your chest. "You're going to wear out the words."
"Never." He looked up at you through his lashes. His lips were curved in that rare, precious smile. The one that transformed his whole face. The one that made him look young and unburdened and impossibly beautiful. "I have twenty years to make up for. Let me."
You pulled him up.
He came easily, rising between your knees, his hands finding your waist. You were still sitting on the edge of the ring, which put him at the perfect height. Your arms wrapped around his neck. His forehead pressed against yours.
"Hi," you whispered.
"Hi."
"You're very close."
"I know." His nose brushed yours. "Is that okay?"
"More than okay."
"Good." His voice had dropped. Lower. Rougher. "Because I've been thinking about this all day."
It started soft. Gentle. The way all your kisses had started this week, careful, tentative, like he was still learning the shape of you and afraid of getting it wrong.
But something was different tonight.
Maybe it was the empty gym. Maybe it was the adrenaline still humming from his workout. Maybe it was the way Woojin's teasing had cracked something open, made him bold.
His hands slid from your waist to your hips, gripping tight. He pulled you forward until you were perched on the very edge of the ring, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively. The new position pressed you flush against him, his chest to yours, his warmth seeping through your thin tank top.
"Geonwoo-"
"I know." His lips moved against yours as he spoke. "Tell me to stop."
"I don't want you to stop."
He made a sound. Low. Rough. It vibrated through his chest and into yours.
His mouth found your jaw. Your throat. The sensitive spot just below your ear that made you gasp and grip his shoulders. He lingered there, learning it, mapping the sound you made when his teeth grazed your skin.
"You have no idea," he murmured against your neck. "No idea what you do to me."
"Show me."
His hands tightened on your hips. Hard enough to bruise. You didn't care. You wanted the marks. You wanted proof that this was real, that he was here, that after twenty years of dancing around each other you'd finally crashed together.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. Hungry. His lips were red and slightly swollen.
"Here?" His voice was rough. "Now?"
"The door's locked."
"Woojin has a key."
"Woojin is on a date."
"He could come back."
"He won't." You traced your fingers down his chest. Felt the muscles jump beneath your touch. "And even if he did, he'd survive. He's survived worse."
Geonwoo stared at you for a long moment. Then something in his expression shifted. The last thread of restraint snapping.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
He kissed you again. Harder this time. Deeper. His tongue swept into your mouth and you met him there, matching his intensity, your fingers threading through his damp hair and pulling. He groaned into the kiss, the sound swallowed between you, and walked forward until your back hit the ropes of the ring.
The ropes gave slightly, cradling you. Geonwoo followed, one hand bracing against the top rope beside your head, the other still gripping your hip. He was everywhere. Surrounding you. His scent, sweat and cedar and something uniquely him, filled your lungs.
"You're shaking," he murmured against your lips.
"So are you."
He was. His whole body trembled with the effort of holding back. You could feel it in his hands, his chest, the way his breath came in uneven bursts.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said. "Your side-"
"Is healed."
"Not completely."
"Enough." You pulled back to meet his eyes. "Geonwoo. I've been waiting twenty years for you to touch me like this. Don't make me wait longer because you're afraid of a scar."
Something cracked in his expression. The worry giving way to want.
He kissed you again. And this time, he didn't hold back.
The kiss deepened into something urgent. Desperate. His hands roamed your body, your waist, your ribs, the curve of your back, touching everywhere he could reach like he was trying to memorize you through fabric. Your own hands weren't idle. You traced the lines of his shoulders, his chest, the ridges of old scars that told the story of every fight he'd survived.
He pulled back just long enough to yank his shirt off completely. You'd seen him shirtless a hundred times. In the gym. At the beach. In the aftermath of fights when you'd helped patch him up.
This was different.
This was for you.
"Beautiful," you breathed. "You're so beautiful."
His ears went red. "I'm not-"
"You are." You pulled him back down, pressing your lips to his collarbone. His shoulder. The scar on his chest from a knife fight three years ago. "Every part of you. I've always thought so."
"You never said."
"Neither did you."
He laughed. Breathless. Wrecked. "We're idiots."
"The biggest idiots."
He kissed you again, smiling into it, and the joy of it, the sheer giddy joy of finally having this, having him, bubbled up in your chest until you were laughing too, the kiss dissolving into shared breath and foreheads pressed together and hands tangled in hair.
"I love you," he said again. "I love you so much it scares me."
"I know." You kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you too. I've always loved you. Since we were fifteen and you fell asleep on my shoulder during that terrible movie."
"That was Woojin's shoulder."
"What?"
"Woojin's shoulder. You fell asleep on his shoulder. I was on your other side. I was so jealous I couldn't focus on the movie at all."
You stared at him. "Are you serious?"
"Completely." His thumb traced your bottom lip. "I wanted to switch places with him so badly. But I was too scared to move. Too scared to wake you. So I just sat there and watched you sleep and thought, 'This is it. This is the person I'm going to love forever.'"
Your heart cracked open. Just a little. Just enough to let him in deeper.
"Kim Geonwoo."
"Hm?"
"You're the most ridiculous person I've ever met."
"I know."
You kissed him. Soft. Tender. Pouring fifteen years of unspoken feelings into the press of your lips against his.
When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours. His eyes were closed. His breathing was uneven.
"We should go home," he said.
"Probably."
"Before Woojin actually does come back."
"Good idea."
Neither of you moved.
"Geonwoo."
"Hm?"
"You're still holding me."
"I know." His arms tightened around you. "I don't want to let go."
The night air was cool against your flushed skin. Geonwoo's hand was wrapped around yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your knuckles. Your shoulders brushed with every step. Neither of you spoke. You didn't need to.
Halfway home, he stopped.
"What?"
He was looking at a convenience store. The same one you'd passed a thousand times. The fluorescent lights glowed through the windows, illuminating rows of snacks and drinks.
"Wait here," he said.
He disappeared inside. You stood on the sidewalk, confused, watching through the window as he browsed the refrigerated section. A minute later, he emerged holding two items.
Strawberry milk. Two bottles.
You stared at them. Then at him.
"Geonwoo-"
"You always liked the strawberry one best." He held one out to you. "When we were kids. You'd always pick strawberry even though I liked banana. And I'd always buy strawberry anyway because I wanted you to be happy."
Your throat tightened. "I remember."
"I know it's stupid. It's just milk. But I saw it in there and I thought-" He looked at the bottle in his hand. "I wanted to give you something. Something that meant something. To us."
You took the bottle. Your fingers brushed his.
"It's not stupid," you said. "It's perfect."
He smiled. Small. Shy. The smile of the boy on the curb, sharing his drink because he didn't know how to say I care about you but he could show it.
You twisted off the cap and took a sip. It was cold. Sweet. Exactly the same as you remembered.
"Good?" he asked.
"Perfect," you said again.
He opened his own bottle and drank. You stood there on the sidewalk, two adults drinking strawberry milk at midnight, and it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for you.
"I'm going to marry you someday."
The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
Geonwoo choked on his milk.
"What?"
You felt your face heat. "I didn't, that was, ignore that. I don't know why I said that."
He set his bottle down on a nearby bench. Then he took yours and set it down too. Then he cupped your face in both hands and looked at you with an intensity that stole your breath.
"Say it again."
"Geonwoo-"
"Please." His voice was rough. "Say it again."
You swallowed. "I'm going to marry you someday."
His eyes went bright. Wet. He blinked rapidly, but a tear escaped anyway, tracing down his cheek.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." He kissed you. Soft. Sweet. Tasting like strawberry milk and salt. "I'm going to marry you too. Someday. Whenever you want. Tomorrow. Next week. Ten years from now. I don't care. As long as it's you."
You laughed. Or maybe you cried. It was hard to tell anymore.
"You're crying," he said.
"So are you."
"Yeah." He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. "I'm happy. I didn't know I could be this happy."
You kissed him again. Right there on the sidewalk. Under the convenience store lights. With strawberry milk waiting on the bench.
When you finally broke apart, he picked up the bottles and handed yours back.
"Come on," he said, taking your hand. "Let's go home."
Home.
His apartment. Your apartment. It didn't matter. Anywhere with him was home.
Woojin stood in the doorway of Geonwoo's apartment, holding a bag of takeout, staring at the scene before him.
You were on the couch, wrapped in Geonwoo's hoodie, the gray one that was too big on you and smelled like him. Geonwoo was next to you, his arm around your shoulders, your legs draped over his lap. A drama was playing on the TV, but neither of you were watching it. You were too busy looking at each other.
"What did I say?" Woojin continued, walking in and setting the food on the counter. "What did I specifically say? I said you'd become that couple. And here you are. Being that couple. In his hoodie. Sharing a blanket. Probably whispering sweet nothings."
"We weren't whispering," you said.
"You were thinking about whispering. I could see it in your eyes."
Geonwoo didn't even look at him. His gaze was fixed on you, soft and warm, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your shoulder.
"Geonwoo," Woojin said. "Geonwoo. Hey. Earth to lovesick puppy."
"Hm?"
"I brought food. Jjajangmyeon. Your favorite."
"Thanks."
"That's it? Thanks? You're not even going to look at me?"
Geonwoo turned his head slowly. Looked at Woojin for approximately one second. Then turned back to you.
"Unbelievable." Woojin threw his hands up. "Three months. Three months of this. I've created a monster. I pushed you two together and now I have to suffer the consequences."
"You love us," you said.
"I do. Unfortunately. Against my better judgment." He started unpacking the food, pulling out containers and chopsticks. "But I'm establishing new rules. Rule one: no kissing when I'm in the room. Rule two: no longing gazes that last longer than five seconds. Rule three: if you're going to be disgusting, at least feed me while you do it."
Geonwoo stood up. Walked over to Woojin. Took the containers from his hands.
"Thank you for the food," he said. "You can leave now."
"I just got here!"
"We're busy."
"Busy doing what? Staring at each other? You can do that while I eat."
Geonwoo looked at you. A question in his eyes.
You shrugged. "He can stay. He did bring food."
"See?" Woojin grinned. "She likes me better."
"She's known me twenty years. She's known you twenty years. It's equal."
"But I'm more charming."
"You're more annoying."
"That's the same thing."
Geonwoo sighed. It was a long-suffering sound, the sigh of a man who had been dealing with Kim Woojin for two decades and would probably deal with him for two more. But there was fondness underneath it. The fondness of family.
He brought the food to the coffee table and sat back down beside you. His arm found its place around your shoulders automatically, pulling you into his side.
Woojin settled into the armchair across from you, already opening his container of jjajangmyeon.
"So," he said around a mouthful of noodles. "When's the wedding?"
You choked on air. Geonwoo's hand tightened on your shoulder.
"Woojin," Geonwoo warned.
"What? I'm asking. As your best friend. As the person who will obviously be the best man. I need to plan my speech. It's going to be long. Very long. I have twenty years of material."
"Woojin."
"I'm going to tell the strawberry milk story. And the time you fell asleep on my shoulder and he was jealous. And the time he carried you five blocks because you twisted your ankle and refused to let anyone else touch you-"
"We're not engaged," you interrupted.
"Yet," Woojin corrected. "The key word is yet. I saw the way he looked at you when you said that word. Marriage. He's been thinking about it. Planning it. Probably has a ring hidden somewhere in this apartment."
Geonwoo's ears went red.
"Oh my god," you breathed. "Do you?"
"I'm not answering that."
"You do." Woojin cackled. "You absolutely do. Kim Geonwoo, you romantic disaster. Where is it? Under the bed? In the sock drawer? In the gym bag you think no one looks in?"
"Finish your food," Geonwoo said flatly.
"I'm going to find it."
"You're not."
"I'm going to find it and I'm going to take a picture and I'm going to show everyone at the gym-"
Geonwoo threw a pillow at him. Woojin caught it, still laughing, and threw it back.
You watched them bicker, warmth spreading through your chest. This was your family. These two idiots who had been by your side for twenty years. One who made you laugh. One who made you feel safe.
One who loved you enough to buy strawberry milk at midnight and think about forever.
Geonwoo caught your eye. His expression softened. The bickering with Woojin faded into background noise.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
You nodded. "More than okay."
He smiled. Small. Private. Just for you.
"Good," he said. "Me too."
Under the blanket, his hand found yours. Squeezed once.
jjk men & reader are a bit mean throughout depending on the situation, slight angst to comfort, cursing, mentions of breakups (none of ya'll actually do dw) - this took me forever i'm so sorry, each one is like the length of a mini fic for some fucking reason
gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
satoru gojo:
there's nothing on this planet earth that satoru hates more than fighting with you.
nevertheless, at the worst of times, the two of you can't seem to help it, as satoru has the remarkable tendency to unknowingly take things too far or fail to take your concerns seriously enough.
and that's always been the big, underlying problem. how satoru can not help but to look at everything with a humorous eye. the blue eyed sorcerer subconsiously pokes fun at and makes jokes of practically everything, for that is just the kind of person he is. that is how he operates. he does not like the sinking weight of difficult conversations. he does not like when there is room for sadness or anger, so he attempts to deflect any reaction of so with an attitude that you find endearing most times, but really begins to get on your nerves when you actually want to have a conversation.
despite your frustrations, you are able to say that satoru is not incapable of having a serious conversation. you've seen it happen before, of course, the way his tone dips into something low and weighted as he speaks with a sharpness in his eyes that he does not even begin to think of tearing away. satoru would never speak to his students in such a way, unless to intimidate them into thinking with complexity in the midst of a fight.
you've seen him take that tone with the higher ups, though, when he's beyond angry with them, when he's forced to talk all business and strategy and they dare to even suggest that he should allow his students die if the council ever decided that it's time to destroy sukuna's vessel or anyone else.
and outside of work, he's only spoken to you that way a handful of times. in fact, you can count the instances on your finger. he only really gets that serious with you if your wellbeing is put to question or is at stake, and he has to pry answers out of you before jumping to protect and look after you.
you're the one thing that satoru really, truly does not play about, and yet he has developed this habit of dismissing you or brushing you off when the roles are reversed - when it's you worrying about him and not the other way around.
satoru does not mean to make it seem like he doesn't care about your feelings. it's quite the opposite, in fact. there's not a thing he cares about more in this world, but even so, he just can't seem to get it sometimes. he can't seem to understand where you are coming from, especially when it's his safety that you begin fussing over. satoru knows no other way to react but to coo and cradle you like a baby, practically laughing you off, as if you wanting him to be safe is such an insane thing. as if it's silly for you, gojo's girlfriend, to worry about when or if he's coming home.
because of course he's coming home to you after every mission in one piece. he's satoru gojo. no one's ever bothered to show the decency of worrying over his wellbeing because there's never been any reason to. satoru is treated like a god among men, like a machine, a robot, a weapon, and weapon's don't have weaknesses. machines don't feel pain. and satoru is far from an ordinary human being, therefore, he admits that it's so confusing when you get angry with him for coming home so late one night after he called to tell you not to wait up for him. when literally nothing bad was ever going to happen to him.
satoru hates fighting with you. he hates when you're mad, but sometimes, he can not help but fall into the daunting rhythm of heated back and forth with you, especially when you throw accusations and worries about him that satoru has never experienced, never paid any attention to.
and what you genuinely can not stand is that stupid, perplexed expression on his face when you snap at him. the way his sapphire hues shine with what you dare to identify as annoyance, his brow quirking, his lips turned downward in the way it did back in high school, when he was far more bratty. like you're the crazy one for waiting up all night with fears swirling in your mind, with anxiety a heavy pit in your chest, and your heart pounding in your ears as you prayed for him to walk through that door any second.
how could he question you? how could he judge you with that gaze as if you're blowing things out of proportion? making a big scene for no reason when he's right there in front of you, fine, like he always is. like the world knows him to be, so why don't you?
"princess, i don't understand," satoru's laughing, a sound of exasperation and dismissal that you fucking hate. you feel your blood boiling as you stand before him with brows angled so hard that you can feel the skin around them begin to ache.
it's so late. close to four in the morning, and satoru has only just returned home. you're fuming, buzzing with the adrenaline of having waited hours for him as well as your brewing anger.
satoru is all lightness and jokes and weariness that begins to harden the former into something more impatient. "i'm home now, aren't i? i'm fine! i told you i would be late, so i don't know why you're so upset."
"that's all you ever fucking say when i bring this up, satoru. that you don't understand." your words are harsh, cutting through the air like knives that pin satoru to a corner by the hem of his shirt fabric. satoru hates it. hates the way you say his name with venom dripping from your tone. hates the way this argument has already gone on for ten minutes, and he still doesn't know what for. he just wants to get in bed with you and go to sleep after a long week, and here you are, shouting at him in the middle of the night over something he couldn't even control.
"i don't, (y/n)," he exhales, and when your name falls from his lips instead of one of the plethera of nicknames he prefers to address you by instead, you know that he's reached his limit. he can no longer react breezily as you push harder and harder, stubbornly refusing to back down from this fight. your heart is heavy, and you make up for the tears you shed out of fear in the way you bite back. "because you know i come home to you every night, after every single mission. without fail."
"that's not the point! you're not even trying to understand me!"
"well how could i when you just start yelling the second i walk through the door?"
"satoru," you hiss, as you feel tensions rising, emotions escalating. you can see satoru's expression hardening, his greivances now apparent on his face as he frowns at you, abhorring the way his name falls from your mouth yet again. "you called me to tell me that you would be a little late at eight pm. it's now fucking four in the morning. how could you even think that i wouldn't be up waiting for you? that i wouldn't be terrified?"
"maybe because i gave you the heads up hours in advance."
"how was i supposed to know that meant you wouldn't be back until damn near dawn?"
"you think i knew that when i called you?" he scoffs, throwing his arms out. "come on, (y/n), give me a break. what the hell do you want from me? you knew what you were getting into when you even started dating me, so why's this a problem now all of a sudden?"
you scrunch your nose. "it's not all of a sudden! i've been worrying about you since fucking grade school, you idiot!"
"who do you think you're talking to?" you hear it. that drop in his voice that you rarely ever encounter. you see the way his eyes darken, his jaw tight, but you don't care. he can get angry all he wants, but it doesn't matter because the hell that he put you through tonight alone is enough to justify talking to him any way you'd like, in your mind. "be mad all you want. scream at me, hit me, but don't go calling me names. you know i don't like that shit. not from you."
any other time, you would have listened. you would have taken his tone as a warning, but tonight, you ignore him the same way he always ignores your worries. the same way he always brushes you off when you tell him to text you when he gets to a certain location, calling you cute and silly in the head for even thinking of showing him concern.
"then don't talk to me like i'm a child," you snap. "you talk about me being angry like i'm throwing a fucking tantrum, and it drives me crazy."
"i'm not talking to you like a child, (y/n), but this is getting ridiculous."
"is it really?" you lean back with raised brows and a snarky smile. satoru's lips flatten into a line as he examines your coutenance, irritated. "oh i'm so sorry. it's just so ridiculous that i want you to come home unscathed at a decent hour. it's ridiculous how i want you to be safe when everyone wants to throw you into the pit of hell all the time." you roll your eyes as you speak cynically, and satoru sours with every second.
he hates fighting with you because when you're angry, you get so cruel. so mean, when normally, you are such a contrast. so sweet, doting, and understanding. you rarely get like this, which should mean that satoru has done something very wrong, but he just can't see it. he doesn't get it. he almost refuses to.
and it's so hard to fight with the ivory haired man because you know he doesn't hear the words you are saying in the moment, but how you are saying them. he does not do well with your harshness, especially when he's already beat. he fumbles, slips up, and eggs it on without trying.
"that's my job," he says sternly. "that's what i've always done."
"okay, and when do you slow down?"
"i don't get to."
"you're satoru gojo," you cry, his name pouring like a curse from your lips. "of course you get to! you can do whatever the hell you want! anything, apparently, except fucking get back to your worried girlfriend on time-"
"on time for what? you never told me to be back at a certain time, (y/n)," he cuts in. "and clearly you don't understand me at all if you think i can just drop everything and come running to you because you're scared for nothing."
you tilt your head, squinting your eyes as you run your tongue over your teeth. your hands reach your hips, satoru's words striking you coldly. "so that's how you feel," you start slowly. "i'm scared for nothing. i don't understand you."
satoru clicks his tongue and looks to the sky. "you're twisting my words."
"really? 'cause i'm just repeating the exact words that came out of your mouth."
satoru catches wind of the way your voice has mellowed out, and he can see that he's struck a nerve. but so have you. "(y/n)-"
"so just - let me get this straight," you bring your hands together. "all of a sudden i don't understand you because you can't deal with the fact that there's someone in this shitty ass world who actually bothers to think about the toll all of your responsibilities take on you."
"that's not-"
"i don't understand you because i spend every waking moment of my life when you're away hoping that something bad doesn't happen to you. hoping that you aren't caught off guard, that some kind of weakness hasn't been exploited to hurt you."
now, your boyfriend is offended, for it is starting to sound like you think that he isn't strong. satoru's ego gets the best of him as he reels. "who the hell is gonna catch me off guard or exploit me? shit like that doesn't happen. people give me these jobs for that reason."
"and i'm telling you that i don't fucking care," you stamp. "i don't care that you're the strongest. i don't care that you're the honored one. i don't care that you're the only person who could save this planet from doom if it ever came down to it. i don't care about any of that shit. satoru, i care about you. and god forbid i do, or else you'll start basically calling me stupid."
"what?! i didn't call you stupid, (y/n). you're the one who called me an idiot!"
"you don't have to actually say that i'm stupid to make me feel that way. i can tell by the way you always laugh when i tell you i'm worried, satoru. you laugh."
"so what if i laugh? that doesn't mean i think you're stupid when i do, (y/n)."
"then what do you think? that i'm adorable? that i'm silly? because those are basically nice ways of calling me stupid! and that's what you think of my feelings!"
"you're blowing things way out of proportion. i don't think you're feelings are stupid. i would never think that," he argues desperately.
"but you do! you don't even know you do!" you point accusingly. "i know you're the strongest, satoru, but damn! think about yourself for once! think about me!"
all satoru can really hear is your blame - the fact that he thought you understood, and you don't. he's tired. he's angry. he's missed you, and you're yelling at him, and he feels like shit.
but he doesn't realize that this is you understanding and loving him at the same time.
"i do think about you," he growls lowly. "every damn day. every second. every minute. every hour. i feel guilty enough for leaving in the first place, but clearly that's not enough. i have to juggle the world on top of this shit now, too. i'm doing everything i can. i would have thought by now that you'd understand and actually support me. but i guess i was wrong. i can't even come home and go to bed with my girlfriend without her pulling this. if you knew you couldn't handle it, then maybe you shouldn't have agreed to be with me."
he gestures between you like you are the very thing getting in his way, and you fall silent as you watch him with wide eyes. his words hang in the dim silence, and your throat tightens with all your frustrations, all your anger, all your heartbreak, and all your love.
granted, you can understand where he is coming from. it isn't like he didn't call you at all, and he likely expected you to have gone to bed when he told you to over the phone, but it's assumptions like those which get you so heated. how can he think that you'll be able to sleep without him safe and sound beside you? the man jolts awake when you fucking get up to use the bathroom, so you can't fathom how he can't fathom where you're coming from.
yes he's the strongest, and you are physically weaker than him. satoru frets over every ache you experience, every sickness you develop, every frustration you express except for when it comes to him, and you can't believe the sheer hypocricy. does he think that you don't love him? does he think that since the rest of the world doesn't, you shouldn't blink an eye when a higher up sends him straight into danger?
you get that he is damn near impossible to touch, but satoru is not just the strongest to you. he's your boyfriend. he's the love of your life, and whether he's invincible or made of stone or what, you'll fuss over him at any chance you get. you love him. you only feel stable when you know he's okay, and yes, you can see how that puts an extra strain on satoru's shoulders, but it does not give him the right to dismiss you. it does not give him the right to practically swear you off like you're a plague.
your mouth clamps shut, and you smile. something so calm. so threatening that has satoru's anger buffering. you take in a deep breath, looking all around the space in an attempt to distract from the way your eyes begin to sting.
satoru sees it immediately. the shine of your eyes in the half darkness. he's instantly breaking, reaching his arms out as his face falls. "are you... about to cry?" he asks urgently, stepping toward you. "please don't cry. i didn't mean-"
"yes you did," you step back from him, leading him to freeze in his spot. you blink hard, pressing your lips together tight. "it's alright," is all you say, voice noticeably soft. "good night."
when you fight, satoru feels like his world is caving around him as he watches you turn your back and retreat into the bedroom stiffly, without another sound. just gone.
you rarely fight, but when you do, it lingers. it burns. nasty words said in the heat of the moment stain the open air, and satoru is left to mull over everything that was said with a logical and emotional eye now that it's all died down.
his heart aches, and his mind is swarming now with panic as he settles down in the aftermath, having snapped out of his haze the moment he saw tears spring to your eyes. he can't have that. he can't have you that upset because of him. he can't have you crying because he didn't think before speaking.
he exhales heavily with a frown, thinking hard as he scratches the nape of his undercut with curled brows. satoru didn't mean to get so angry with you, but how else was he meant to react? you were talking so mean about the one thing in satoru's life that is non negotiable. the one thing that he was trained to do since birth, since the world first laid its greedy, demanding eyes upon him.
but then, satoru realizes that you've never shown that you aren't accepting of his role in this world. you are always checking in on him, making sure he's fed before he leaves and when he returns, massaging aches in his body that he did not even realize were there until your soft hands met certain weak spaces - and when it comes to your touch, every ounce of his flesh is considered a weak space.
since the moment he met you, you've been nothing but supportive, a rock, the foundation of his mental strength. you're there, thinking about him, worrying about him even when you don't have to, and that is not because you don't understand him but because you care for him as deeply as he cares for you.
satoru tries to envision it from your perspective. how would he feel if you did not return home until four in the morning? hell, satoru would never even let an hour pass without tracking you down himself, whether you had called him to let him know or not. he does not think twice about checking in on you if he is unsure of your whereabouts or your safety... but you don't have the privilege of doing that, do you? you can't teleport. you can't spy on satoru from afar with the gift of tripled vision. you can't really do anything but text him, sit, and wait.
and it's only then, when satoru pictures how he would feel if the roles were reversed, that he finally starts to piece it together and actually get where you're coming from. you don't care that he's the strongest, you had said, because his strength does not change the fact that he is flesh, bone, and blood at the end of the day and he is nothing if not yours first. he is nothing if not the man you intend to marry one day, as he's already got the whole thing planned out, and you worry out of love. not because you think he's weak. not because you don't understand him.
and not because you aren't cut out to be his girl.
satoru cringes. he shouldn't have said that. he really shouldn't have said that. he can't imagine what you're thinking now, in this sudden godforsaken silence. his words echo through his head on repeat, and it hasn't even been twenty minutes before satoru is caving, trudging hesitantly into your bedroom to make ammends.
the two of you can't sleep without the other, after all. he doubts that either of you will get any rest if you don't make up now, for your teary eyes are burned into his mind and will not relent if he goes to lay his head without another word to you.
when he enters your shared bedroom, he sees that you have blocked him off. your back is to him and your legs are curled up to your chest, the blankets and pilows are bunched beside you in the middle of the bed, leaving satoru with no room to touch you if he is to settle down beside you.
his heart plummets. you're really pissed.
ignoring the mountain you've shoved next to your body, satoru rounds the bed to crouch down beside you. the second your face comes into view, he catches you knuckling hard at your eyes as you rush to close them, sniffing softly. satoru's eyes run over the traces of tear stains on your moonlit skin, your nose flushed as your dewy lashes flutter. the sorcerer tilts his hand with a frown, settling his knees on the carpet before you.
he pouts, lifting a hand to slide over your arm. you stiffen like his touch is cold, and it crushes him. "i know you're not asleep yet, princess," he murmurs, voice soft and steady through the haziness of the wee hours of the morning. you don't move. your arm just twitches, rejecting his touch as his hand slides from your skin. he sets his chin on the empty patch of sheets beside you, hypnotic eyes gazing at your face sadly. "(y/n), please open your eyes. i don't want us to end the night like this. i'm sorry, okay?"
you turn over your shoulder, your back to him once more as you face the opposite direction. satoru's heart cracks a little more on the inside. he hates this. he hates being shut out by you. he hates not knowing what's going on inside of your head.
so he does not yield. satoru proceeds, sliding his hand over the warmth of your back to soothe you. you tense again, but do not push him away, as you have nowhere to go.
"baby, please," he begs. there it is again. that rare severity in his tone, now laced with something sweet and yearning and apologetic. he speaks delicately, like he's afraid to reach the volume that the two of you were arguing at only minutes ago. "please, don't shut me out. i want to talk about this. i didn't mean what i said about you not handling being with me. that was so mean. i don't know why i said it. you're the perfect girlfriend. you're always perfect to me. gonna marry you one day, you're so perfect. i'm just tired, baby. i'm really tired and i hate when we fight. i know it's not an excuse, but i don't know how to react when you tell me you worry. i'm not used to that..."
"you should be," you murmur, a croaked response. satoru clings to it, leaning in further as he caresses you. "we've been together for years. this isn't new. i've always been like this..."
"i know," he says gently. "i know. you're always thinking of me. you're always making sure i'm okay."
"but it's not just that," you stiffen before turning over your shoulder to meet his eyes with glassy ones. he watches you closely, carefully, eyes full of things that you can't begin to name as you shift. "i mean... i know i can be overbearing and that - that you can handle yourself-"
"you're not overbearing."
you give him a look. "but still, i can't help worrying, satoru. what if someone actually manages to hurt you one day? what if you get trapped somwhere and i don't know how to help you?" you ask, voice so gentle that your boyfriend fears it may break if you speak any louder. "i wouldn't be able to handle it. and when i hadn't heard from you for hours after that one call, i just - i panicked. i always panic, but i really panicked this time."
"oh baby," satoru sighs, ocean eyes swollen with love. "i'm sorry. you know that if any of that stuff were to happen, i'd fight with everything in me to get back to you."
"i know," you sigh, shifting to turn fully around to face him again. satoru's hand adjusts, settling over the curve of your waist as you plop your head back against the pillow. "and i know none of that would ever happen. and i know... that maybe i am silly for even thinking about that stuff-"
"you're not," he is swift to say. "i should've never said that you were. or made you feel like that. i love you so much. sometimes when you get all anxious, i just get distracted by how sweet you are and... it's not fair. you're a human being with emotions, and i should respect them whether i agree with the reasons behind them or not."
your nose flares as satoru tilts his head to look you in the eye properly. the stream of moonlight that filters in from the behind curtains casts a soft glow around the outline of satoru's figure. his white strands fall messily over his eyes as he looks at you, his lips curving with a comforting, light smile.
you're still angry, but not so much in the moment. instead, you're overwhelmed with sadness. with grief for the idea of losing satoru. the sentiment makes you feel crazy, and the fact that he is the strongest only makes you worry for the people seeking to overpower him, to find his weakness, to kill him.
your mouth wrinkles as you look over him, brows knitting together as your lips tremble. satoru's smile falls when he sees, and his hand moves to smooth over your hair. "what is it, baby?" he frowns, and you whimper.
"i don't want to lose you," you admit. "i'm so terrified of losing you, satoru."
he completely melts to sap. "come here."
satoru is quick to his feet, moving around to fix the pillows back into place so that he can shuffle into bed next to you, wrapping you up tight. his strong arms slip around your waist and he presses his back flush to you. he presses a warm kiss to the space behind you ear and to the crook of your jaw, nuzzling is face there to soak your warmth. he feels you tremble gently with soft sniffs and tears, and he feels foolish for not seeing how deep this feeling runs for you.
he lets the closeness settle over the two of you, the silence holding you snug. and while you are still angry, you can not afford to pretend like you don't need this, like feeling satoru pressed to you with his warm breathing fanning against your neck, spreading goosebumps over your skin is not easing your heart and mind. he holds you tight, squeezing softly.
"you're not gonna lose me," he mumbles into your skin, just next to your ear. "not ever. i promise you that. i may be the world's strongest, but i'll be damned if i don't always come back to you."
"i know," you sniff, voice shaky and whispered. "i know. it's not that i don't trust you. and i don't think you're an idiot. i'm sorry i said that too."
"it's okay, pretty girl," he kisses your neck. "i am a little bit of an idiot."
"...you are."
"yeah, yeah," he chuckles something tender against your back, and the corner of your mouth twitch. "listen. i hate to say it, but i'm not always gonna be able to pick up the phone to answer a text or give you a call to tell you i'm okay. i won't always have the time or that privilege. and when that happens, what i don't want is you stressing yourself out so badly every time i have a mission. you have your own life to live, princess. don't spend it worrying about me," he says. "trust your man, baby. you do your job and take care of yourself and i'll do mine. i'm not letting anyone get close enough to keep me away from you."
you nod slowly, solemnly. "i'll do my best."
"that's all i can ever ask you," satoru smiles, thumb smoothing circles over your abdoment as his fingers brush over your ribcage. "i'm sorry i haven't been taking you seriously. i never meant to make you feel dismissed," he apologizes. "you're so good to me. i've never had someone like you, (y/n). you look out for me in a way no one ever has."
he solidifies each word, each promise with a peck, pink lips pillowy to your flesh as he savors you, holds you, caresses you. "i'm sorry, baby, i hate fighting. i'll be more considerate, yeah? i'll do everything i can to keep all that stress as low as possible."
and after a while, you finally give him a sign that you are okay by snorting. he smiles along with the sound against the curve of your shoulder. "impossible when you're the one stressing me out all the time."
"baby," satoru groans. "i'm dying here. please."
you laugh lightly, something halfhearted and breathy. “i’m sorry for starting a fight so late. i’m just… i'm really upset.”
“it’s okay, baby, i know,” he sighs. “no more apologizing. you need some sleep. okay? can we talk about this more in the morning?”
you exhale slowly before sniffing once more, swiping the back of your hand over your face. satoru lifts to prop himself up with his elbow, looking over you from over your shoulder to ensure that you're okay. your glittery eyes snap to his when you see him. you press your lips together to wordlessly agree, and the ivory haired man dots his lips to your cheek, watching you softly with heavy eyes.
"i'm not going anywhere," he reiterates. "you know that right?"
you nod. "yeah. i know." your hand slides over top of his around your midsection. "neither am i."
satotu smiles. "of course not. i would never let that happen."
suguru geto:
arguing with suguru leaves your feelings hurt.
you've known the dark haired cult leader long enough to know exactly how he gets when he is angry with you. it's rare, of course, as the hazel eyed man is more often than not gazing at you with rose colored vision, caring for you as a man should care for the woman he loves more than anything on this acursed world. suguru aims to dote on you at any given moment of any given day, as that is what suguru deems his role in your life should be.
being with suguru is like living within constant steadiness and pampering. he made it known from the very beginning that he had no intention to be casual with you, nor give you a shortage of the life he knows you deserve - the life he can and does give. he believes that you should never have to do any heavy lifting of any kind, for a life with him is a life of easiness, relaxation, and warmth. it's a life of being known so well, silently seen in a way that continues to stun you every day, that captures your soul and lulls you into that blissful hum you call being with suguru.
it is not that suguru rarely gets angry, however, but that he is rarely angry enough with you to start or engage in an argument. ordinarily, all of his frustrations point directly to his place of work. the role of a cult leader so well esteemed is taxing, especially for someone like suguru geto, who can not stomach the mere sight of his followers for more than a consecutive thirty minutes at a time.
hell, suguru has been angry plenty of times, shown in twitches of the brow, tight yet dark smiles, and a shadow over his eyes that emerges each time his shoulder so much as grazes the fabric of a pitiful non-sorcerer's frame. those who are at fault for the veins that spring to his otherwise smooth skin of his forehead only have a few seconds to make peace with the path their course of life has taken before they're facing his cynical wrath.
but on those days, the moment he steps through the doors of your home, and the smell of something savory cooking on the stove rumbling beneath the sound of his girls' lively chatter, the vision of you greeting his sore eyes first as he rounds the corner to the kitchen, all of those aggravations from the day are washing away. he crosses the threshold into sanctuary, tender, lived in life, and the man is all sweet smiles, silky words, and soft kisses.
the only time suguru ever really gets angry with you is when he feels like you aren't listening.
despite being a hardworking father and loving partner, suguru does not have remarkable patience for things that he does not find tolerable.
the girls want to dress him up in pink and make him sit down in a tiny ass chair for a fake tea party? of course he has all the time in the world. you can't decide on a dress that you want to get for an upcoming fundraiser for the time vessel association, and want to try on every single option for suguru to see? he's more than happy to settle in that lounge chair with his cheek resting in his fist, a slow smile creeping over his face as his eyes survey you in the next tight fabric.
having patience for those things comes easily, as he loves his family deeply, but he does not have patience for when any of you are in a mood. it's easy for suguru to discipline his girls if they step out of line, for they have learned respect. they're young, still learning, therefore each moment they make a mistake is a lesson, and they handle so without complaint when suguru is occasionally forced to give them that pointed look. where his brow raises and his eyes sharpen as a gentle warning, one that is never taken lightly.
but you... you are not as cooperative when you have pushed suguru's buttons.
you test him the most.
god, suguru loves you, but he wishes that you would learn when to quit while you're ahead sometimes. he would never blame you for when his attitude gets a little out of hand and words slip that should have remained unsaid, but he would think that you would have begun to learn the patterns by now, to surrender before it's to late.
sometimes, however, suguru thinks that is his ego talking. at work, suguru is worshipped, praised, feared. he lifts a finger and money comes pouring in without struggle or question but with eagerness. sometime ago, something in his brain snapped, and humility warbled. scattered. often, without trying, suguru displays such snarky superiority, and it can flutter into spaces it shouldn't. when he wonders why you have to fight against him when you don't agree on something instead of just listening and accepting. when he subconsciously expects subservience from you and is shocked when he doesn't get it.
it's not something he does often with you, but it does slip. and with the explosive combination of your fiery resolve and suguru's potent frustrations, you explode when you bump heads.
it starts with something suguru does or says that pulls a reaction from you that you can't control. the kind that slips before you even realize that you are reacting physically, and suguru is ever so quick to catch on. he'll let silence swallow the two of you for a moment as you continue on with your task, moving about as though unbothered, while the energy around you says completely otherwise.
then his question comes: "is there a problem?" like he dares you to let something else sassy slip instead of just using your words and telling him what you have an issue with. that brow will quirk and his eyes will look hard and still on you as you move around.
and of course, no matter how many times you continue to prove that you are not one of his little cult members that he can boss around or treat like children, his muscles still tighten with aggravation when you do it, you say something else like: "what do you think?" or "i don't know, is there?"
suguru can feel the headache coming on. the little twitches in his forehead that he has to focus hard to calm down. from there, it only escalates. he'll close the newspaper he's reading or put his pen down to the surface of the table and rise to his feet. what bothers him more is the fact that you don't even look at him. you show him that you don't even care enough to spare him a passing glance, when there are people far less worthy who would kill to get just a glimpse at him, to be corrected by him for their betterment.
you, of all people, the one person who actually matters, don't give him that satisfaction.
and it drives suguru insane.
he takes the tone he knows best when it comes to you. it's strict yet soft, but his voice is clear like he's practiced this response before to different crowds.
oh, and you're familiar with this tone. it's the tone of a man who is comfortable in his dominance, who thinks he can give you a countdown to actually speak your mind like an adult before there are some serious consequences. this is when you know that suguru is not taking your frustration seriously enough, as he's caught in his own world of trying to prove you wrong.
you hate it when he gets like that with you, when he forgets who exactly it is he's talking to, and while he begins to formulate a plan for control, you shatter it by speaking over him with your own opinions and thoughts. snappy. disrespectful.
suguru will stare at you with wide eyes and downturned brows pressing into his milky skin, and that patience that was barely holding on by a thread snaps. suguru transitions from attempting to gently guide you into understanding and giving in to snapping back at you, reciprocating your energy and tone.
your concentration is finally broken as your energy is focused into arguing, and it's the kind of back and forth that is venemous, sharp. it stings with each witty blow intending to be heard over the last. it's a battle for the last word, for the final say, for who is right.
so the two of you won't relent. you - because you aim to deconstruct suguru's arrogance every time he shows signs of it anywhere outside of his cult, where its appropriate, and him - because your boyfriend simply hates to lose.
accusations fly, your words overlap as neither of you want to give the other a moment to explain, to speak. in both of your minds, you're each right, and you'll be damned if the other tries to convince you otherwise.
eventually, you'll grow increasingly desperate to get suguru to back down. your voice will raise, but suguru will absolutely not have it. he warns you to knock if off, his countenance so cold, like he's speaking to someone he can't stand. this only provokes you emotionally, and you're biting back with anything at all.
then, after however long the two of you have spent disputing, suguru will end it with words so cruel, so empty, so mean that you remember what suguru has been through. what he's lost. the things he's done to get to where he is now. the man that he is when he steps out that door every morning, though you love him wholly.
and it's not that he ever insults you. he never calls you names or attacks you in such a way. no, its cruelty in the way he twists his tone around to make it seem like you are the one who will never understand his genius. like a professor who is tiresome after hours of trying to teach a student something they simply can not grasp. like you aren't his girlfriend, his woman.
the one who has to press her head to the inside of his outstretched arm for him to be able to fall asleep every night. the one who prepares and packs every single one of his lunches to give him a taste of home and comfort that he so desperately clings to through troublesome days. the one who he gazes up at softly as she cradles his head in her soft lap, threading fingers through buttery strands of midnight hair. his lashes fluttering when he catches her palm and brings it to his lips, kissing over the lines of her inner hand as she smiles.
the woman who followed him into hell. the woman who helped give him the life that he has now.
you hate it when he gives you a glimpse of how he would treat you if he didn't love you.
and suguru doesn't mean to. he's only playing his role as top dog, falling into it like it's muscle memory every time he feels like his intelligence, his control, your love is threatened.
perhaps that's all his stubborness is. a knee jerk reaction when he feels that you've begun to look at him as though he is an ordinary person. with no color or magic. just him. bare, naked, and free for you to judge, free for you to decide that you no longer trust him, that you no longer need or look up to him for stability.
you and his girls are the only people on this planet who question him. and deep down, it frightens him a bit. it shakes him, rattles his confidence in what he provides for you.
it isn't healthy. it isn't kind. it's just suguru, and in typical suguru fashion, your little "fuck you" and the way you storm off, ignoring his calls of your name makes him take it as a sign that he's won.
...but at what cost?
after the front dorm slams, he does not panic just yet. he's still fuming, hyper with the rush of your argument and the triumph of making you yield. he calls you three times, each one unanswered. he takes to texting you, telling you to come home. he waits for you to reply with his fingers thrumming against the counter. when you do, he rushes to read -
for once in your life, stop bossing me around like you do everyone else.
his brows knit as he hurriedly types.
?
what does that mean?
you don't reply. not to that, or to any other text he sends or call he gives. only in your prolonged absence, he feels the weight of his words and yours sink over him in the middle of a task, and he stills. anger, once so unrelenting, dissapates. he rubs a hand over his face with a long exhale, staring hard at the wall as he mulls over every moment, every word.
he was harsh.
really harsh.
suguru doesn't know where it comes from. how he gets there. he gets so caught up in everything, he falls into rhythms that are reserved for those who deserve it, and you are not one of those fools. you're his angel. you're the love of his life. you are everything good that contrasts the bullshit he goes through every day, and yet, he's hurt your feelings. he's pushed you away. he's shoved you into a corner. he's taken out his frustrations towards other things on you simply because you challenged him, and instead of addressing it with maturity, he let himself snap.
no matter how angry you make suguru, no matter how much of a brat you behave like, you don't deserve that. even if he's angry with you, it doesn't last long.
when an hour passes, and you still do not return or answer his calls, the panic begins to set in at full capacity. the fear of losing you hits him hard, and he starts to wonder if this is enough to make you want to leave him. if it's enough to crumble the love, time, and effort forth you've put forth to to build this.
he starts to wonder if you're safe. if you've eaten. when the hell you'll be back.
pacing, he clenches his jaw and closes his eyes hard, willing the bad thoughts away as his thumbs hover over the keyboard with anxiety. they twitch, eventually moving quick. his tone immediately shifts.
angel. i know you're angry. you have every right to be. but i'm asking you. please come home. or at least let me know that you're safe and turn your location back on.
he's sitting on the couch now with legs spread wide, his back hunched over the phone between his thighs. the screen casts his face in a soft glow as he watches, doing the very thing he hates most in this world - waiting.
the bubbles appear and disappear countless times from your side. suguru bites down hard and types again.
i'm sorry.
after a few more grueling minutes, a message from you pops up.
you're not sorry. you're just saying that to make me come back.
suguru | now
i'm not baby.
i mean it.
suguru pauses, uncertain, trying to find the proper words.
i should have never spoken to you like that.
you | now
then why did you?
you get like that whenever you don't agree with me about something. it's so fucking annoying.
suguru | now
i know. i don't realize in the moment, but there's no excuse. i'm sorry, (y/n).
where are you?
you don't have to come home now, but at least tell me where you are so i can find you.
please.
eventually, you cave and turn your location back on. you put your phone down with a sigh, kicking your legs out over the bench you currently occupy. hardly ten minutes pass before your boyfriend is approaching slowly with his hands in his pockets, dark clothes baggy over his frame.
his warm eyes shine as yours meet his, and suguru can still see the anger clear on your face. the walls you've put up. the betrayal and sadness in your glossy eyes.
you look over him in firm, grounded silence. you feel every muscle in your face and body is tight from exertion and emotion.
you study the picture of his face as it steps into street light. shadows and colors sweep over his skin, lips curved in a frown as he looks at you with remorse and the humility you were searching for earlier.
you push air out hard and cross your arms, looking away. suguru keeps his eyes on you as he steps forward, moving to sit close next to you on the bench. suguru does nothing but sit there and make himself known to you, known that he cares, known that he's here despite lingering tensions and wounding words.
your arms brush. his knee hits yours. your perfume tickles his nose.
you take your time as you crane your neck, turning slowly to look up at him. suguru follows the feel of your eyes on him, turning to face you as well.
"i'm sorry," he says, verbalizing so for the first time, letting it linger and seep. "you're right about what i do... it's not okay."
your brow twitches as you eye him. "and what is it you do?"
suguru blinks, hunching over with elbows to his knees and interlacing his fingers. he sighs, vulnerable. "i expect you to always agree with the things i say because i want you to trust me."
"i do trust you, suguru," you urge. "how could i not? you're always there for me. you gave me this life with you."
"i know you do, angel."
"then why is this even a conversation?"
"because i clearly get in my head without realizing. i'm used to things operating a certain way and-"
"i’m not going to always be on the same page as you. that doesn’t give you the right to be mad when i’m not. I’m not your employee, suguru," you declare sternly. "i'm not a member of your cult. i'm not someone you can throw plans at or toss around.”
"no you aren't," he nods, urgently, agreeing. "you're my sweet girl. you're everything. words don't begin to describe all that you are."
"you surely weren't talking to me like you felt that way before."
"and i can't apologize enough for that," he straightens himself up as he looks at you. "you’re right about everything. i’ve just been so irritated lately with the the cult. the second it felt like you didn’t take me seriously, i wasn’t thinking straight. i took out my stress on you.”
“that’s not fair,” you frown. “just because i don’t like something doesn’t mean i don’t take you seriously, suguru.”
“i know, (y/n). i know,” your dark haired boyfriend deflates, all that fire he had in him dissipating in the humility of your words. “i have a lot to work on. but i’m willing to do the work, angel. i don’t want you to pull away or feel like you can’t talk to me because of what just happened. i don’t want to risk losing you over something like this.”
the mention of him thinking about losing you has you easing up slightly, your face relaxing into something soft and tortured as you look over his guilty expression, the kindness you know suguru to possess resurfacing with the smothered fear of not having you in his life.
"...i'm not going to leave you over this, sugu," you tell him gently. suguru immediately detects the shift in your tone. his gaze turns slightly hopeful, his body shifting toward you more. you exhale gradually upon searching his eyes, finding that his headstrong will has toppled in your presence, an hour or so after he's sat with his words. "you don't think i would, do you?"
the hazel haired man chuckles dryly, uncertainly, turning his head forward with the sprinkle of dark strands over his face. "i'd hope not."
another thing that you've noticed about your boyfriend is that he has the tendency to guilt trip you after arguments, whether it is intentional or not. you furrow your brows as you watch his eyes blink back to you, tendering at the very sight of you as he tries his damnedest to make amends.
you see that gentle quality, the way he's stepped down from that pedestal of his to see you eye to eye. the honesty. the humiliation.
the soft spot in your heart takes the sudden lead, and you reach out for suguru's hand, sliding yours over top his conjoined ones. your warmth bursts through suguru's body, exaulting him from everything he's ever done wrong, though there's only a few things.
the hazel eyed curse user smiles something weak, hesitant, and grateful. "i wouldn't," you emphasize lovingly. "i just wish you'd be kinder when you're upset."
"i will be. i promise," he nods. he unlocks one of his large hands to take yours in his, sliding the heat of his palms over your slightly cool hand. he looks up at you with stars in his eyes and you fall apart. "as long as we can agree that if you're upset with me, you should tell me properly instead of immediately getting an attitude."
you still with a deadpan stare, the lightness in your chest fading in an instant. sugury waits, this time patiently, for a response. his lips curl slowly when he notices that you've fallen silent, and he can't help the amusment that overcomes him as his brings your knuckles to his lips in a lingering kiss.
"well?" he muses.
you glare at him, then rip your eyes away with the click of your tongue. you know he's right. you know it's only fair that you treat him with the same respect that you demand, but you can't stand the smugness that comes with acknowledging that even just a part of your boyfriend is right about something.
"come on, angel. we have to work together on this."
you roll your eyes to the sky, then look down at the ground. "fine. m'sorry for snapping at you the way i did."
that's enough to bring a wide smirk back to suguru's face. "that's alright, sweet girl. i probably deserved it," he kisses the back of your hand again, then your wrist as you grumble incoherently under your breath. "i love you."
he sweetens the circumstances with those three words, chipping away at your now shaky willpower. you feel his warm lips meet the inside of your wrist, and you shudder.
"i'll be more patient. i'll be nicer. you've only ever been nice to me. i'm an asshole, i know. you deserve so much better."
he grabs your other hand, turning you fully to him. he holds your hands within each of his tightly over his thigh, swiping his thumbs over your skin.
"i'm sorry," he apologizes again, meaning it more and more every time. "i love you."
despite your frustration, your wounded pride, your still teaming anger, the love you have for your boyfriend swallows everything whole, as you know suguru better than anyone else. you know he's truthful. you know he didn't mean it. you know he loves you in a way that no one else has or ever could.
as long as he makes mistakes, you'll be there to correct them. whether you fight, or don't speak, or can never come to an agreement. you'll stay and argue for what you know is worth it.
"i love you too," you exhale like you've failed to hold it back, and suguru grins.
kento nanami:
arguments with kento aren't loud and proud things. they aren't screaming matches. they aren't vile words spewing from either direction. they aren't the swipe of aggravated hands through the air with bold words. they aren't loud slams to a surface in the house or heavy footsteps.
arguments with the blonde aren't some huge, daunting spectacle. they are conversations, strained, teetering over the edge of something bigger that never crashes through the barrier of steady, calm voices laced with importance.
kento has never been the kind of man to tolerate being cruel to one another. he does not believe in such a thing. when either of you are upset, which you rarely are with one another - as your communication skills are normally polished to perfection, he'll let the two of you go back and forth for a little bit until stopping the conversation altogether when he feels that it could get out of hand at any moment.
the suit turned sorcerer never raises his voice. never even scowls at you. his irritation shows itself in rigid posture, an exasperated hand to his hip, the pinch of the bridge of his nose, and the tightening of his lips. the chocolate eyed man does not like being cross with you, ever, but he is no better than the ordinary person. he's just as much of a human being as you are, therefore, sometimes, feeling a bit of frustration toward you is inevitable.
nanami certainly handles your arguments better than you ever could. he's incredibly efficient when it comes to controlling the course your disputes take, controlling his emotions so that they don't blow over. kento likes steadfastness, pace, and understanding. the most he will do if he is too heated is tell you that he thinks you both should take some time on your own to cool off before recalliberating after some time has passed.
you, on the other hand, are much less inclined to follow this syncopation when you are all wrapped up in grievances that you don't even know how to begin to express to your well mannered boyfriend.
it's not that you want to fight with kento. you hate it. you hate when the two of you find moments where you don't see eye to eye, but you can not deny that there is a part of you that wishes kento would meet you where you are in terms of how you want to go about solving certain issues. where he prefers quiet and calm, you take to the impulse to fight more lively. yet, kento never gives you that chance. the second he feels that you or he will shout, he's shutting it all down. you know it's for the best, but sometimes you think that he needs to let go. that he needs to fight back a bit more bolder from time to time. you don't want to get into it horribly with him, but you want him to express some more of that passion to you when you feel it bubbling up in your own chest.
kento, however, does not understand that notion in the very slightest. fighting with more passion means fighting without reigns, and he does not want to do that with you. he doesn't even believe in doing such a thing with the woman he loves. he has too much love, too much respect, too many morals to even think to allow himself to snap at you or yell at you. he does not even feel urges to do so when he gets upset.
he does not know why you say such a thing either, for the aftermath of your arguments always leaves you in tears. fighting with kento is such an uncommon thing that it takes a toll on the both of you, shadowing you in the sensation of aching chests and the yearning to forgive, to make up, to forget everything that led you to such a place.
if kento ever made you cry because he yelled... he doesn't think he would ever recover.
this time around, you're fighting about his overtime, the one thing about kento that truly brings such a reaction out of you. it's been three consecutive months of him staying at work late, holing himself up in his office to complete paperwork that his employer does not have the decency to let him finish the following day, in the morning.
dinner has always long been put away when he returns, the scent of spices and something sweet lingering in the empty air when he walks in to see you scrubbing dishes rather aggressively in your pajamas. dark shadows trace under his eyes, and locks of his hair threaten to fall out of slicked place, exhausted from a long day's work.
ordinarily, you find some kind of peace with it. nanami works hard for you, to keep a nice roof over your head and to give you the life that you deserve. nanami is one of the most dedicated, hardworking men you've ever met, whether he is happy to do the work or not. the only thought that gets him through the day is that you'll be at home, waiting for him, there to greet him with a kiss the second he steps foot through the house.
and you do. you're not cruel enough to deny him such a thing when he sets his briefcase at the door to saunter over to you with slow steps. you can hear the fatigue in the way he moves, and that observation alone is enough to build onto what you've already been feeling.
you turn your head subconsciously when his arms come around your middle from behind, and he cranes down to press his lips to yours. you return the peck, but keep your eyes forward on the way you scrub angrily at a stubborn stain on one of your good pans.
kento notices your detachment immediately, but does not say anything yet. he just lingers, absorbing the feel of your warm frame against his chest, closing his eyes to breathe in a soft, long intake of air, expelling it with relief.
"how was your day, honey?" he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with weary.
you hate the toll his job takes on him. you hate the way it makes him behave like a walking zombie at the end of the day, hours after the time he is meant to come home.
stupid overtime. always taking your husband away from you. always beating him down until he can barely think or move any longer. it's merciless. it's time consuming. it's a problem.
and yet, he still comes home with the goal of catering to you, though all he can really do is collapse to the bed with your limbs entertwined until it is time for him to get up and do it all over again in the morning.
you grind down on your teeth, blinking hard at the thought. this can't go on. you don't want to go on rarely seeing your husband, letting work sweep him away like they own him, letting them drain every ounce of energy from his body. it's inhumane, and what bothers you more is that kento does not seem to care. he works mindlessly. it's his job, he always says. it's what he's used to doing.
but just because he's used to it doesn't mean he should continue at this rate. he deserves a promotion, paid time off, something to make up for the way his place of work fucking siphons his spirit.
you're so busy cursing out nanami's circumstances inside your mind that you don't realize you haven't answered his question. nanami still holds you close, but he begins to wonder if you're ignoring him on purpose or are just too distracted with your thoughts.
you never fail to greet him when he comes home from work. usually, the moment you hear the lock turn, you're jumping up and rushing to him, helping him out of his coat and putting his bag down so that you can hug him tight.
tonight is different. you're acting as though he does not exist. he could blame the chore of doing dishes for taking away your attention, but he somehow feels that there is more to it. and he's sure he already has a good idea of what is on your mind.
you feel one hand leave your waist to move your hair from your shoulder thoughtfully. he leans over to get a better look of the side of your face, watching as your eyes dart up only for a second before shooting back down to the sink.
"(y/n)," he calls your name, and you hum distractedly, flatly. "how was your day?" he elects to ask again. playing it safe. searching for the roots of your dull mood.
"it was alright," you mumble after a few seconds of nothing. you can feel kento studying you, watching close with an eventual hum and the fiddling of your hair.
"just alright?" he asks, and you shrug. kento takes the sign and removes himself from you slowly.
he moves to stand beside you, a few inches away, with his hip pressing into the counter as you lift drenched dishes onto the drying rack.
you don't ask him in turn how his day was. you don't even budge when he moves away from you. the blonde can feel what is beginning. he can sense every tell that you are about to bring something to his attention that you don't like.
and he knows it's about work. he's been skating on thin ice long enough to know that there is no other explanation for the way you are behaving now.
yet, still, he asks, giving you the opportunity to voice what is on your mind instead of feeding you the answer. "is something the matter?"
"no," you say quickly.
kento lifts a brow, crossing his arms. "are you positive about that?"
"yep," you clip, scrubbing hard.
kento sighs tiredly. "you are very clearly upset about something, (y/n)."
"why would i be?" you ask sarcastically. "it's not like i have any reason to be upset. it's not like this is the umpteenth night you've worked overtime and left me alone during dinner." you push out your bottom lip and lift your brows as if to portray feigned indifference. dishes clatter loudly with your low words, as if to speak on behalf of the fire building inside of you. "why would i care about that, ken?"
your honey eyed boyfriend does not respond right away. he lets your tone sink in as he observes your mannerisms closely. you're tightly wound, punishing already clean plates with the brutal swipe of the sponge over the surface, your mind hardly even cognizant of what you are doing. it moves on autopilot as it swarms with other, more pressing matters, and kento sees it all plainly before him.
he's not surprised. not even offended yet. it's only natural that you feel this way, for you have a point. he's been at work more than he's been at home lately, and it has been eating away at him slowly from the inside. he tries to make it up to you when he is able to be present but even then, he is not given much time of his own to do so.
the blonde reaches for the sink knob and twists it, cutting off the hot water that was splashing up into your face. you are forced to freeze your actions when he does, leading you to cut your eyes up to his face pointedly.
"turn that back on, please," you say sternly. "i'm not done."
ken stares back at you calmly. "i think you've cleaned enough. you should stop so we can talk about this."
"i don't want to talk about this. i want to finish washing dishes and then go to bed."
you reach a dripping hand toward the knob, but nanami does not budge. "no, honey," he denies you, composure stricter than before. "i said that's enough."
"that's what you said, huh?" you suck your teeth, dropping your unfinished dish back into the sink and turning hot on your heal to wipe your hands dry. "you know what i don't understand, kento?" you start, turning back to look at him as you dry your hands hard with a dish towel. "why you think you can tell me when to quit stuff when you don't even bother to listen to me when it comes to your job."
"(y/n), that's different. we've talked about this," nanami exhales, tilting his head slightly with heavy eyes. you see the exhaustion swimming in his hues, and you frown, the sight only making you more upset. "you know i hate being away from you all day, but i have to do what i have to do."
"no, you do not have to work overtime every damn night, ken," you counter with palpable insistence. "that's not okay. you're at that office all the time. your bosses don't even care whether you live or die."
"i know you're frustrated, but mind your language, my love. i don't want to fight with you," he advises, and you scoff, turning back to put the towel where you found it.
"you're focused on the wrong things," you shake your head. "i don't want to fight with you either, but this is getting out of hand."
you turn back to face him, watching as his expression hardens in just the slightest.
"look at you," you gesture toward him grandly. "you're exhausted. and yet you keep letting them toss you around like nothing."
"no one is tossing me around. i'm fulfilling the responsibilities that i signed up for"
"that goes both ways, kento. your place of work should not be drilling you all the time like this. as an employee, you have a right to time off. and you never take it. you never even vouch for it," you say. "when's the last time you came home at a normal time?"
nanami thinks about it, but finds that he honestly can't remember.
which does not help his case.
you toss your hands out. "see? you can't even say!" you cry. "it was three and a half months ago. three, kento. i've spent three months cooking dinner that you don't even get to touch when you get home because you're so tired. three months missing you, hoping that you'll come home only for you to text me again and again that you'll be late. do you know how long that is? how long that feels?"
"sweetheart," kento begins wearily. "i'm not sure what you want me to say. if i could control such things, i would, but i can't. i'm sorry that i've made you feel neglected. i'm sorry i can't be home more. none of this is ideal, but it is only temporary."
"then how long will this keep going on?" you challenge. "hm? tell me, how long."
"i don't know that, yet."
"exactly. and you're fine with that, aren't you? you won't ask any questions as you wear yourself down to the bone for people who don't even bother to give you the decency of checking in."
"we don't live in a world where we i have the luxury of asking questions," he starts to lecture, and you avert your gaze, huffing impatient air. "obviously i am not fine with such a thing, but without these jobs, i can't look after you. i would much rather have the means to support us than not."
"you're not looking after me, though. you're just throwing things at me in hopes of them distracting me from the fact that you're not here."
that statement is what throws kento off kilter a bit, his steadiness put to question as he looks at you with insulted question in his eyes as you avoud his gaze, his lips parting and his brows turning down. "i'm not looking after you? really? is that what you believe?" he asks.
you hear the tonal shift, and dare to look him in the eye. maybe now, he'll finally hear you. "how can you look after me when you're not present? and who the hell is supposed to look after you when you're at work?"
kento hears everything you are saying, but is still stuck on the fact that you think he doesn't take care of you properly. he has to determine whether you really feel that way or if you are just saying so to get a rise out of him. nevertheless, the thought cuts him, that you feel like he is not doing his job as your boyfriend well. that you feel uncared for. unnoticed. unseen, when day in and day out, you are the only reason kento can even push through the way that he does. when every ache in his back, crick in his neck, stack of papers, line of curses are pushed through for the sake of you.
and you think that he isn't looking after you?
if you only knew.
"you aren't being fair, (y/n)," he speaks. "everything i do is for you. for us."
"is it, though?"
"yes," says rigidly, quickly. "i'm surprised that you would even ask me that."
"if you're really surprised, then you're not paying attention."
oh, kento does not like the accusations you're throwing. not when he studies you so closely, that he could name every thought flowing through your brain before you voice them.
the blonde can feel himself getting more upset, so he aims to settle things down instead. "i'm not going to argue with you about whether you think i take care of you properly or not."
"of course you're not," you grumble under your breath.
kento twitches. "and that is supposed to mean...?"
"you don't fight about anything," you groan. "not with your boss about getting a more flexible schedule. not with me about this. nothing."
"why would i want to fight with anyone about anything when i don't need to? especially with you?"
"you do need to, kento. you need to fight for the right that you have."
"and risk losing my job?"
"you're not gonna lose your job, for god's sake. you're the best employee anyone has ever seen. when you let people walk all over you, they just take advantage of your work ethic."
"what you call letting people walking all over me is simply me picking and choosing my battles. and i choose a steady income and a life where i can give you what you want over anything else."
"what i want is you!"
"you have me."
"no, i don't! not anymore," your arms slap to your sides loudly. "your job has you. not me. you say you're still present, but you're not. i should know, kento. i'm the one spending all this extra time alone."
kento steps toward you when he hears a subtle quiver in your voice as it breaks at the end of your sentence. you turn away, shaking your head and waving him off, but his hand proceeds to reach for your arm, cradling it softly, dragging down to reach for your fingers.
his eyes stay glued on your face, catching every twitch, every wrinkle, every inkling of sadness and longing.
kento does not want either of you going to bed like this. you're very clearly shaken, having been shouldering these feelings for longer than you are willing to admit. no matter his personal frustrations, kento can not help but to empathize with you when you get like this, when you are feeling too much to name, when the very solution of your greatest problems is to just have him near you again.
the second your boyfriend is touching you, you feel yourself weakening, as this is what you've been deprived of. the closeness. the intimacy. you've been yearning for your future husband like no other for months, and it has been killing you that the very reason for him being torn away from you is because he is being burnt out in an environment that could never appreciate him the way you do, the way so many others would.
arguments with kento never last long. whether it is because nanami has encouraged the two of you to step away, or because true emotions interfere, they're quick things that always lead into more in depth, cherished discussions.
"tell me, sweetheart," he encourages tenderly, cupping your chin in his fingers and holding you still, keeping your eyes on his. up close, you can see every detail of his weariness in the lines that crease beneath his lashes and in his forehead. "tell me everything."
your lips wobble as you look up at him. "i'm tired of barely seeing you," you breathe. "i hate it when you come home late, kento. you know i do. it wasn't always like this before. and i hate seeing the toll your job is taking on you. i just want you here. i don't want it to feel like you're a stranger anymore."
"do you think i'm a stranger now?" he asks you softly.
your brow curls. "no," you say. "but it feels that way sometimes."
"i didn't know that," nanami says, tracing your jaw with thick fingers. "i sincerely apologize."
"why do you do this to yourself?" you question, voice hardly above a whisper now. "i'm more than supported by you, ken. saying it's for me isn't an excuse."
"it isn't an excuse, (y/n), it's how i feel."
"but i'm telling you now that i don't want that. i don't want you to put all this pressure on yourself for the sake of me. i'm good. i work too, kento. we support each other. we work together. it doesn't have to be just you carrying all this weight, and yet, you force yourself to. it's like you don't even hear me."
"honey, this is just how i am," he confesses. "this is how i have operated all of my life. it is engrained in me to work to give you more. and i am happy to."
"you are not happy at that place."
"i'm happy to work," he says again, sliding his index finger over your brow, following the curve of your cheekbone back to your chin. "for you."
"can't you just admit that living this way is exhausting?"
"it's more than exhausting," he finally agrees, and you're almost shocked that he does so easily. "absolutely it is, but exhaustion is not enough to stop me from doing what i need to do. you say it's not for you, but it is. because it is you who i think of to help me through. without you, i would have given in a long time ago."
"so give in now," you bring your hands to his face, holding his cheeks softly. nanami blinks down at you with care, sinking into the comfort of your palms as he fiddles with the hem of your shirt. "you don't need to quit. i'm not saying that, but at the very least, call in sick tomorrow. let me take care of you for one day. let's spend time together. we can sleep in, and i'll make us breakfast. i can give you a massage... we can take a bath... and you can relax. for one day."
your arms loop around his neck as you talk. nanami's hand slips around you and brings you into him like muscle memory, closing the distance between you with brushes of your nose and the twirl of his blonde hair around your pinkie. nanami sinks into the plea of your pretty eyes, your contact numbing him to the previous irritations. his exhaustion hits him tenfold like this, as though you have the power to strip him down to his truest self before you.
your descriptions are soothing, your voice and your promises making his lashes flutter as you attempt to sway him with the heat of your chest and your touch.
it's working.
"...then after," you hum. "you can talk to your boss about giving you better hours."
kento sighs. "(y/n)-"
"it doesn't have to be the day after tomorrow. it can be any time within the next week," you say. "please, baby. consider it. if you're doing all of this for us, then you can do this for us too. because i don't know how much longer i can handle this."
you smooth your thumbs over his cheekbones, pouting at the way his eyes close, your hands enough to make him fall asleep right there. "look at you. you're so tired. you're always moving so fast, you don't even get to feel how tired you are."
kento kisses the inside of your palm, bringing his other arm around your waist. "you worry about me too much, my love," he rumbles.
"i don't think i worry about you enough."
the skin at the corner of your boyfriend's eye crinkles with the expulsion of a soft breath.
he takes in your concerned face, how beautiful you look even when you're upset, how desperate you become when you just want him to be okay.
he hates that he has made you feel unseen so many times. he'd been so focused on taking care of the financial aspects of your relationship that he's been neglecting the physical and the emotional. he has not even had time to think about how distant he has been due to how much he has been working, and he admits that he does need a break.
nanami operates as though everything will fall apart if he stops for one second, perhaps because he knows it will be hard to return to his rigorous routine once he's gotten a taste of freedom.
he needs a vacation. badly. the both of you do.
kento does not have the strength to continue arguing with you. not tonight, not with you looking at him and holding him the way you are now, not when all you're asking for is some quality time with the man you love. how can he continue to deny you such a thing when he's subconsciously withheld it from you for so long?
"i'm sorry for neglecting you," he apologizes again. "that was never my intention. i knew me working so much bothered you, but i did not know all the reasons why. i'm sorry, honey."
you waste no time pressing your lips to his snugly. kento hums gently, lethargically holding you tighter, pressing in close as your lips move daintily, languidly over his.
you pour in every hope for his wellbeing, every second you've spent longing for him, every day you've spent praying that he'll take care of himself instead of staying late. you pour in every ounce of love that at times feels too great to name. you pour in every bit of care, every ounce of anger and sadness and desolation you've felt.
the kiss softens into something precious, something sweet and fragile and tame and promising. the two of you sink into the familiar, yet foreign rhythm, and nanami pushes in firmer as your lips to his make him realize just how long it has been since he has kissed you like this.
your fingers tangle eagerly in his hair, sliding over his undercut as he tilts his head, savoring you, seeking you. what was a bubbling argument mere moments ago has turned into a moment of long awaited affection, rekindling, a breakthrough.
you break away to breathe hot against him, lids heavy, eyes hazy and forlorn. you can no longer tell where his scent starts and yours ends, and you are thrilled, for this is all you want. this is all you need to get by.
"please, ken," you murmur so sweetly against his mouth. "please just stay with me tomorrow."
"i will, honey," he nods, pressing his forehead to yours. "i hate that i've made you beg for such a thing."
you fall into a plethora of kisses that don't end, warm pants, and contented sighs. "i'm sorry for yelling," you moan against him between lingering pecks.
"i'm sorry for making you yell."
the dishes are left forgotten in the sink as nanami picks you up with grace, keeping your lips locked as you wrap your legs around his torso, clinging like a koala as he walks you back to your bedroom.
the two of you fall into the sheets, wrapped up in each other, as nanami seals promises to be better with loving strokes and searing kisses over your bare skin. when you fall asleep, the sound of each other's heartbeats lull you both, and nanami decides as his eyes close over the ethereal vision of you that it is time for some kind of change.
choso kamo:
choso would honestly rather die before he argues with you.
and that much is a fact. you know it from the way he chokes up the second you're sending a glare his way, the way he hastily rushes out a string of apologies before you even get the chance to say anything, his hands coming around you and pressing you to his chest to erradicate any semblance of anger from your body.
the brunette does not do well with conflict surrounding you. not at all. ever the emotional being, choso will drop to his knees before you in devastation, pleading for forgiveness simply to avoid you ever having to be angry with him. choso's goal going into every single day is to please you more than he has the previous day, to make you as happy as you make him because he loves you so much that it makes him dizzy and giddy headed. if he ever makes you mad, if he causes you to feel something toward him other than joy and admiration, he'll feel as though he has done a poor job as your partner. he'll kick himself for days, wondering why he did such a thing and how he could fix it - though you've already told him that none of it was a big deal in the first place.
besides, you don't ever get angry with him. not really. you find yourself lecturing the half curse more than you do actually arguing with him, as the said violet eyed man actively works his way around any sign of so. when you get upset with choso, it's usually due to poor communication or some kind of misunderstanding that is cleared up within a matter of seconds.
choso, on the other hand, never finds fault in anything you do. he loves you fiercely, proudly, and he is so enamored by all of you that it's impossible for you to even get him mad. not that you actually try to do so.
this time around, however, is the one and only exception.
it hits him fast.
choso can be irritated rather easily, but normally only when he is in the presence of people he does not want to be around, or when he's overstimulated. he'll mope to himself with a little storm cloud hovering over him, brows and jaw tight as purple hues glower into nothing.
he's never displayed this particular side to you, as you have never given him reason to stew in such annoyance, but today he finds is the horrified exception, as he had already been annoyed about being roped into another short mission with yuki, having been stolen away from time with you. the course of today's events had him in a rather sour mood, and the text he sees pop up from you on his phone is the very icing on the cake.
he's strolling behind yuki as he opens his screen eagerly, hoping to be relieved by something you've sent. instead, he stops dead in his tracks as he stares with wide eyes at your messages.
he blinks once in disbelief, clicking hard on the photo you sent and zooming in.
no. it can't be. you didn't. you wouldn't.
captured in frame is an image of your hand clutching a buttery pastery in the camera, your freshly done nails pressing softly into the crust, the sun shining over your (s/c) from behind the phone. that alone is not choso's issue, but that hand that hovers next to yours in a similar fashion, holding the same pastry.
and that is not the hand of one of your girlfriend's. in fact, it is not even a woman's hand at all. no, instead, it is the well sculpted, rigid hand of a man that choso does not recognize, does not know. and suddenly, his mind is wiping blank as his bright eyes glare daggers into the screen. his heart booms in his chest, which tightens over the organ.
he does not like this feeling. he knows what it is, but he does not like that it is arising because of you. and though choso is still learning a few basic human concepts, he's been with you and around the other students long enough to know that this is not a coincidence. that you aren't just sending this picture to be sweet, to give your boyfriend an update on what you are doing.
not when you left things the way you did before he left the house earlier that day.
choso had promised to accompany you to this new bakery's grand opening weeks in advance, and today was finally the day. the brunette remembers how excited you were, how you bounced on the balls of your feet when you hovered over him that morning, shaking him awake so that the two of you could beat the line. the pale skinned man had shared your enthusiasm, not because he really cared about the bakery, but because you cared. he liked the way your eyes lit up when you talked about it, showing him the menu and scrolling through each delicious item on your phone.
it was a date that you had set long ago. a full day you would make out of it. a reward for the hard work the two of you have been putting in lately.
only, your plans were cut short when choso got a call from yuki. your stomach sank and your face fell when you overheard the conversation, watching as choso's face tightened with aggravation as he scratched the back of his hair and sighed heavily with defeat into the phone. with great remorse, enough remorse to make it look like it was killing him, choso broke the news that he and yuki were called in for a quick, last minute job.
you masked your disappointment very poorly. for this isn't the first time something like this has happened. it has seemed as though lately, at the worst of times, your boyfriend is always needed for a mission with the blonde special grade sorcerer that seemed to pop up from out of nowhere.
you know choso well enough to know that he could not care less who he was partnered up with or why, as you are the only woman he even looks at with hearts in his eyes and his face flushing red. hell, you're the only woman he even thinks about on a daily basis. nevertheless, you could not help but to feel threatened, as the beautiful woman sweeps him away at least once a week, and it was beginning to drive you crazy.
and you knew in that moment that choso was not to blame for such a thing, nor was yuki. the two of them were simply fulfilling the roles that they had been assigned. even so, your throat tightens with frustration and envy as your date spirals down the drain so that your boyfriend can run off with another woman.
it's really starting to get on your nerves.
but you know that this is something that is difficult for choso to understand. not because he does not understand your desire to be with him and to honor your plans, but because he feels like there is absolutely no reason for you to feel threatened by yuki. or anyone at all. the man is so obsessed with you, others would deem it unhealthy, but you can not help the power of your insecurity and the sadness that you try so hard to swallow down when he asks you to forgive him with a hand cupping your face and those big puppy dog eyes boring into yours.
it is difficult for him to leave you when you only give him halfhearted, mumbled assurances, but he has no other choice when fifteen minutes of him saying goodbye and promising to make it up to you pushes back his schedule and makes him run behind.
choso had been thinking about that kicked look on your face all day, pondering over what he can do to cheer you up when he gets home as he claps his palms together and spears a line of blood into his target's head without struggle or thought.
he's sleepy. and he misses you. and he wants to go home, but then he sees your text.
and instead of feeling guilt, something in his mind snaps to instant displeasure.
he calls out to yuki to tell her that he'll catch up to her while he takes a call, and she nods with a wave over her shoulder and a hand on her hip as she continues back toward the school.
choso clicks the phone icon under your name quickly, pressing the device to his ear whilst gnawing the inside of his cheek. it takes a while for you to call, and choso is growing impatient until you eventually pick up on the second to last ring.
there's shuffling on your side of the line over distant, buzzing chatter. he hears your unmistakable laugh, his ears ringing and his pupils shrinking as your giggle flutters so easily into his ears, but you're not laughing with or for choso this time. you're laughing with someone else.
"hello?" you finally greet with the rumble of humor in your lazy voice. your tone has dropped to speak with your boyfriend, he notices, and he thinks this might be the day his worst nightmare comes true.
"where are you?" he asks hastily, wasting no time. "who are you with?"
"i'm doing good, choso, how are you?"
you purposely dodge choso's questions to be smart, to act as if he is imposing, and though he does not completely understand that that is what you're doing, he hates the way you're talking. he hates the whole situation before he's even been given an explanation.
"i'm not good. where are you and who are you with?"
"i'm just out with a friend."
you're being vague. you're blocking out any chance for choso to figure out just exactly who is accompanying you, and he feels his blood begin to boil at the mere secrecy of it all. the two of you never keep secrets from one another, nor do you spend time with people of the opposite sex that the other does not already know as one of your friends.
"what friend," choso interragtes, his voice low as he listens hard.
"a friend, choso. jeez."
"do i know him?"
"does it matter?"
"yes. do i?"
"i don't know who you do or don't know."
"the way you're acting tells me that i don't," he concludes. "(y/n), did you go with him to the bakery that you and i were gonna go to?"
you stall for a moment, letting the silence consume the both of you as there is more shuffling. choso hates that he can't see what's going on. hates that he's not there instead of this stranger. hates that you've taken this attitude with him, this lilt of sassiness that you've never shown him before.
"(y/n)?" he calls you again, with more bass in his voice this time.
"so what if i did?" you drone on. "it's not like you were gonna go with me. you know, even though we had planned to go together for weeks."
"how could you do that?" choso grits his teeth. "you knew i was looking forward to that with you too. i couldn't control that i wasn't able to go. why would you go with some other man without telling me, then send me a picure of what i'm missing?"
his lips tug downward as he runs it all over in his mind, bristling with betrayal and rage at the thought of another guy getting to do the things with you that are only reserved for the two of you.
he swallows down hard, this pill much too difficult to swallow. this isn't like you. this isn't something you do. it's completely out of the ordinary, out of character, and choso thinks that is one of the reasons as to why this is hitting him so hard. he feels like the wind has been knocked out of his lungs, but he is not going to beg for your sympathy this time. no, instead, it's him he feels deserves an apology.
this is wrong. so mean, so hypocritical. you know how choso gets. you know how he clings to you. you know how sacred he considers time with you, or with anyone he cares deeply for.
with you, however, it's different. choso already does not like doing things without you, being left out of adventures and outings that involve you, so for you to do this is a low blow. it stings. it puts a further damper on what had already been such a miserable day, and he never would have expected you to contribute to his negative feelings.
choso is needy, choso is possessive, choso does not like to share. you've never done anything to make him act out of line due to feeling as though someone is looking to take his rightful place by your side so this is new. this feeling is strange. he's not entirely sure what to do with this anger and frustraton and jealousy that's building within him, and he's sure that something will slip without meaning.
by the way this conversation is already going, something is sure to go wrong.
"i don't know what to tell you, choso," you exhale. "i was excited too, but you had stuff to do. so i decided not to wait for you for a change."
your words crash into choso's heart like rushing water breaking into a dam, and choso is completely frozen in his spot, your voice echoing in his mind like some taunt. like a ghoulish nightmare that will cease to end.
"you're being mean," he snaps. "i don't like it."
"i'm not being mean. i'm just doing what i want."
"like we don't always do what you want."
"what?"
his own response came spewing before he could even think it over, but now that it's out there, the brunette can not necessarily take it back. it's not fully true. he knows that. he's only saying such a thing to throw it back in your face. you do plenty of things for choso, as you enjoy entertaining his hobbies as much as he enjoys entertaining yours.
but you hurt his feelings. there's no coming back from that. so now, his mind jumps to defend himself, to fight against the thought of you replacing him.
"no, say it again. what did you say?"
"i said we're always doing what you want," he repeats slowly. "you didn't even think twice about how any of this made me feel. you just thought of yourself."
he hears you scoff, then there's more shuffling, likely as you move to somewhere more private. choso assumes so by the way the background noise softens. "i can't believe you're trying to call me selfish. me. of all things."
"i didn't say you're selfish."
"then what exactly were you trying to say by telling me that i didn't bother to think about you?"
"(y/n), you're out with another man. you did not think about me when you chose to do that."
"i told you, he's a friend."
"then why is this the first time i'm hearing about him? what does he look like? where is he from?"
"giving you all that information isn't going to change the fact that i'm with him."
"are you breaking up with me for him?"
"wh - no? i'm not breaking up with you, choso."
"it's hard to tell, the way you're acting," he frowns. "i don't want you there with him anymore. i want you to leave."
"like hell i will. you can't tell me what to do. i told you, i'm done sitting around and waiting for you to come home from being with yuki."
"what does she have to do with any of this? she's just my partner."
"ohhhh, she's your partner?" you mock. "i didn't realize that i was cutting into precious time with your partner. forgive me."
"stop it. i don't like you like this, (y/n). you're acting so weird."
"now you don't like me?"
"i don't like the way you're acting. i'll always like you."
you hesitate for a moment, momentarily caught off guard by his honesty. "i'm hanging up now, choso."
"don't hang up," he demands. "if you're not going to leave, then the least you can do is tell me his name and show me his face. i'll be there soon."
"i'm not doing that," you shut him down. "and i don't want you here."
that's the first time he's ever heard you tell him something like that. he feels as though invisible scars litter his body as each of your cruel responses cut and slice mercilessly. "you don't want me there...?"
"no, choso. you're busy anyway. just do whatever you're doing, alright?"
"we're practically done," he mumbles. "why don't you want me there anymore? because i'll ruin your date?"
"because you weren't here in the first place. i don't want you here now."
"you're punishing me for no reason."
"i'm not punishing you. if you feel punished, then that's not my problem."
"(y/n). go home. i'm serious."
"no."
"then i'm coming to get you."
"no, you aren't."
"yes, i am."
"goodbye, choso. have fun with yuki."
he's halfway through calling your name when the line cuts and you are gone. the brunette stands there for a second more, ruminating, heart hammering.
that was your first real argument.
the first time you've ever spoken to each other that way. the first time he didn't rush to fix things before they could get worse, the first time your frustration did not melt away with the sound of his voice, the first time either of you had been so separated, so cold, so distant.
ordinarily, tears would have sprung to choso's ears from the sheer emotion of it all, but he finds that none are coming. what he feels now is something dark, something engrossing that swallows him whole as he pulls up the location to that bakery from your messages, a growl building in the back of his throat as he swipes past that godforsaken picture.
choso loves you, but he's never witnessed you act like such a brat before. he hates to say it, he hates to call you that, but he can not find any other word to describe just what exactly it is you think you're doing.
the brunette does not have the capacity to think that you're just using some guy to fill his place and make him angry. all he sees, all he knows, is that you are with a man who is not himself, and he's acting on impulse as he normally does, rushing to meet back up with yuki so that he can wrap things up.
you're not sure what made you think that your words were enough to keep choso from finding you. normally, the man is so obedient, so willing to do whatever you say, but you think you've really crossed a point of no return when you're waving goodbye to your old high school friend, and you happen to turn your head to see your boyfriend fastly approaching.
you've never been scared of choso. he's your sweet boy. the kindest, gentlest being you've ever met. what makes choso feared by others is not something that he's ever been keen on revealing to you.
so when you catch wind of him walking toward you down the street, plum eyes sharp as he locks them onto you, you freeze. the marks on his face are shifting and morphing with his rage, and he wears so rather openly on his expression.
your boyfriend is pissed off, and he was not joking about getting to you by any means necessary.
you notice that the closer he gets, he does not slow. it is only when he is a few inches away from you when you realize that he is not yet walking to you, but going after your friend who has already made it inside of his car.
your eyes go wide as you catch choso around his built torso, blocking him from proceeding further as he lets your touch will him away. if he really wanted to, he would have plowed through you without question. but you're still you. you're still (y/n). there's no need to risk taking your arm off by accident because he's worried about some guy. besides, he's not the one who can give him answers. you are.
choso steps back with firm stomps as you lightly push him away. flaming wine hues glow hard down at you once he's hovering over you, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as the veins in his neck poke and his fist clenches and unclenches at his side.
"what the hell are you doing?" you hiss. "i told you not to come, choso."
"where is he going?" he points past your smaller from. "who was he, (y/n). where is he going."
"for the love of - he's a friend, okay? i was serious about that. he was just a friend from school that i ran into."
"ran into?"
"yes, here. at the bakery."
"so you went by yourself. he didn't go with you?"
"no, choso. i'm not in regular contact with him. he just appeared."
he hums in disapproval, shaking his head. "i still don't like it. i don't like how you didn't want to wait for me."
"choso, you knew how much i've been wanting to come here for their grand opening. i was gonna go with or without you. the way things turned out, i had to go without you."
"i would have waited for you to go to any store."
"i'm not you, choso. i didn't want to wait for you to be done hanging with some girl-"
"hanging? we were working."
"i don't care. you left me to be with her and it hurt my feelings."
"it hurts my feelings that you did something that was meant for us with another guy."
"like you don't do the same with yuki?"
"i don't. we work together."
"but you always have to go off with her when we're about to do something."
"i do what the sorcerers tell me to do, (y/n)."
"so you wouldn't feel a way if i was always out partnered up with some guy for work? if he always called me saying that he needed me during to worst possible times?"
"i would not like it, but that's not the same as you choosing to spend time with someone outside of work to get back at me."
"it feels the same."
choso no longer wants to continue on with this out in the open. he reaches for your wrist, tugging you slightly. "we're going home."
you try to pull your arm from his grasp, but it's no use. "i don't want to go home! let go of me."
he turns back to give you a harsh look, one so foreign to you on his soft features. you pause. "we're going."
the two of you fight some more when you get back home, caught up in the hectic cycle of your first dispute. it ends eventually with the two of you storming off into different directions, followed by tears that the both of you shed in private.
in the silence, you're both hit with the awfulness of arguing with one another, as it is such a strange, new thing to you. it feels ten times worse now that it is over.
choso was right. you were being mean. you knowingly weaponized choso's vulnerability to use it against him, and you got the reaction that you wanted, but you still do not feel any better about how the day went. you were miserable when you went to that bakery by yourself, moping as your mind swarmed with images of your boyfriend and his pretty blonde partner together while you were left to fend for yourself. in truth, your high school friend had saved you, and the urge to get revenge for how choso made you feel surpassed any semblance of logic as you snapped that picture and pressed send.
it wasn't planned. you just did it.
it doesn't take much to get choso wound up emotionally, and you know it, but this anger of his was new. and it spun your mind around in circles, then before you even knew it, you were fighting.
you wish you could take it back. the whole reason why you did any of this was to get his attention, and you got it, but now what? your boyfriend is angry with you for the first time ever, and suddenly, your resolve does not seem as pressing as the aforementioned matter.
all you wanted was to spend the day with your boyfriend, and you lost it when you couldn't even get that.
but that was no reason for you to do what you did. you can see that now.
"choso?"
the soft call of his name brings choso's head turning on a swivel as you stand bashfully in the doorway. you sniff hard as you fiddle with a piece of paper you found on your floor.
the brunette looks at you with big eyes, his anger, too, long gone. and he waits.
you breathe in sharp. "i'm really sorry. i hated arguing with you. i shouldn't have made you feel like i was replacing you or like i was gonna leave you. i just got so upset about today. it was no one's fault but i blamed you. and i'm sorry. i shouldn't have said all that about you and yuki, either. i didn't know how else to express what i was feeling. i really wanted to spend time with you. i didn't have nearly as much of a good time as i would have if you were there. the pastries weren't even that good. i love you... i got carried away."
before you can blink, choso has already scrambled to his feet and tugged you into a tight hug. he buries his face in the crook of your neck and presses your body to his tightly, screwing his eyes tight with a shuddering exhale.
the second choso hears an apology, he doesn't care anymore. he's just happy that this can finally end. that you're back to your sweet self, and choso has nothing more to worry about. all he wants now is you.
he doesn't say anything. he just holds you tight. a whimper slips from him when you hug back, breathing him in deeply as you nuzzle your face against him.
"i'm sorry, cho," you say weakly into the fabric of his chest. he hugs you tighter.
toji fushiguro:
arguing with toji is... common.
toji fushiguro does not back down from a challenge. he never has. he's never had any reason to. he talks a lot of shit, and he's able to back it up with those remarkable gifts he carries. as far as toji is concerned, he is superior to every other non sorcerer there is. hell, he might as well be humanity's symbol of perseverance. he fights, and he fights willingly.
and as much as you love toji, you love him through his crudeness, his snarkiness, his disrespectful attitude that tends to come to the surface when he's spent and worn.
if the two of you are being honest, you argue probably more than the average couple. there's something about the sway of it, the rhythm it carries, how breezily it flows between the two of you. you don't necessarily like to argue, but arguments find you like you're their home. like they were made for the two of you to engage in, therefore, you fall into this back and forth quiet often. half the time, you aren't even sure why.
being with toji is like constantly living within some kind of arena. energy is high at all times, a constant buzz underlying your emboldened passions. you're entertained day in and day out, tossed around by your opponent in bed so often, you find that your legs have trouble keeping you standing when the two of you are through. you and toji both like competition, and you go head to head with each other as much as possible. most of the time, it's heated, exciting tension. the other times, its just shouting, trying to be heard over top of the other. two stubborn, hardheaded, sore losers fighting to win.
you like the fire that carries the two of you. you like how it burns so brightly between you, having yet to diminish over the years you've known each other and been together. when you and toji fight, you fight for yourselves, for your relationship. fighting, in your opinions, is a sign of strength, a sign of diversity within your conjoined lives. it's a sign that the two of you care enough about your bond and about each other to stand ten toes down as you fight about whatever nonsense it is you're on about now until either one of you yields by winning, walking off, or jumping the other one's bones.
toji does not like being wrong. even if he knows he is, he'll still give you a hard time. that's just the kind of man that he is. he's not going to admit that he could have done something differently until he's learned some kind of lesson, and usually that lesson comes when you've shut him out completely by giving him the silent treatment for as long as you possibly can, longer than he had believed you would last.
there's one thing toji hates more than being wrong, and it's you paying him no mind, acting like he isn't right next to you, greeting him with silence when he asks you a question. he can't fucking stand it when you do that. it drives him crazy, and the only way he really knows how to fix that is with how he fixes most of your problems - by fucking them out of you.
but then, there are times when the words are too harsh for sexual reconciliation. insults fly that meant nothing but landed like everything, and the space between you grows with something colder than fire. those moments, when the arguments are real and bruising, the two of you do not always reach the same, affectionate conclusions.
"christ, girl," toji seethes, rolling his eyes to his skull as he tosses his head back with exasperation. he's lounging on your couch with his legs crossed and arms outstretched on the cushions behind him. maybe forty five or so minutes have passed since the two of you have gotten into it, and the vibe between you feels off. like no amount of sex or cuddling can save you from the direction this is headed. "y're always finding some shit to be mad about. don't you ever get tired?"
"tired of you?" you snap, standing next to the coffee table before him. "yeah, all the fucking time."
"you think i don't get tired of your moanin'?"
"too damn bad, fushiguro, you're stuck with my moaning forever. what are you gonna do about it?"
ivy hues hold yours with slimming severity. "keep talkin' and find out."
"fuck you. you don't get to fuck me after all this shit you put me through tonight."
toji turns out one of his palms, quirking one side of his mouth as if to question your wellbing nonverbally. "the fuck are you on about? i ain't do shit to you."
"yes you did, toji! why do you think we're fighting now?"
"'cause y're a goddamn pain."
you groan, searching around you for the nearest object, which happens to be a crumpled napkin sitting atop the table surface. you reach over and lunge the paper at toji's face, watching as it bounces off of his chest and rolls down his massive frame, onto the floor. the ebony haired assassin glares up at you, as if to dare you to throw something else.
"throwing shit now, huh?" he raises a brow.
"you're lucky it was just a napkin and not a rock."
"will ya give it a rest already?" your boyfriend sneers. "all i said was that you aren't cut out for any life like mine. what's the big deal? you're mad 'cause i told the truth?"
"it wasn't just that," you chuckled, eyes blown as you swipe your hand over your chin. "you said it like you think i could never be able to lift a finger on my own, let alone do something like that."
"you know i ain't mean it like that," he exhales, annoyed.
"then why say it like you meant it like that?" you question. "i can handle myself fine, fushiguro. you think i can't take care of myself?"
"nah. i don't think you can handle an assassin's job. much less mine. i'm already two times your size doll, and that don't even account for our difference in skillsets."
"obviously i can't be like you. nobody can be like you. but we're not just talking about how you operate, we're talking about people who fight and kill for a living as a whole."
"why are you so damn worried about bein' qualified to be an assassin?"
"since my boyfriend made it very clear that he doesn't believe i'm capable of doing anything on my own!"
"i do think you can do shit on your own, (y/n). that's not what i said."
"you're lying."
"y're actin' like a lunatic."
toji rises carelessly to his feet with a grunt, hands pressing into his knees, and you take the opportunity to toss another napkin at him. this time, it bounces off his head and goes flying into another direction. toji's face flattens as he stares down at you like you're a pest.
"and you're acting like a dick!" you counter. "no, you're not acting like one. you just are one."
"you done yet?" he squints his eyes. "you get that shit out of your bratty fuckin' system?"
"don't talk to me like what i'm saying doesn't matter."
"well, it's hard to listen to ya when you're spouting all this nonsense, darlin'."
"it's not nonsense!" you march over to him and block his path when you see him begin to turn away to walk off. toji clicks his tongue, looking off with irritation as you hold him hostage. "why don't you think i could train to do something like be an assassin? i was a great sorcerer."
"do you hear how stupid this conversation sounds? we're arguin' about hypotheticals."
"hypotheticals lead to truths, and you don't believe in me."
"you're nuts."
"you're a liar."
"so what if i don't believe in you, eh?" he lifts a fist to his hip and tilts his head with cloudy eyes. "what're you gonna do? your world gonna end?"
you gasp. "so you admit it. you admit you think i'm weak."
"for the love of - just move." he goes to step around you, but you step in his way again. "move, before i make you."
"you'd like that, wouldn't you? proving how fragile you think i am by picking me up and forcing me out of the way."
"the only reason i'd like doing that would be because i'd finally get some fuckin' peace and quiet." toji goes to move around you again, but you block him once more, leading his temper to burst. "(y/n), the fuck is your problem?"
"my problem is that i know exactly what you were trying to say about me, but now you don't have the balls to stand on it."
"you're tryin' really hard to get your feelings hurt. let it go."
"i'm not letting shit go until i hear you say it."
"i'm tellin' ya now, you don't want to hear what i have to say."
"oh i promise you, i really do."
toji is immovable before you, glowering down at you with lazy eyes and formiddable stillness. he's giving you the chance to back out before he says something that he can't take back, before his words become so mean that the argument takes a hard left turn.
in these moments, when toji's agitated and tired, he does not really care what comes out of his mouth. with you, ordinarily, he's gentler in a rugged kind of way. he'll still talk his shit, but he'll do so with a humor and sappiness that is nowhere to be found right now. he's sweet on you, careful with you, thoughtful with you, and while his love for you would never change or be swayed by something so damn stupid, it's hard to find those remnants of him when he gets in a bad mood.
he loves you to death, but right now, all he can hear is the way your mouthing off at him senselessly, fighting hard over something that toji would never in a million years think of allowing you to do. sure, you're not being serious about turning your life around to go back to doing dangerous work, but the very thought of it grinds his goddamn gears, for that's not the kind of life you need to be living. this, this calmness, this steadiness you've built with toji is good, it's right, it's where you're meant to be. the dark haired man will be damned if you set foot back into that kind of life after you'd successfully escaped it, returning to the risk of death that toji can not afford to fathom.
after all, it had been a life threatening experience that made you want to turn your life around, away from constant risk.
so fuck no, toji does not think you're cut out for it. he doesn't want you to be cut out for it. you're his woman now. you have a life. you're loved. if you think he wants you even so much as touching another weapon to fight, you've got another damn thing coming.
"leave it," he sneers. "it's the last time i'm tellin' ya."
"psh. coward."
you're playing with fucking fire.
toji narrows his eyes at you in disbelief. "you think so?" he dares you.
you cross your arms, eyes pointed. "yep. you're a coward, toji."
oooh, and it's enough to make toji completely forget that you have feelings he should protect. now that you've pushed the right buttons, he's dropping the filter and talking freely.
"says the girl who chickened out of sorcery."
all of the air within the room seems to shrink up as your face falls in shock, reeling. "...are you serious?" your voice is lower, quiter now. "you're throwing that back in my face?"
toji shrugs. "i'm not the one who kept pushin'. you wanted what i think, so here it is."
"i got injured you fucking asshole," you emphasis your last word with a shove to his pec, one that does nothing to move him or throw him off balance. "how dare you say i chickened out?"
"you healed and ya didn't wanna go back. what else do ya call it?"
your mouth drops with incredulity, doing your best to combat the way your heart has sunk with grief. toji knows that this is a difficult topic for you, which is likely why you feel so offended by the prospect of him refusing to believe that you could return to that kind of life. hearing him express the fact that he feels that you are not brave, that the reason for you backing away had not been valid enough, whether it's true or he's trying to hurt you or what, it insults you.
especially because toji knows that you were a damn good sorcerer. that you put your heart and soul into your work before blooming love, a desire for a conjoined future, and the daunting reality that the universe allowed you to live simply by chance rather than by fate after a mission gone horribly wrong, swayed your motivations, and you took your opening. your one and only chance to live a normal life was seized, and you don't regret that decision for a second.
nevertheless, you still experience doubts. you still play that day over in your mind, thinking about how if you had never gotten hurt, you never would have left the field. you could have been dead by now. or not. you'll never know. but there are times when you yearn for that purpose again, for that action, that thrill, even though you know that you went down the right path.
toji knows you aren't weak. or at least, you've always desperately hoped that he doesn't believe that you are. you feel that you have always had that underlying insecurity, the lurking fear that your boyfriend thinks little of you. that you do not stand out in his eyes, that you are not strong enough, exciting enough. you fear the way he judges your life choices, if he does at all, and you're greatest insecurity comes to life in his words. in his glare.
you thought you wanted the truth, but this fucking hurts.
and toji isn't teling you the truth. of course he's not. he doesn't think you're weak. he doesn't think you're a coward for choosing life instead of death. he respects, honors, and fucking thanks your decision to have left like no other, as the real reason behind his malice is the fact that he does not want to you die or disappear on him.
plus, you've been working his last nerve all night.
he just wants to teach you a lesson, is all. but he takes it too far.
"i'm not a coward," you grit, tightening your fists.
"sure ya aren't," he smirks. "you aren't cut out for this shit, girlie. it's not for you anymore. you couldn't cut it, so like your old man said, let it be."
"fuck you, toji," you jab an angry finger at him.
"i thought you didn't wanna do that tonight, darlin?" his smirk grows, baiting you into a bigger reaction, and he gets just that.
"i hate you," you shout.
ouch.
toji doesn't let it show how much that stung. "yeah, yeah," he murmurs as his smile dwindes. "i've heard it all before."
"if you think i'm so fucking weak and useless, then why the hell did you stay with me? you should have just left me the fuck alone."
you're gone with a shoulder check, the quick swipe and jingle of keys, and the slamming of the front door. in the moment, toji does not think to follow you. he merely rolls his eyes and continues on with his business, acting first as though this will blow over soon, as though this argument hadn't been one of your bigger onces, as though his heart isn't aching at the sound of your voice crying out that you hate him.
by the second and third hour of your absence, toji is restless. he hasn't heard a thing from you. you haven't texted, called, turned your location back on, or anything. you vanished, and you clipped off any line of contact between the two of you. you're gone, and toji grows anxious in the silence that you have left behind.
the ivy eyed man does not like not knowing what is happening. he does not like not being able to have his eyes on you, not being able to check in with you, to talk to you, to see you. what if you're hurt? what if you don't come back? what if toji broke something in you that is unfixable, all because he wanted to get you to shut up? all because he hates even thinking about you putting yourself back into harm's way?
he should have corrected you when you left. he doesn't think you're weak and useless like you said. he would never think such things of you. the way you have him wrapped around your pretty little finger, the way you're able to juggle work, helping look after his kids, cooking for everyone, filling the home with love and warmth all at once, the way you keep your eyes ahead of you instead of on the past, pushing through the traumas of your previous occupation to be present, are all tells of your great strength. your tenacity. your passion.
those are just a few of the reasons why toji fell so hard for you, and to lie about that so boldly to your face... well, it was sure to hit you hard. he knew it would, but what he did not considere was how hard it would hit him in turn. like a boomerang effect, or deserved karma.
toji knows he's an asshole. he knows he hardly deserves you. he knows he's not good at expressing his fears, the things that haunt him, the truths much harder to admit than the 'i love yous' that come so easily.
and sometimes, it's just easier to fall into that negative title than it is to breathe life into the things he does not want to accept.
when night comes around, and you're still not back, toji's calling you over and over, wandering the streets to look for you. his concern is growing by the second. he gets it. you're angry, but he hopes that's all it is and you're somewhere safe. he wishes you'd at least tell him you're safe.
he is soon nauseous with fear, increasingly desperate to find you, when he finally spots you across the way, sitting on a vacant park swing.
the moment he sees you, his heart is exhaling and he's running to you. "the hell is wrong with you?" he barks, bending over to gather your shoulders in his hands once he reaches you, stilling you on the swing as you look up at him with wide eyes. "i've been callin' you for fuckin' hours! i didn't know where the hell you went. it's dark out, girl, what the fuck are ya doin? are you tryin' to give me a heart attack?"
you look over his face emptily, and in the darkness, toji can make out the sparkle of tears dotting your lashes. he pauses.
"you don't need to come running to me. i'm not some fragile thing you need to protect. i'm fine."
your tone is cold, void of that fire it had earlier. now, you just sound so sad. "(y/n), come on," toji breathes out. "i wasn't worried 'cause i think y're weak-"
"you said it yourself that you do. there's no need to keep denying it. you look down on me because i stopped being a sorcerer. you don't think i could do anything like that ever again, and it's cool. i get it. what i don't get is how you could love someone you view like that. are you lying to me about that to?"
"alright, slow it down," toji shakes his head, dropping down to a crouch before you. "we ain't gonna jump to conclusions all night."
"i'm not. you said it yourself."
"that i don't love you? that's bullshit, babe."
"that you think i'm a weak coward. so you must be thinking other things like that. it's only logical."
"this crap is everything but logical," he grunts. "when i said all that shit, i wasn't being for real."
"sure, whatever," you tch with the roll of your eyes, pushing past him to stand up and walk toward the playground balance beam. you don't hear toji follow you, but you know he's there as you step onto the metal with outstretched arms, eyes stinging.
"i'm serious," you hear him say just behind you as you put one foot in front of the other, brows furrowed hard. "i don't think that shit about you doll."
"then it's even fucking crazier that you would say some shit like that to me, toji," you scoff.
"what do you want from me?" he rounds the beam so that he's waiting at the end of it, facing you as you walk down. "you weren't gonna stop until i said what you were thinkin' about yourself in your head! you wanted me to agree with whatever the fuck y're lyin' to yourself about, so i did."
you stop in your tracks, keeping your balance. "because genuinely what else was i supposed to think when you first said that you didn't think i could do what you people do?"
"that i don't want ya to get fuckin' hurt? that i don't want you repeating something that already happened?"
"sorcerers, assassins, whoever the fuck get hurt all the time. so what?"
"don't be hypocrite. you left after that shit happened to you."
"i did! but that doesn't mean i didn't know the risks! that doesn't mean i hadn't gotten hurt before! just 'cause i left doesn't mean i couldn't do that shit again with my eyes closed!"
"i fuckin' know that, (y/n)!"
"then what's the problem?!"
"i don't want you to die, that's the problem!"
"i'm not gonna die! i'm not even serious about going back!"
"i don't care! i almost lost you once, girl, i ain't gonna let there be a second time!"
you freeze, stunned into silence by the sheer zeal carrying his confession to you, and your arms slowly melt down to your sides as you maintain perfect balance thoughtlessly.
toji exhales, threading his veiny hand through his messy locks as he searches the ground as though it will give him answers, will help him with what to say next. the corner of his mouth creases as he presses his lips together, eyes sunken like a gaping wound.
"i get it. i shouldn't have said all that shit to you. i shouldn't have let you get to me like that. but fuck, (y/n), i clearly don't think that way about you. i'm crazy about you. even if i didn't agree with the choice you made, which i do, would still respect ya."
"how am i supposed to know that if you just told me otherwise?" you ask softly.
"i've been tellin' ya for years that i'm proud of you."
"that's different from right now. from what you said today."
"i-" toji clenchs his jaw. "you got a point. y're right. i get it. 'shouldn't have said any of it. none of it was true. i was just angry."
you stare at him silently, and toji caves.
"i'm sorry," he swallows hard, softening. "i'm sorry, doll."
"you should be," you look down.
"i am," he starts to move around again, approaching you from the side as you turn to look up at him. even with you elavated on the beam, he still towers over you. "had me losin' my mind when i couldn't find you. when i hadn't heard from you," he frowns. "be pissed all you want, but don't do that shit again. i don't care how mad you are at me, you turn that location on and send me a text. that shit is dangerous."
"but i was-"
"i don't. care," he punches each word. "don't go doubting how crazy i'll get behind you, doll. i worry about ya like i worry about my own kids. it ain't because i don't think you can handle yourself. it's 'cause i love you. i'm sorry i made you start to think otherwise. that's one thing you should never question. but seriously, don't do stupid shit like ignoring my calls when your out at night. it's pitch dark out here. i don't care how strong you are, i'm not for it."
you want to combat him more, but the look on his face shows you that he is not joking, that he is dead serious about your safety, so you choose not to poke the bear any further tonight. "fine," you grumble.
"yeah?" he lifts a large hand to hold your hip, rolling his thumb over the curve of it. your mouth twitches, and you duck your head to look away as toji comes into you. "i love you, doll. i always will. 'm sorry. i don't wanna lose ya."
you feel your eyes well with tears as you bite down hard on your teeth. your nose flares involunitarily as you fidget, the opposing warmth of your boyfriend sinking over you in a time you need it most, deep down - a time where you began to doubt this tenderness, this sweetness, this love that you cherish so fiercely, no matter how angry you are with each other.
the ebony haired man leans in to kiss your forehead gingerly. you close your eyes when his lips meet your skin, and you release a breath you didn't know you were holding.
when toji pulls away, he looks down at you tenderly. "you don't hate me, girlie, do ya?"
you lift your teary eyes with a confused expression before you remember that you had declared such a thing to his face in the heat of the argument. you sigh. "sometimes."
"come on," his other hand comes to your other hip. "throw me a rope."
you roll your eyes. "no. i don't hate you. you just deserved to hear it."
"mmm, and it stung like it was meant to."
you purse your lips. "sorry."
your apologize comes out as a snap, and toji almost laughs. "you still angry?"
you think about it. "yeah. you were a dick."
"alright," he sighs, turning to bend his knees and hunch his back, holding out his arms toward you. "you can be angry at me in the house. get on."
you stare at his back for a moment, leg bouncing. toji turns to his shoulder, quirking a brow.
"not a request, doll. we got more arguin' to do. can't do it on an empty stomach either."
you huff, eventually obliging as you climb onto your boyfriend's broad back. you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up, locking his arms under your thighs.
he tilts his head to you, your nose brushing his cheek. "good?" he asks lowly.
you hum. "yeah."
he hoists you up again, ensuring that you are secure, before starting to walk. you rest your chin against his shoulder with an exhale through your nose, tilting your head against toji's neck as you look to the sky.
"i love you, too," you mumble abruptly mid walk, and toji hums.
arguments with toji may get nasty, and he may say rude things, but in the end, there's nothing the two of you aren't willing to work on in order to get stronger. you're just competitive like that.
ryomen sukuna:
surprisingly enough, arguments between you and ryomen don't happen all that often.
the two of you bicker frequently, going back and forth about little things, often because you are having little disputes about your contrasting understandings of either of your habits or traditions. the king of curses is often poking questions or fun at the undeniably human things that you do, like thinking you'll help contribute to chores when sukuna will literally curse an entire population before he allows you to do such things, or expecting him to subconsciously understand and empathize with your emotions or reactions that he literally does not comprehend or care to comprehend.
but those are normal, every day occurences. harmless (hopefully), yet lengthy conversations about things either of you are learning about the other. neither of you really take things like that seriously.
and though sukuna has the ability to make you angry quite frequently, you don't really seek out arguments with him, because it isn't often the kind of angry that makes you blind with rage, but the kind in which your love for his unique insanity pesters you the most. if you're feeling such a way, you'll give him a little eye roll and let it be known, and the salmon haired curse handles it by either teasing you, fucking you, or demanding you to tell him what is pestering you.
at the end of the day, those moments are never enough for you to dare to argue with the king of curses. unfortunately, you know that you would lose. and you can envision a couple of ways how.
your boyfriend isn't the type you typically want to enrage. you're not scared of him by any means, but you know him incredibly well. sukuna doesn't argue with you because there is not any reason to. you both have mouths, you both can speak. conflict does not always have to end in some loud match that would only infuriate him more.
sukuna is the type that tolerates absolutely no nonsense from anyone. while you are the woman he has grown to love, and the woman he intends to have by his side until the rest of time, he tolerates your attitude enough because he knows that you aren't going to cause a big commoton when it all comes down to it. arguing, in sukuna's a opinion, is fruitless. and childish.
he has the power. he controls how things go, and to think that he would allow such things to transpire between you on an ordinary basis is laughable.
sukuna is big on words. he's big on unapologetic bluntness. he's big on solving things within a matter of minutes or seconds when issues do arrive. he is not the type to enjoy wasting time on running around in circles with you in conversation.
and though you are in love with a brute, a beast, a monster, life with sukuna otherwise is rather calm. he takes care of you. he elevates your way of living like it's your birthright, and you can't say that you have many complaints when you exist in such luxury under his terrific care - terrific as in the very thought of how vigilantly he cares for you is terrifying.
you're not a pushover. the two of you talk and talk like two adults about things all the time. you never hide how you feel. you call him out when he says offensive things. he lets you click your tongue and scoff when you don't agree with him. but it's fine. it's whatever. you rarely ever get angry enough to pick a fight with him.
but... when you do...
it really does not end well.
because why argue? with fucking sukuna of all people?
the being who snaps his fingers to split someone's body open without a single second of hesitation? the being whose eye twitches when he even so much as thinks someone is looking at you the wrong way in public? the being who marks his possession over you in the visible, open spaces of your skin so that everyone who glances as you knows that you are undeniably, aggressively, proudly taken? the being who has no time, whatsoever, for any semblance of absurdity?
really, you don't know what you think is going to happen.
when sukuna does pinch a nerve, when his words have come across a bit too carelessly or his countenance has left you feeling displaced, you don't hold back. you don't try to hide it or overcome it. you just start mouthing off. snapping. throwing out something bitchy that only sukuna could handle, and the room all but completely stills.
and you don't care. you really don't as something that sukuna says lowly gets you going even more, because why would you start caring now, of all times? sukuna's given you enough freedom and comfort for you to feel safe doing such a thing, when the servants who have frozen solid in their places upon overhearing you wonder how you aren't dead yet, how much sukuna truly loves you let you speak to him in such a way.
when that happens, your arguments usually start with ryomen eying you with a deadly gaze as he responds to you with low, gravelly warnings, and grimaces like he does not even know who he is looking at. you're so aggravating when you get angry with him like this, and that patience of his that has built such remarkable immunity over the years of being with you is wearing thinner, and thinner, and you don't even realize how fucked you are as the string frays alarmingly fast.
and then, before you know it, it snaps. he's stooping to your level, saying the most heinous things with a smoothness that chips away at you, that reminds you just how easy it is for sukuna to be callous.
you could never win an argument with sukuna, because if you aim to hit him low, he aims to drop to the very depths of hell to strike you lower. the curse does not have anything to lose. he does not have to protect you from the consequences of your own actions. he does not have to coddle you and feed you delusions to only make you think that this is okay and you should do it more often.
no, he reciprocates your energy with a chilling vengeance, making sure that this ends with you regretting even daring to speak out of turn to him in the first place.
and you always do. for whenever sukuna looks you dead in the eye, and with a straight face speaks so clearly and insultingly, with such heartless vulgarity, like it isn't even hard for him to do so despite claiming to care for you, tears spring to your eyes automatically. like a trigger has been pulled. your eyes cloud with blurring with water that spills like a broken faucet.
sukuna's crimson eyes glance at the tears like they don't mean a thing to him, and yet, he looked the moment he noticed. and he struggles to look away, bringing his eyes back up to yours after a solid few seconds of staring.
he acts unmoved. untouched by the sight. he acts like your tears are a pestilence, like they're a pity to be seen. he utilizes them as proof that you shouldn't have gone and started a fight that you could never finish.
he acts like he doesn't care how the pearls stain your face as they trickle down past your chin. he doesn't care how your glossy eyes look up at him with the stubborness you cling to, past the heartbreak in your trembling gaze. he tries to look past it. he tries not to see it. he tries to hold onto that mask of cruelness that had worked so effectively. tries not to let such power fold under the pressure of your broken gaze and trembling lips, as you try to hold it all back without success.
he really tries. but no matter his roots, sukuna can not help the way his heart shakes for you when he sees that he has made you cry once again. he can't stand when you cry. he hates the way it makes him feel, how weak it renders him on your behalf.
hell, he wouldn't have had to get to this point if you hadn't started the fight. it's your fault. he chooses to blame you in order to dull the blow of his responsibility, but it is no use when you walk away silently, locking yourself away inside of the library, claiming the territory as your own.
you've always loved that room. he did not realize how much you would when he had it built for you. he supposes it is some sort of comfort to you now, which is why you retreat there instead of your bedroom. you're claiming a space, one that you remind belongs to you as much as it belongs to him.
i have a right to be here. don't treat me like i don't.
he can practically hear your words in the way the door closes with a tightness behind you, clicking with the adamance of the lock.
what is important, for you and sukuna, however, is not always the argument itself, as those are always destined to plummet into the wrong direaction. what is important, for you especially, is how you reconcile. how you return from such a place of hostility. how to trust sukuna once more as your partner and not some tyrant who rules over your behavior with a tight collar.
and sukuna is infamously terrible with words. he loves you with his presence, his protection, his actions, but he does not often speak of his affections. it's just not something the king of curses is quite equipped to do.
nevertheless, you put him to work. you force him into spaces that he hates being in, that he never thought he would be in before, and you re-establish your control as the woman who is able to reduce him to such humility.
standing before the library doors, ryomen knows better than to speak to you brashly, though every bone in his body is screaming at him to do so out of instinct, out of discomfort. why the hell did you have to go and cry on him? now he has to go and fix things because his chest won't stop tightening at the memory of those tears on your face, and he doesn't know how without the possibility of making things worse.
sukuna always makes these kinds of things worse.
it's why he prefers teasing. it's why he prefers fucking. ryomen is not an emotional being. he knows he loves you, and that's it. that's all you get from him. that security and the physical care and promise that comes with it. not apologies. not big, tear jerking confessions of love. not verbal reassurance - not when he's at fault.
so instead of speaking, he merely turns and presses his broad back to the door, slumping down the surface into a cross-legged position. his head knocks back against it as he glares ahead into nothing. just waiting. just there.
you heard him move against it a while ago, startled by the noise. you let hours pass, and you still do not here any motion. having long cried your eyes out, you slowly step toward the door with a gentle hand to the surface, pressing your ear flat against it to listen.
"must you insist upon making me wait any longer?"
the rumble of his voice startles you, and you jump away. your skin warms when you realize you've been caught.
you decide not to speak, remaining silent as you cross your arms. you hear him exhale loudly. "very well. brat," you hear him grumble the name, and you glare into his head past the door. "fix your face."
you shiver, face dropping as you question how in the hell he knew you were looking at him like that.
you huff, shuffling back toward the door to sit down against it, bringing your knees to your chest as you now want to see just how long sukuna is willing to wait in silence for you.
another hour passes, then some thirty minutes, and you turn your head. curious. lonely. sad.
"ryomen?" you call his name. you only use his name like that when you're serious, instead of calling him ryo or kuna.
you aren't sure if he's still there, and you are quick to decide that he is not, when his voice speaks up.
"what?"
you blink, truly shocked. "you haven't moved." your words come out as something between an observation and a question. you aren't sure which.
"nor have you."
"yeah, but... i didn't... tell you to wait for me."
"do not speak to me like i am a fool. i am well aware. i do as i please."
his words are calm, but a bit snippy, and you angle your brows on instinct. "then why are you still here?"
there's a beat. "did you not hear when i said that i do as i please?"
you suck your teeth, turning your head forward with your head knocked back. "alright, ryomen."
"you have not cooled down, i see."
"i did cool down, but the sound of your mouth pissed me off all over again."
"that is why i have been silent, woman. you called my name."
"i-" you pause before deflating. "yeah. i did," you admit aloud.
another moment of silence passes before sukuna speaks again. "was that all you had to say?"
"i don't know. i guess."
"will you be coming out soon?"
you exhale, thinking back to the way sukuna's words hit you. "i don't know," you answer honestly.
"...are you hungry?"
your stomach grumbles. "...i don't know."
"good lord. what do you know?" you can hear sukuna's tongue click, and you frown.
"i know that you're mean as fuck."
he hesitates. "perhaps," is all he says.
"perhaps?" you echo, turning your head to the door. "you are. not perhaps."
"alright," you imagine he's gritting his teeth and looking to the sky as if this is the very worst kind of torture for him. "i will resume silence until you are no longer angry."
"no you won't, ryomen, you made me feel like shit. why do you say the shit you say? do you realize how hurtful you can be? do you even care?"
"if i did not care, then i would not be sitting here after you dared to think that raising your voice at me was something i would tolerate."
"i didn't raise my voice at you-
"do not lie to me-"
"-i was just trying to-"
"-i know what you were doing."
you growl, turning your head forward with tightly crossed arms and outstretched legs after having talked over each other. "i don't care if you didn't like the way i was talking to you. there's better ways to handle things."
"you must not know how stubborn you are, woman."
"not more stubborn than you."
"impossible."
"whatever."
he groans. "why do you not listen unless i hurt you?"
you scrunch your face. "i'm not a pet, ryomen."
"i do not think of you as a pet."
"then why are you trying to train me into obedience?" you ask. "i get it. we don't argue, but i was pissed off and i wanted to argue. and your way of dealing with that was to break me down. like always."
"i do not always do such things. only when you get like that."
"still, i don't care how rare it is. i don't like it. you hurt me. and you don't even-"
"i do care," he interjects. "stop spreading lies."
"when you get like that, it really doesn't seem like it," you sigh, looking down at your hands in your lap. "like, at all. you say that stuff so easily. how can you talk like that to someone you love?"
sukuna no longer knows what to say. he never does when you ask him things like this. what is it he's supposed to say? how do you want him to react? what if his answers don't help?
of course he loves you. he wouldn't be with you if he didn't. he wouldn't put up with this. he wouldn't feel this way.
but he can't just come out and say it. how can he?
"you take my words much too harshly," he frowns.
"your words are harsh."
"what is it you wish of me?" he questions. "what will make this go away?"
"this won't just go away. you can't just make this disappear like you do with everything else. i'm going to be upset for a while."
"for what?"
"you really have to ask me that?" you shake your head. he doesn't say anything. "you fucked up. deal with it."
"(y/n)," he calls your name with a heavy sigh. "when will you be leaving the library?"
"i don't know if i will," you say. "i think... i may sleep in here tonight."
you look over the array of lounge chairs and sofas in the large room, deciding you'll be just fine dozing surrounded by stories you love. surrounded by something kind that sukuna did for you, reminding you that he's only like this during his very worst moments.
you expect more push back from your boyfriend, but he gives none. instead, you hear him shuffle as he stands, the door creaking behind you with the release of his weight.
"are you hungry?" he asks you again.
this time, you don't lie. "a little."
"i will have uraume bring your meals here until further notice."
"...okay."
you hear him begin to walk away, then pause. silence. "i will try not to speak to you in such a way, as long as you communicate instead of picking fights with me," he declares. "is that a deal?"
it is, but you don't want him to think so just yet. "maybe."
"tch," he clicks. "i shall... leave you be. come find me when you are ready to do so." another beat. "i apologize," he grits.
you almost laugh at how strained it is. "i'll see you tomorrow, ryomen."
he grumbles, and then he's gone. respecting your boundaries, something he's struggled through learning over the years and has finally begun to master.
and when the time comes for you to make up, when you've laid awake all night thinking about how complex sukuna is, how complex his values and his love for you are, you creep up the stairs and into his chambers early that morning.
he turns to look at you from where he sits propped up under silk sheets, curtains blowing around the creaked balcony door, morning sun pouring in through streams of gold. his chest is bare and the sheets hang low over his naked hips. he looks at you calmly, like he almost had not expected you to come so soon.
you blink at him, closing the door behind you gently. "i'm sorry for yelling at you," you apologize steadily. "it wasn't right. but neither was what you did."
the salmon haired curse only watches you with hypnotic ruby eyes, kissed by crisp dawn. he stretches an arm out, wordlessly beckoning you to him. you crawl over cool sheets, and sit with your knees folded under you as ryomen's arm snakes around your waist, holding your lower back.
"took all night for you to squeeze that out, hm?" his sleep laced voice teases lowly, and you push pitifully at his shoulder. his skin is warm.
"it's called taking space."
"i am aware. that is why i gave it to you."
your lips quirk up. "did you mean it? about not talking like that again if i don't start arguments?"
he looks up at you lazily, quirking a brow. "yes, or else i would not have said it."
"you think you can keep that promise?"
"as long as you do."
you press your lips together. "okay. deal."
you stretch your hand out as if to shake his. he looks down at it, back up at you, before securing your wrist in his grasp and yanking you over top of him. you yelp, landing over his large, rigid frame ungracefully.
fingers clasp around your face and tilt your head up. soft lips meet yours, a gentle contrast to the way he ordinarily kisses you, and you blink fuzziness away when he pulls back. "do not doubt that i care for you. doing so is doubting me, and i do not-"
"you don't tolerate it," you finish, leaning back down to peck his lips. he glares, but his eyes do not carry the same sharpness as they did yesterday. instead, they are warm. tender. "i know. i know."
@/field.of.ink The Dog // Rainbow Kitten Surprise Painkillers // image unknown Mitski A Burning Hill // W.R. On the Death of Summer and Baptismal Promises // Jeanette Winterson Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? // Aftersun (2022) dir. Charlotte Wells // tiktok // Zen Cho The Four Generations of Chang E // Charles M. Schulz Peanuts // Mitski Class of 2013 // Ethel Cain God's Country (Demo 3) // Richard Siken You Are Jeff from "Crush" // The Mountain Goats Birth of Serpents // 弟弟 Didi (2024) dir. Sean Wang // Noah Kahan The View Between Villages // unknown
The movie establishes that the phone lines to the house are down, that’s also why nobody is able to call Kevin at home. The movie also establishes that all of his neighbors are out of town which is why he couldn’t borrow their phones. The movie ALSO BEGINS by introducing the main antagonist as a “police officer” which is why Kevin doesn’t trust the cops. I’m so tired of the ignorance. The slander.
Keep in mind that the robbers could have turned around and left at any time. Kevin set up the traps, but they didn’t have to walk into them. They could’ve left and robbed an easier house, but didn’t because they wanted to get the 8-year-old who was beating their asses. At some point, it stopped being about stealing the McCallisters’ stuff and started being about killing Kevin, at which point Kevin was justified in doing whatever the hell he wanted to them.
Skdhsjdhsk okay Home Alone discourse? xD I recognize this is a joke but I’m jumping into the shark pit regardless because I just love this movie and wanna talk about it so HERE GOES
Lol so yeah actually the phone line argument is a bit confusing because yeah the phones are down at first, but they obviously were fixed at some point since his family tried to call him from the airport in Paris or later on he wouldn’t be able to order pizzas or call the cops from his house at the end of the whole attempted robbery night, so there IS the question of why Kevin’s family doesn’t keep trying to call him daily.
HOWEVER, as people have already mentioned, Kevin thinks he’s a criminal due to stealing a toothbrush and has already been chased by a cop, he’s not gonna contact the police about the robbers.
Calling the police about his family leaving him? He’s not gonna do that because he doesn’t KNOW they’re in Paris, Kevin believes he magically wished his family out of existence the night before they left after they were all right dicks to him. He doesn’t know they have the power to come back, that’s why he asks Santa to return them later on, what use is telling the cops who (in his eyes) will probably blame him for it?
Also ppl be criticizing him for the booby traps like this isn’t the THIRD time Kevin’s had to chase these guys off his property? First he tried to fake a house party, they still came back, he tried to fake a MURDER, they spied on him and declared they were coming back again. Kevin’s given them two nonviolent chances to leave his house alone, they’re the grown men deciding they’re gonna come back and rob a house they KNOW has an eight year old in it. They announce their presence by knocking and taunting that they know he’s alone and “helpless” in there and that they’re coming in anyway, what their original plans for dealing with him were, we don’t know. After they spring his first traps, their plan switches from robbing the house to specifically harming Kevin in revenge.
These guys are trespassing on Kevin’s property AGAIN after multiple warnings, and they’ve announced themselves with a declaration of intent to harm him, he can’t call the police or they’ll discover he vanished his family and committed toothbrush crimes, Kevin needed to defend himself and he had FULL RIGHT to do so however he saw fit (which all proved entirely necessary seeing as literally nothing he threw at these men actually stopped them from trying to hurt him, they kept coming until his neighbor saved him)
it was such a thought, one can suppose. but that's all he has in him at the moment. itadori yuji had been gnawing at the corner of his wooden chopsticks for a good minute, fuschia brows furrowed like he was solving some great cosmic riddle that could never be solved.
finally, he said, “okay, but seriously, i've been curious about. what does nanamin do after work? like, he just leaves. always so…quiet. where does he even go?”
nobara rolled her eyes. “home, obviously. probably sits in a sterile apartment, eats salad without dressing, and reads economic forecasts.”
yuji gasped. “that’s worse than what i was imagining!”
they both turned to dark haired young man, who had been doing his best impression of a brick wall. yuji leaned over the table until his face was nearly into fushiguro megumi's own features.
“c’mon, you know, right? spill it.”
“no.” megumi said flatly.
“that’s not a no, i suppose.” nobara accused, pointing her chopsticks.
“it is a no.” megumi insisted, irritation flickering in his blue-green eyes. “and even if i did know, i wouldn’t tell you. it’s none of your business.”
yuji deflated, flopping dramatically onto the table. “why is he so mysterious?!”
later, they cornered gojo satoru in the hall. he was humming to himself, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose. he was enjoying the sun, drinking his favorite cola (too sweet for consumption) drink.
"yo sensei!" yuji waves at him.
gojo smiles, waving back. "it's my kids! look at you doing so well~"
"we aren't your kids." megumi huffed, crossing his arms.
"ack! not my own son saying that to me. i'm disappointed, megumi!"
megumi rolls his eyes. "so am i."
nobara sighs. "can we just ask him what we came to ask him?"
“oh yeah! sensei, where does nanamin go after work?” yuji demanded.
gojo smiled, tilting his head. “curious little kittens, aren’t you?”
“just answer it already, sensei.” nobara said, arms crossed. "we've been thinking about it instead of training."
for once, gojo didn’t tease. he only adjusted his glasses, the smile softening but not losing its distance. “hm....but that’s not my story to tell.” he said simply, and walked away. "sorry curious cats, that's just how it is!"
yuji and nobara were left staring after him, more frustrated than before but also unsettled. megumi sighed and excused himself. gojo satoru continued to look at the sky, taking a sigh.
the truth, at that hour, was unfolding elsewhere. nanami kento slipped off his tie the moment he stepped through the door, hanging it neatly on the rack beside the light switch.
his fine leather shoes followed, lined up with quiet, accurate precision. he exhaled a long, tired breath for a moment, then let his shoulders soften.
the apartment smelled faintly of lavender and something sweet, the diffuser in the corner doing its work. he carried two bags of groceries into the kitchen, setting them down carefully. a clock ticked softly on the wall.
“darling?” he called, voice gentle.
a shuffle of movement answered him. in the living room, you sat curled comfortably in an armchair, your hair pinned back loosely, a blanket pooled over your knees.
you looked up as he entered, your eyes bright but unfocused, your expression uncertain. “oh, i....i see.” you said softly, tilting your head. “hello.”
kento’s chest tightened in the way it always did. he smiled anyway, steady and patient. “hello.” he murmured. “it’s me. kento.”
you blinked back at him. a flicker of recognition almost passed through your features. then it slipped away, leaving polite bewilderment.
he walked over and knelt at your side, lowering himself until his tender, vulnerable face was level with yours. he gave you a soft smile, a smile that had long belonged only to you.
“may i sit with you?” he asked, even though he always did.
you nodded slowly. he took your hand, warm and fragile, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. the tremor in his chest steadied with the rhythm of your pulse under his lips.
your evenings followed a careful rhythm. he cooked for you like he usually does. it was nothing fancy. you didn't like that. you preferred simple hearty meals, familiar dishes you used to love.
sometimes you remembered and those were such good days, that kento doesn't stop smiling for days on end. sometimes you didn’t and that's okay too, because he could hold your hand.
but tonight you wrinkled your brow at the taste of the miso soup. it seemed to be something you were trying so hard to remember something about. you furrowed your brows before looking at kento.
“did i make this?” you asked.
“no, my darling.” kento answered softly, smiling as he ladled more into your bowl. “i did.”
you nodded, accepting the answer as if it were brand new information. after dinner, he guided you gently to the sofa. he read aloud from a novel you had chosen long ago.
his voice was low and steady. you listened, sometimes with interest, sometimes with your eyes drifting elsewhere, lost in the haze of your mind. still, he read.
when you grew restless, he played your favorite records. the old vinyl crackled as soft jazz filled the room. occasionally, you swayed a little to the music, and for those brief moments, it almost felt like before.
later, he helped you prepare for bed. you laughed once, calling him “such a gentleman” as though you were strangers courting. his heart ached at the words, but he smiled.
he brushed your long tender hair carefully, devotedly tucked you under the blankets, and stayed by your side until your breathing slowed into sleep.
kento thought you had drifted off completely when your kindly fingers tightened suddenly around his hand. he looked at you, startled at the act.
your eyes were clearer than they had been all evening. “kento?” you whispered.
the sound of his name on your lips nearly broke him, as it always does. his throat closed, and it took every ounce of control he had to keep his voice steady.
“yes, love. i’m here.”
you studied his face, tears gathering faintly in your eyes. “you came back.”
he bowed his head against your hand, a tear slipping free despite himself. “i never left.”
for a heartbeat, for a breath, you remembered it at that moment. even for a moment, your soul, your heart called out to him. you smiled at him the way you used to, all warmth and certainty.
then the clarity faded almost instantenously. everything crumbled fast. your gaze clouded again, and you murmured something soft, soemthing perhaps akin to confusion before drifting back into the fog of sleep.
nanami kento had longed understood what it is. he had long accepted it. for bitter for worse, that's what you both promised. for sickness and in health. for all your lives, longing to love.
that's why he stayed, as he always does. he purses his lips in a flat line. his hand still in yours, holding on as though he could anchor both of you.
the heartbreak was quiet, patient, endless. loving you meant carrying both your memories and his own, even when you could not. and so he stayed, choosing you everyday.
this was enough, even if you get worse, even if you never get better. he would do his best to love you well even if it gets worse. he was good enough. he was good at remembering enough of that love for the both of you.
the night passed slowly, as nights always did. nanami barely slept, his body slouched uncomfortably in the chair by your bed, his hand never leaving yours. exhaustion tugged at him, but he stayed, steady, unyielding, the way he always had.
when dawn crept in through the blinds, pale light softened the room. he stirred, eyes blinking open, and for a moment he simply sat there, watching you breathe.
your beautiful face was calmer in sleep, untouched by confusion or fear, almost the way he remembered from years ago when mornings were warm with coffee and quiet laughter.
nanami kento leaned forward slightly, just to look closer. every line of your face was etched into him, into his soul, his heart. every memory kept alive in the hollow of his chest.
he could remember the day he met you, a day at a horrible day after work and he sat there at the park, uncaring about the rain. and almost suddenly, the sun shone when you covered him with your umbrella, the darkness of life swept away by your sunshine.
you rescued him from his own misery. you still do. even when fate twists things over and over again. he would do it over and over again. that's just what he was sure about. as long as he gets to be with you, it will always be worth it.
then as the bright morning sun started to peek through the glass windows, slowly, your eyes fluttered open. unfocused at first, drifting until they found his own.
for a moment, you simply stared at each other, face to face, close enough that he could feel your breath. the quiet added to the ethereal essence of that morning. that special, beautiful morning.
“good morning.” he said softly, his voice rough but gentle, as though the words themselves were a prayer.
you blinked, a small smile blooming on your loving lips. it was almost shaped like a heart. one of the things kento loved about you most. it was almost instinctive the way you did it.
it was like some part of you knew, even if you couldn’t hold onto it. and that's why it was even more beautiful. your smile makes everything beautiful. your existence makes his life beautiful.
“good morning.” you whispered back.
his chest tightened, the ache sharp and sweet all at once. his heart broke and mended in the same breath, because even if you didn’t remember, even if it was only for a fleeting second, you were still here with him.
he let out a shaky exhale, caramel eyes glistening, and leaned closer until your foreheads almost touched. he lets his lips echo a smile that could only be reserved for moments as special as this.
“i love you.” he murmured, the vow as constant as the sun rising outside.
your eyes softened, and though the clarity in them was fragile, fleeting, you said it back. almost too simple, and even more, almost certain.
“i love you too.”
and nanami kento closed his bright caramel eyes at that, a quiet, trembling smile on his lips, holding on to the words like a man clings to air. for him, it was enough. he was satisfied.
if he ended up losing his life tonight.
if he ends up not coming home from shibuya.
this would have been enough.
the days after all the misery in shibuya were heavy. all that grief sat in itadori yuji’s chest like a stone, immovable, suffocating. nanami kento's death replayed in his mind over and over.
it was the calm way he faced it, the faint, tired smile, like he was already halfway gone. and he hated it. he hated how easily he had accepted death like a good friend.
because knowing now what he did, it shatters yuji with endless guilt. nanami kento had a life. he had a world that belonged entirely to him. and it was taken from him.
he sniffed, the tears threatening to break as the little slip of paper yuji had found tucked neatly among nanami’s belongings became heavy in his windbreaker.
in the paper, there was an an address, written in nanami’s careful hand. he had left it in his preparatory letter. and they were full of instructions, full of information. and the direction to the life he was leaving behind.
he went there one rainy afternoon. he didn’t know why. maybe to feel closer to him. maybe to deliver news. maybe just because he couldn’t stand the thought of nanami’s life being reduced to a memory on a battlefield.
when you opened the door, you looked at him kindly but blankly. “hello..” you said, polite, voice warm but unsure. “can i help you?”
yuji swallowed hard. “i…...i’m a friend. of nanami kento.”
you tilted your head. the name meant nothing. “i’m sorry......i.....i don't.....” you murmured gently, as though the failure were yours. “i don’t think i know anyone by that name.”
the words hit him harder than any curse could have, he was certain. his vision blurred. he forced himself to nod, to smile, to keep from breaking in front of you.
he should have left then. but when you invited him inside with the casual courtesy of someone welcoming a stranger, he stepped in. the apartment smelled faintly of lavender.
there were traces of nanami kento everywhere in this house. there were ties hanging neatly by the door, a record player waiting in the corner, books lined on shelves in perfect order.
you offered him warm tea, hands steady, your lips echoed in a smile so soft, he thinks it breaks his heart even more. itadori yuji could hardly breathe. and then, without planning to, he started coming back.
that day, it was just to check in to see how you were. to make sure you were eating, that the groceries weren’t running low. then it was to cook for you, because he remembered nanami kento always kept simple ingredients on hand.
but after that, he just kept coming back to the house, to take care of you like a son would. he read to you in the evenings, stumbling over words but steadying his voice the way nanami kento might have.
he fixed the little things in the apartment. first the broken knob on the dresser, then the loose hinge on the cabinet. little by little, he started doing that. because it felt wrong to let them stay unfixed when nanami kento never would have.
sometimes you asked his name, forgetting each time. sometimes you looked at him with polite curiosity, sometimes with fleeting affection, as though you saw something in him you almost recognized.
once, just once, you called him “kento.”
yuji broke down in the kitchen afterward, hands shaking as he held back sobs. but he kept coming. he kept coming back to make sure you were alright. and perhaps, even selfishly, get to heal his losses little by little too.
he told you stories, certainly not about curses, not about shibuya, but about nanami kento in small ways. at least of what yuji knew and what he had heard.
he talked about how he made the best sandwiches, how he hated overtime, how he was always so reliable it almost hurt. you listened, sometimes smiling at the stories, sometimes forgetting by the next day.
but yuji told them anyway. because someone had to remember.he never said aloud that he was doing it for nanami kento, that this was his way of carrying the man’s love forward.
he just showed up, again and again, cooking, reading, fixing, sitting quietly by your side when the silence grew heavy. in a short amount of time, it was as if he was living here with you.
and when you asked, one evening, “why do you keep coming here?” yuji only smiled through the ache in his chest. his hands were folded tightly in his lap, knuckles pale, like he needed something to hold onto.
“because he would have wanted me to.” he answered simply. his voice was gentle, but the weight behind it pressed heavy in the quiet room.
you studied him, tilting your head as if searching for something in his expression. then you smiled softly, almost shy. “is he your father?”
yuuji blinked, caught off guard by the innocence of your question. his throat tightened as he lowered his gaze, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “the second time i ever got close to a father figure, yeah.”
you seemed to think that over. your bright eyes softened, and then, almost as though a warmth passed through you, you smiled again, tender.
“then…...he would be so glad to have had a son like you.”
the warm, tender words hit him like sunlight breaking through a storm. yuji’s eyes stung, his chest swelling with emotion he tried hard to steady.
“yeah.....i....” he whispered, his voice rough. “i think i would…i would have been glad to have a father like him too.”
the silence that followed was gentle, fragile. you sat back, your fingers worrying lightly at the blanket across your knees. then, as if a door in your memory had quietly creaked open, you spoke again.
“did you know that me and my husband, kento, wanted kids?” your voice was light, fond. it was like you were telling an old secret. you giggled, the sound small but bright in the dim room.
“we would have wanted a child so good like you.”
yuji froze, his breath catching. he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if he even could. so he swallowed hard and nodded, tears burning the corners of his eyes.
“i…..i think he would have loved that, [name]-san.” he managed, his voice breaking despite himself. “he would’ve loved you both having that.”
your gaze drifted somewhere far away, soft and hazy, but you were smiling still. “maybe, in another time.” you murmured, like a dream slipping from your lips. “maybe when he’s not busy anymore.”
yuji’s chest tightened painfully. he opened his mouth, then closed it again, the truth caught in his throat like glass. he couldn’t tell you that your husband wasn’t just busy.
he didn't have the heart to do it. he didn't have the heart to tell you that he was gone, that he had left everything behind in shibuya, including you.
instead, he reached for your hand, tentative. it was almost like he was a son afraid that his mothr might pull away and he would have nothing. but you didn’t. your fingers curled around his, fragile but warm.
“yeah, [name]-san.” he whispered, forcing a smile though his vision blurred with tears. “maybe when he’s not busy anymore.”
you hummed softly at his answer, comforted, as if the thought itself was enough to anchor you. you looked fondly at a picture of your husband, smiling back at you from the frame.
“he always worked too hard, my kento. you would notice it quickly when you see him.” you added after a moment, your voice laced with both pride and affection. “but he always came home to me. always.”
yuji pressed his lips together, a sob threatening to break free. he bowed his head, squeezing your hand tighter like he could promise that for nanami now, in his stead.
“he would have kept coming home to you, i....i know he would.” yuji said quietly, his voice trembling but steady in its conviction. “no matter what. i…...i’ll make sure of it.”
your eyes flicked toward him, curious, but you only smiled again, sweet and certain. “you’re a good boy, yuji-kun.” you whispered, as if bestowing a blessing. “kento would be so proud of you. he would love you a lot, if he got to know you.”
that was the moment itadori yuji couldn’t hold back anymore. he leaned forward, his forehead pressing into the back of your hand, shoulders shaking with silent grief.
and though you didn’t quite understand, you stroked his hair gently, as if he were your own child. as if it was your role to go on ahead and comfort him, like you were his mother.
“shh.” you murmured softly, the way you must have comforted kento once upon a time. “he’ll be home soon. he'd like you and he'd comfort you too."
and yuji let the tears fall, nodding against your hand, even if he was the only one left who knew the truth. even if he was the only that remembers.
it was okay. it was good. that was fine. he will remember for you both. and he would protect you too. just like nanami kento would have. because that's what his role is now.
because that boy is all equations and math and genius and nobody knows that his obsessive nature carries on out of physics. that he gets set off by the smell of your perfume, that the smell of your shampoo is enough to make his cock twitch pathetically and he has to secretly press a hand between his thighs and bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from fucking into his own hand. that he thinks about you all the time—imagines you late at night sometimes, cheek pressed to his pillow, arms underneath it and his daydreams almost always devolve—filthy, little dreams he hides from everybody.
breath hitching and eyes squeezing shut as he imagines being allowed to put his mouth on your pussy, his cock giving a helpless jerk against his bed, getting caught up in the fantasy, imagining your voice in his ear, telling him he’s such a good boy, so pretty when he’s like this, slowly rocking into his bed, pressing his thick fat cock into his mattress and dragging it into it.
imagining if you caught him like this, if you’d run your fingers through his hair and down his spine, if you’d call him a secret little whore, and he moans into his pillow, rocks harder, lost in the fantasy, in your voice in his ear and your hands on his fevered skin, “m’a whore—slut—m’ a slut—“ he gasps into his pillows as he chases the friction, talking to you in his head, a version that sees him like this, not the genius or the boy who can solve everything equation, but the pathetic, horny little slut who fucks his mattress thinking about you, who edges himself for hours to thoughts of you, who cries out for you secretly when nobody’s around, whining that he wants to be your good boy, that he swears he can take it so well, please please just touch him—
synopsis: you find your old academic rival at your new job. every bone in your body says it’s fate, but everything else seems to be stopping you.
notes: puking cuz idk how i feel abt this one. i worked on this all thru out my trip and there was a lot of scrapping and rewriting and deleting the entire thing and rewriting it again, but i think this version is the best i could get it to. i <3 tsukishima kei
tags: fluff → angst → fluff, self-indulgent long fic, reader smokes, reader has trauma w/ their parents, mainly fem reader oriented but gn pronouns used, reader has self-destructive habits, themes of self-doubt from both, tsukishima is probably ooc, slow burn but not really, the most awkward love confession ever, mitski rdr x radiohead tsukishima (sorry), proofread but not really
tsukishima kei, for once, was at a loss for words.
there you stood beneath the bright green foliage, your face marred by the heatwaves of the sun and still all too familiar. he thought, for a moment, that he had the wrong person — you had taken on a rougher appearance, but his body, heart, and soul still recognized you. and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to speak to you.
where had the last decade gone?
he coughed into his fist and walked past you, feigning ignorance to your arrival. when you followed after him with a keycard of your own, he found himself flustered.
no words were exchanged. he was playing the silent game with you, although he quietly hoped you would say something first.
and thus, he continued his shift as usual, with the added oddity of you shadowing him alongside his boss. he just couldn’t find the proper words to place on his tongue, nor the right gestures to show that he did want to talk, he just didn’t know how to.
but truthfully, what was one supposed to say in such a situation?
𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.
you believed that tsukishima hated you. and you wouldn’t blame him.
when you applied for this job, you had no expectations going into it, save for the hope of a higher salary and a lighter load than your previous job. what you had not anticipated was to stand face to face with the man you swore to hate in your youth.
a sliver of hope embedded itself within you; an overwhelming desire to perhaps refurbish a long lost relationship had taken root. but when he looked away so persistently and spoke not a word to you, that sliver dissipated into meaningless sand.
you continued your work as best as possible. it was a routine job — set up the displays for the day, guide whatever visitors came around, and leave in the afternoon. but when a certain blonde was sneaking glances at you and somehow always in your vicinity, it proved to be easier said than done.
you were too afraid to admit that his presence was refreshing. that, in the midst of the mundane and borderline unhealthy cycle you had formulated within the past handful of years following graduation, he had proven to be an odd factor; he stood as a disruptor to the routine. it was unwelcome. and even still, you craved it and more.
tsukishima kei had always been a constant in your life. you just didn’t expect him to reappear so soon, so suddenly.
𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.
it was a wednesday. an uneventful shift had come to an end. and just as you rid yourself of your work attire, a verbal invitation to a work party was sent your way.
the prospect of it was almost laughable. you were under the impression that the body of employees in a museum would be too reserved to host parties such as this, and you were quickly proven otherwise. thus, you accepted instantly.
as soon as you sat down, you regretted it just as quickly.
the moon had just barely begun to hang bright in the sky, and yet the table was already full of drunken coworkers that you hadn’t seen before. loud chatter filled the room, as if this table was the only one in the establishment. it was overbearing.
before you could take even a sip of your drink, you excused yourself under the pretense of needing to use the restroom. instead, you escaped outside, the gentle breeze reestablishing your senses and reeling you back in.
he was also there.
“oh,” he exclaimed softly. his eyes drifted away from yours, the warmth of his cheeks illuminated by the dim lamp above. oh was the first word he had ever spoken to you since graduation. you nearly laughed.
“hello,” you offered quietly, still testing the waters of conversation. your gaze fell to his fingers, slim and cherry-kissed and blemished, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “um… i didn’t expect to see you here…?”
tsukishima laughed lightly at your tone, as if to conceal his own anxieties. “likewise.” he watched as you pulled out a cigarette, the stick meeting your lips like it were more than natural. “did you come all this way to stalk me? or to follow me? after all those years of silence?” he teased, although a tinge of bitterness dripped from his words.
you shook your head aggressively. “no, no, i just…” you bit at your lip for a moment before continuing. “i’m taking a break from my actual job. i needed to wind down before i return.”
tsukishima hummed at your response, evidently oblivious to your lie. he looked at you for a moment too long, his eyes grazing over each alteration and unfamiliar feature. he could not help but admire you in this light — the soft strings of moonlight in contrast with the neon signs glaring against your complexion painted an image he hadn’t seen in ages.
for the first time in a long time, tsukishima kei thought you were unbearably pretty.
what he didn’t catch wind of was your nervous shuffles and your incessant skin-picking as you stood beside him. he didn’t realize that the cigarette was a distractor, a tool to pull you back in. and he failed to acknowledge the stutter in your voice as you spoke to him, for it hadn’t crossed his mind once that you thought he disliked you. not that it would matter to him, anyways.
it’s too soon, he thought to himself. this is stupid, he argued. i’d mess it up if i did anything reckless, he reasoned. all of which were excuses to fight against the overwhelming reality of his vulnerability.
you turned your head away, the extended silence whittling away at whatever confidence you once bore. tsukishima watched with framed eyes and a calculative stare, as if scrutinizing each and every action you took. unbeknownst to you, it was the exact opposite of that.
the soft call of your name from inside the bar pulled your attention away, much to his dismay. he witnessed your frame disappear through the doors, your eyes flitting towards his so quickly he might’ve imagined it.
this was foolish. tsukishima decided that much. but despite his claims of how stupid it was, he was getting reeled in faster than he could pull out.
𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.
despite how hard he tried to display his ignorance, tsukishima was caring at his core.
silent glances exchanged between shifts morphed into small conversations shared whenever possible, as if the tension that previously barred you from interaction had dissipated into nothingness.
at some point, he dropped off a neatly wrapped bento box to your desk, the fabric littered with small dinosaur doodles.
“what is this?” you questioned, an amused lilt to your voice. you failed to notice the way pink rose to his ears, too enamored by the intricate arrangement of veggies and rice.
“don’t think anything of it. i just had leftover food and didn’t want to waste it.” the excuse slipped through his lips as if it were truth, earning him a soft smile from you.
there were butterflies whipping their wings against his ribcage so aggressively they might have bulged out from his skin.
eventually, you invited him out for a walk to the convenience store nearby during your break. and after that, it became routine. with an umbrella in one hand and his wallet in another, tsukishima walked with you down the street to buy onigiri and sandwiches and sometimes a sweet treat nearly every day, and that shared hour became his favorite part of work.
it was silly.
you sat beside him in the booth, your blistered hands carefully unwrapping the plastic from your meal. to your left sat a can of soda. and to your right, he was there.
“i need to stop living off of these,” you complained while motioning towards the onigiri in your grasp.
tsukishima shook his head. “what else would you eat?”
“your bento boxes,” you commented absentmindedly, your bites becoming larger as you neared the center of the rice. “i liked it, when you gave it to me that one time. you should make it again.”
he looked away, his chin resting atop the sweat of his palm. slowly, he turned towards you. “it’s just a bento box. surely you can handle making one.”
“oh, shut up!” you laughed while shoving him lightly. “the fact that you can even make one is shocking. all you have in that head is volleyball and shit.”
“our old test scores say otherwise,” he quipped. the shift in your eyes left a bitter taste on his tongue.
“whatever,” you muttered before leaving to throw out your trash. a pit grew in tsukishima’s stomach.
the blonde mustered the last of his resolve and made an offer. “i’ll teach you how to make one.”
𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.
of all the things tsukishima was bracing himself to see, a thinly-walled apartment that was less than well-maintained was the last thing he was prepared for.
you came out from your bedroom in clothes that were far more casual than his, your hair disheveled and your steps uneven. “sorry for the mess,” you uttered while bending down to pick up a hoodie sprawled across the floor, alongside a plastic bag that looked empty. he could only watch in awe.
he placed his bag down on your counter before arranging the ingredients, each brought from his own home. the clatter of your rushed cleaning echoed behind him. and when you finally stood beside the man, he could not contain his grin.
tsukishima decided to hold his tongue. instead, he opted to gently guide your hands through each step, the perspiration collecting on his skin a stark contrast from the rough texture of yours. he realized how little you knew, despite your insistence that you were more than knowledgeable in what you were doing — it showed in your unstable cutting and your hesitance when preparing the pot for boiling — but he refrained from commenting, in fear of disrupting the peace he’d constructed.
on the other hand, you were horrified.
to admit that you were inferior to him in yet another aspect uprooted the envy you had burrowed deep within yourself, and you were terrified of letting it overspill. he was so calm — at least, that was what it looked like — and you’d be damned to ruin it.
mitski’s soft hums reverberated in the background, your shaky chopping filling in the rest of the noise. it was almost satirical — the solemn melodies coated your bare bones and rendered you silent, a strong juxtaposition to the warmth exuded from the closeness of your skin to his. neither of you did anything to interfere, save for an earlier comment from the man questioning your music taste.
(“then what do you listen to?”
“… radiohead.”
“wow. as if that’s any better than mitski.”)
tsukishima found himself smiling at your pride in your creation. messy, yes. but within each ingredient lay a remnant of him, and that was enough.
a stream of small talk emerged into you sitting on the couch together. the music dimmed down to white noise and an old romcom that had only two star ratings played on your TV, the poor quality adding to the humor. your legs leaned against his beneath the blanket. and there was peace.
tsukishima knew what it was. he knew what this would blossom into, and he could only hope and pray he didn’t mess it up in some way. your quiet yet crude commentary disappeared into the tender air, and he remained silent, as if absorbing each syllable that fell from your lips.
it was so quiet, and so vulnerable, and so delicate that he felt like he was going to explode.
he didn’t question it when your head fell onto his shoulder. he didn’t make fun of you when your colorful reviews on each scene turned into sleepy ramblings. and he didn’t say a word when you dozed off against him, your whole body against his.
instead, he looked around. he took note of the dust collecting on the cabinets, the water marks on the windows, the clothes and food and plastic scattered all over your living room, the dead plant on the shelf, and the half-empty pack of cigarettes sitting on the arm of the couch. it was all a far, far cry from the cleanliness and stability of his own home, and yet, he thought to himself, this is so like them. and he thought, i could live in here, if it were with them. and again, he thought, this could be a home.
tsukishima kei was of the belief that he did not have a type. but as he observed your house and reflected on its singular (?) inhabitant, he figured that this was his type. his type was your quiet laughs and your sharp remarks and your wrinkled clothes and the scent of cigarettes that always seemed to cling to you. his type was you.
he exchanged one last glance to your sleeping figure before getting up and leaving you to rest. not without wrapping up your lunch for tomorrow, and not without a small smile on his lips.
𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.
hell came to you on a thursday morning — the day following whatever had happened between you and tsukishima. you hadn’t put on your uniform just yet, and your belongings sat outside of your locker.
your boss scrambled into the office, his brows furrowed and his larger hands closing the door as quickly as he could without slamming it. the sweat that collected between his wrinkles shined beneath the dim lights. his breaths were haggard and rushed and shallow.
for the first time in a long time, you felt fear.
“there’s people who want to talk to you outside,” he whispered. “they want to talk to you now.”
there was no one else in the building. no one other than you, your boss, and the people who were so adamant on speaking to you.
so why was it so loud as soon as you stepped out?
the eyes of your mother came into your vision first. then, the stare of your father. and finally, their faces blended into one large picture that made sense.
“what the fuck are you doing here?”
withered hands slammed against the table. you watched the papers and the dinosaur trinkets rattle. “that’s no way to speak to your parents.” you could feel it — the air seeping out of your lungs, depriving you of breath; the trembling in your palms; the cloudiness in your peripherals. you could hear them, but you couldn’t hear them. at some point, their vocabulary was solely financial, and at another point, it grew cruel and violent, akin to wild dogs gnawing away at your skin. you didn’t know where it was going. the hastened footsteps of an unidentifiable coworker neared, and the shaky breaths of your boss behind the door grew louder and louder.
you needed to leave.
your feet led you away before your mind could. the yelling softened, until finally, the only sound was the chirp of birds and the whirring of cars.
𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.
tsukishima didn’t see you for a week. he didn’t hear any mention of your name, didn’t find your face in a crowd, didn’t feel the vibrations of your voice against his chest. you had disappeared, and no one told him why. it wasn’t until your name didn’t show up on the schedule that something clicked.
it was cruel. you were cruel, he decided.
tadashi sat on the couch while his roommate leaned against the counter. the hum of the air conditioning blinded the blonde’s senses.
“i don’t fucking know what i did,” tsukishima groaned into his palms for the twentieth time that night. “they just left. they quit and i can’t even contact them because i was stupid enough to not ask for their number or email or anything. i don’t- i don’t fucking know, ‘dashi, i don’t.”
“i’m sure they had some good reason,” his friend attempted. “i don’t think they’d do that if it weren’t within some sensible limit. it was fucked, yeah, but… i don’t know. i think they’ll come back when the time is right.”
it was tiring. it was tiring to be left alone not just once, but twice. and it was tiring to have it hurt so much more the second time.
tsukishima ran a hand through his hair. “it’s so stupid.” another groan spilled from his tongue. “i’m so fucking tired of this.”
𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.
this was just about the fourth job you had applied for.
the museum could no longer be a part of your routine — instead, it morphed into loud nights and bustling men and the clinking of glass; it emerged from quiet and gentle tours around dinosaur exhibits to noisy cheers and yelling and the more-than-occasional bottle thrown at your head; it turned into pure, devastating loneliness.
it was compact. it was suffocating. it was overwhelming. it was everything the museum was not. but you could not return there, no matter how much you ached for it.
you were avoiding him. avoiding everyone.
a gentle nudge from a blurred face reminded you that your shift was over for the night, coupled with an apology for the gash that formed on your head from another drunken man who had no outlet for his anger other than you. with heavy steps, you trudged back home, thankful for the week’s pay and the free food and drinks.
it was quiet.
the lights were off, and the LED numbers on the microwave read way past midnight. a dull pounding resided in your chest.
just the other day, it was so vibrant. you were alive, and so was he, and it was going well. but it was wrong. you realized that much when your parents came to remind you, and you realized it again as you quit the same day.
the thumping in your chest spread to your head, and your back met the wall with a force that was sure to upset your neighbors. carefully, daintily, you slid down, your body reaching the floor gently.
you missed him. but it was wrong.
that night, for the first time in a long while, you cried.
𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.
tucked away in a small alley in sendai resided an establishment with only three tables and a bar that was worn down from years of use. and behind it, tsukishima found you.
he was only out for a walk. at least, that was what it was until his feet brought him elsewhere and he stood face-to-face with the most suspicious of buildings. and when he saw you, it felt as if all the anger and guilt and distress that riddled his bones and flesh and blood withered away, as if it hadn’t coalesced within his veins over the past month.
before you could hide, his hand snaked around your wrist, his touch light yet desperate. “can we talk?”
talking entailed bringing him back to your apartment. and by extension, it included him witnessing your house somehow being worse than before.
tsukishima found himself sitting on the floor with his back to the couch, and you found yourself sprawled across said couch. he picked at the blisters on his fingers before quietly asking, “why did you do that?”
he could hear your nervous habits — the shifting, the fidgeting, the harsh lip biting. “i don’t know.”
“bullshit,” he muttered under his breath.
you turned over onto your side to face his back. “my parents found me,” you explained meekly. improper guidance leads to destructive tendencies. tsukishima kei, in his high school years, was deemed your only obstacle to complete succession — always a few points ahead, a few questions ahead, a few steps ahead — and your poor influence from youth only fueled such a fire. and so, you felt that it was reasonable to loathe him. your judgement was clouded beyond repair.
tsukishima listened. he listened to every detail, every portion of your retelling of each segment of your childhood, and your teen years, and your silly hatred for him. he listened to you talk about what you did after graduation — how you got into a good university but dropped out and hopped between a multitude of jobs (thus proving your claim at the work party to be a lie), and how you were constantly escaping from both the stress and your parents.
he listened so intently that it was overbearing. you didn’t tell him that. instead, you talked and talked and talked until you sculpted him into someone who knew your entire life, as if he were there from the beginning.
“i’m sorry,” you whispered through stubborn tears. you hated it — how exposing it was, how you had practically dumped everything onto him in one go, how you couldn’t help but beg for forgiveness in the end. most of all, you hated how easily he gave you his forgiveness.
𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.
tsukishima didn’t leave your house at all that week. you found no energy to complain.
in the morning, you’d find him cleaning whatever disaster you left behind, whether it was the pile of laundry on your bed or the collection of full trash bags next to the front door or the food (or rather, the lack thereof) in your fridge. he was silent all the while, and that hurt more than any berating he could have done.
“why are you still here?” you asked him one night. you had finally moved from the couch to the bed, and tsukishima couldn’t be any prouder. (any movement at all was enough to be proud of, he felt). “you shouldn’t want to be here.”
you watched him heave a heavy breath as his shoulders drooped. “because i want you,” he admitted, his voice unmistakably tender and soft and ridden with a youthfulness that he unearthed from deep within himself. “i want to be with you and i want you to be happy and i just want us to be happy together, for once.”
he spoke of his affections so fluently, as if he were born to share them with you. and still, every bone in your body was whispering otherwise.
even so, tsukishima promised that he would be willing to wait. even if it meant watching you down an unreasonable amount of beer at an unreasonable hour.
he promised to sit through it all with you, even if it meant listening to you call his name out in long, drawn-out tones. even if it meant hearing you confess your long-harbored affection for him. even if it meant hearing you say that you never told him, not even in high school, because you felt like you didn’t deserve to tell him.
tsukishima didn’t understand.
he failed to comprehend how you didn’t feel deserving, when his whole body, mind, and soul was bound to you; when, in the depths of the night, he’d burn pink in the night at the mere thought of you; when he was so uncharacteristically smitten for you. he didn’t get it. he didn’t think he ever would.
not that he said anything about it — at least, not in that moment. not when you were inexplicably drunk, to the point where you couldn’t move a limb without tumbling over.
but, without a doubt, he went to bed with a stupid grin and a berry-kissed face.
𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.
it took another couple of weeks before tsukishima would see you at work again. you entered through the doors as if you never left, and he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be excited or neutral or anything else, because his guts only knew tenderness with you at that point — all the fake ignorance and stubbornness and denial had been cast aside.
you basked in a shared silence in the locker room, until you finally admitted that you were, in fact, healing. to some degree, at least. you asked him to come over again under the pretense of seeing how clean your house was. you detailed every segment of your life, from when he last saw you to your entrance into the museum, including how you made yourself breakfast for the first time in forever and how you drank a cup of water almost every day. and he was so overwhelmingly proud, so much so that it spilled over and he couldn’t contain himself.
“i love you,” he blurted out, his rushed admission cutting off your rambling. you whipped your head towards him, but he was looking everywhere except for you.
“what?” you exclaimed.
“i said i love you. i’m in love with you. what don’t you get?”
your jaw hung open, just like that of a fish. “wait- what the fuck?” much to his amusement, you jumped up and began pacing around the room. “i like- well, i guess, love,” you paused, the vocabulary uncomfortable on your teeth. “you too, but like- what the fuck? who told you that?”
“you did.”
“what?”
tsukishima kei was laughing. he was laughing at you, and yet, you weren’t as angry as you expected to be. he was laughing, and all you could do was relish in the noise.
“so,” he hummed delightfully, an amused smirk on his lips. “am i still coming over?”
you (begrudgingly) agreed. again, he laughed — this time, at the heat rising to your face.
𝜗𝜚 ｡ ˚.
through the cracks between your blinds, silk strands of sunlight crawled through, a soft reminder of the morning. beside you, a mountain of warmth lay, with his glasses still on his face and his hoodie misshapen on his body.
tsukishima was always the first to rise. he would wait for your eyes to flit open gently before getting up and making breakfast, despite your protests that your food was probably better than his. he never listened.
the splatter of coffee into your cup served as the only noise in the room, save for the dull noise of the morning news on the TV and the cars passing by outside the window. you watched intently as the blonde set up the table, his lip drawn in a tight line but his eyes shimmering with contentment. “eat up,” he spoke quietly as he took a seat in front of you.
tsukishima kei was, by no means, a cruel person. he was just a little rough on the edges and occasionally didn’t quite know how to say things without being mean. but as he sat with you, eating breakfast made by him in your shared apartment; as he pressed a fleeting kiss to your forehead before leaving to change, ignoring your groans about the remnants of syrup on his lips; as he drove you to work as the sun settled in the sky; you realized he was simply a man in love.
they’ll write about satoru gojo in the history books—the strongest sorcerer, the one who changed everything. they won’t write about the man who couldn’t cook, who lurked outside doorways during bedtime stories, who loved you as much as you loved him, and who counted every time a seven-year-old called him annoying. megumi wishes they would.
3.1k wc. dad!gojo and son!megumi. you are gojo’s gf. found family. character death im SORRY. grief. coping with loss. so much angst. self indulgent cause i am the biggest gojo and megumi father son duo LOVER <///3 idgaf if u say he didnt actually raise him.. he DID to ME :D
the apartment smelled like jasmine tea and something sweet baking in the oven. megumi stood in the doorway, his small backpack still strapped to his shoulders, and he didn’t move until you crouched down to meet his eyes.
“hey, megumi,” you said softly. “rough day?”
he nodded once, solemn as always, and let you slip the backpack off his shoulders. behind you, satoru was sprawled across the couch, blindfold pushed up into his white hair, watching with that insufferable smile.
“megumi! tell me about school. did you make any friends? learn anything cool?”
the six-year-old’s face remained carefully blank. “no.”
“no to which one?”
“both.”
you bit back a smile as you guided megumi toward the kitchen. “i made those cookies you liked last time. the chocolate ones.”
his eyes brightened, just slightly, and you felt the small victory warm your chest. satoru appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame.
“what about me? do i get cookies?”
“you ate half the dough yesterday,” you said without looking at him.
megumi’s lips twitched. almost a smile. he climbed onto the kitchen stool and accepted the glass of milk you poured, his legs swinging several inches above the floor.
“you know,” satoru said, ruffling megumi’s dark hair, “if you actually smiled, your face wouldn’t get stuck like that.”
megumi leaned away from the touch. “your face is already stuck like that.”
“megumi,” you warned gently, though you were fighting your own smile.
“what? it’s true. he always looks stupid.”
satoru pressed a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “stupid? i’m the strongest sorcerer alive. i’m incredibly handsome. i’m—”
“annoying,” megumi muttered into his milk.
you set the plate of cookies down between them. “okay, that’s enough. both of you.”
but satoru was grinning, and you caught the way megumi’s shoulders had relaxed, the tight line of his small mouth softening as he reached for a cookie. this was how it always went—megumi’s barbs, satoru’s exaggerated reactions, and you in the middle, the buffer that made their strange little family work.
later, after megumi had changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth, you sat on the edge of his bed while satoru lingered in the doorway. the boy’s room was sparse—he didn’t ask for much, never had—but you’d slowly added things. a lamp with a soft blue glow. curtains with subtle patterns. a stuffed dog he pretended he was too old for but slept with every night.
“story?” you asked.
megumi nodded, already tucked under his covers.
“i can do the voices,” satoru offered, stepping into the room.
“no,” megumi said immediately. “she does them better.”
“i literally voice act in my head all day. i’m a natural.”
“you’re naturally annoying.”
“megumi.”
the boy huffed and turned his face toward the wall. you shot satoru a look, and he raised his hands in surrender, backing out of the room. you heard him settle in the hallway, just outside the door, listening like he always did.
you read about a prince who didn’t want to be found, about a kingdom beneath the sea, about magic that came with a price. megumi’s breathing slowed, deepened, and when you reached the end, his eyes were already closed.
you smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “goodnight, megumi.”
“…night, mom.”
the word was so quiet you almost missed it. your breath caught, and you felt something fracture and rebuild inside your chest all at once. you kissed his forehead and stood carefully, turning off the lamp.
in the hallway, satoru was still there, leaning against the wall with his blindfold back in place. you couldn’t see his eyes, but you knew their expression anyway.
“he called me annoying seven times today,” he said lightly. “i counted.”
“he’s seven years old. he doesn’t know how to tell you he feels safe yet.”
“and you? what’s your excuse for finding me annoying?”
you pressed a kiss to his cheek. “i’m still figuring that out.”
his arm came around your waist, pulling you close, and for a moment you both stood there in the dim hallway, listening to the soft sounds of megumi sleeping. satoru’s fingers traced absent patterns on your hip.
“he loves you,” you whispered.
“he loves you,” satoru corrected. “i’m just the annoying guy who pays for everything.”
“satoru.”
“i know.” his voice was softer now, almost serious. “i know he does. in his own way.”
you leaned into him, and he rested his chin on top of your head. inside the room, megumi stirred, mumbling something unintelligible in his sleep. you both held your breath until he settled again.
“he’s going to be okay,” you said.
“yeah,” satoru agreed. “we’ll make sure of it.”
the apartment still smelled like jasmine tea, but now it also smelled like teenage boy—a mix of cologne applied too liberally and the faint musk of training clothes that never quite dried all the way.
megumi was fifteen now, sprawled on the couch with his phone, his legs long enough that his feet hung over the armrest. you were in the kitchen, and satoru had just materialized in the living room, a bag of takeout in hand.
“i got your favorite,” satoru announced. “the good katsudon place, not the one near the school that gave you food poisoning.”
“that was one time,” megumi said without looking up from his phone.
“once was enough. you were green for like three days.”
“i wasn’t green.”
“you were absolutely green. wasn’t he green?” satoru directed this at you.
“he was a little green,” you admitted, bringing plates to the coffee table.
megumi scowled but pocketed his phone, sitting up. he’d grown into his features over the past few years, lost some of that childish roundness. he looked more like his father now, though he’d never met the man. sharp-eyed, serious, with that same natural scowl.
“how was the mission?” you asked, settling beside him.
“fine.”
“just fine?”
“it was a grade three. took like ten minutes.”
satoru handed him a container of katsudon. “he’s being modest. supervisor said he handled it efficiently. professionally. used those exact words.”
megumi’s ears went slightly pink. “it wasn’t a big deal.”
“take the compliment, kid.”
“i’m not a kid.”
“you’re fifteen. you’re literally a kid.”
“you were fighting special grades at fifteen.”
“yeah, and i was a kid. a very talented, very handsome kid, but still a kid.” satoru grinned. “besides, you’re doing better than i was at your age. i was all power, no control. you actually think before you act.”
megumi ducked his head, focusing intently on his food. you caught satoru’s eye and smiled. he’d gotten better at this over the years—the praise, the sincerity. it didn’t come naturally to him, all that emotional honesty, but he tried. for megumi, he tried.
“oh, i meant to tell you,” satoru continued, “yaga wants to talk about you enrolling at jujutsu high next year. officially.”
megumi’s chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth. “i thought that was already decided.”
“it is, mostly. but it’s still your choice. you don’t have to—”
“i want to,” megumi interrupted. then, quieter: “i want to be a sorcerer.”
something passed over satoru’s face, too quick to name. pride, maybe. or worry. or both.
“good,” he said simply. “you’ll be great at it.”
they ate in companionable silence for a while. you watched them, these two people who’d become your whole world without you quite realizing when it happened. satoru with his long limbs and easy confidence, megumi with his careful movements and guarded expressions. so different, and yet there were moments—the tilt of their heads when they were thinking, the way they both took their tea—where you could see how they’d shaped each other.
“you’re taking on more missions,” megumi said eventually, not looking at satoru.
“comes with the territory.”
“more than usual.”
satoru paused, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “since when do you keep track?”
“since always.” megumi’s voice was flat. “you took four special grade assignments last month. you’ve never done more than two.”
the air in the room shifted slightly. you set down your own chopsticks, watching.
“the higher-ups have been busy,” satoru said lightly. “more curses showing up in weird places. nothing i can’t handle.”
“that’s not the point.”
“then what is the point?”
he stopped abruptly, looking away. his hands were clenched on his knees.
you reached over, covering one of his hands with yours. he didn’t pull away, but he didn’t relax either.
satoru was watching megumi with an unreadable expression. after a moment, he set down his food and leaned back, arms crossed.
“okay,” he said quietly. “you’re right. i’m taking on more. there’s been an increase in curse activity, and the higher-ups are stretched thin. but that’s exactly why they need me. because i can handle it.”
“what happens when you can’t?” megumi’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“that’s not going to happen.”
“you don’t know that.”
“yes, i do.” satoru’s voice was firm. “megumi, look at me.”
megumi didn’t move.
“look at me,” satoru repeated, softer.
slowly, megumi turned his head. satoru’s blindfold was off now, those bright blue eyes fixed on megumi with unusual intensity.
“i’m not going anywhere,” satoru said. “not for a long time. and by the time i do, you’ll be strong enough that you won’t need me anymore.”
“that’s not—” megumi’s voice cracked. “it’s not about need.”
something passed over satoru’s face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. he was quiet for a moment, then reached over and ruffled megumi’s hair. megumi didn’t pull away this time.
“you sound like an old man.” satoru teased, meant to lighten the mood.
“you are an old man.”
“i’m twenty-eight. i’m in my prime. i’m—”
“annoying,” megumi finished. but there was no heat in it, and you caught the smallest twitch of his lips.
later, after dinner, you found megumi in his room. he was at his desk, supposedly doing homework, but you recognized the distant look in his eyes. thinking, not studying.
“hey,” you said softly from the doorway.
he blinked, focusing on you. “hey.”
“can i come in?”
he nodded, and you crossed to sit on the edge of his bed. his room had changed as much as he had. the stuffed dog was gone, replaced by shelves of books on jujutsu theory and technique. posters of bands you didn’t recognize. a small collection of plants that he tended with surprising care.
“you okay?” you asked.
“yeah. why wouldn’t i be?”
“you seem quiet. quieter than usual, i mean.”
megumi was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping against his desk. “sensei believes he can handle anything.”
“and he’s usually right.”
“usually isn’t always.”
you studied him—this boy who’d grown so much but still carried such weight in his eyes. “you’re scared.”
“i’m not—” he started, then stopped. sighed.
“what if something happens? what if satoru can’t fix it this time?”
“then we deal with it together,” you said. “all of us. that’s what family does.”
the word hung between you—family. you’d never formally adopted megumi, never made it official in any legal sense. but it didn’t matter. hadn’t mattered for years.
“he’s getting older,” megumi said quietly. “satoru. i can see it sometimes. not physically, but… like he’s tired.”
“he’s the strongest sorcerer alive. that’s exhausting.”
“what happens when he can’t be the strongest anymore?”
the question caught you off guard. not because you hadn’t thought about it—you had, late at night when satoru came home with new scars he pretended weren’t there—but because megumi had never voiced it before.
“i don’t know,” you admitted. “but he’s not there yet. and when that time comes, there will be other strong sorcerers. maybe even a dark-haired, grumpy one who’s really good with divine dogs.”
he huffed something that might have been a laugh. you stood and crossed to him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head like you’d done when he was small.
“get some sleep,” you said. “tomorrow’s sunday. satoru promised to take us to that museum you wanted to see.”
“the one with the cursed objects exhibit?”
“that’s the one.”
“he’s going to be insufferable about it. he’ll try to touch everything.”
“probably,” you agreed. “but that’s half the fun.”
you left him there, returning to the living room where satoru was sprawled on the couch, long legs stretched out, blindfold off. his eyes were closed, but you knew he wasn’t sleeping.
“he’s worried about you,” you said, settling beside him.
“he’s not wrong, you know.” you feel a chill yourself, the fear settling in your bones once you’re done pretending to be strong. “to be scared.”
“i know that too.”
you laced your fingers through his. “satoru—”
“i’m being careful,” he said. “as careful as i can be, anyway.”
“that’s what worries me.”
he pulled you closer, and you settled against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. steady. strong. alive.
“i won’t make promises i can’t keep,” he said quietly. “but i’m not planning on going anywhere. not when i’ve got you two waiting for me.”
you pressed closer, and his arms tightened around you. outside, tokyo hummed with late-night traffic and distant sirens. inside, megumi was in his room, safe and whole and yours. and satoru was here, solid and warm beneath you.
you laced your fingers through his. “he loves you. even if he never says it.”
“i called him annoying today and he said i was an old man. i’m choosing to interpret that as affection.”
you laughed softly, leaning into his shoulder.
“we’re doing okay, right?” you asked. “the three of us?”
satoru pressed a kiss to your temple. “yeah,” he said. “we’re doing okay.”
and for that moment, in the apartment that smelled like jasmine tea and teenage boy and home, it was enough.
the apartment still smelled like jasmine tea.
megumi stood in the doorway, still fifteen, but somehow looking even older tonight. his uniform torn and stained with blood that wasn’t his. his hands hung at his sides, and he didn’t move until you crossed the room.
you stopped just in front of him, and he could see you’d been crying. your eyes were red-rimmed, your face blotchy, but you were trying to hold it together. for him. you were always trying to hold it together for him.
“megumi,” you whispered, and your voice broke on his name.
he should say something. he should tell you what happened, should explain the fight, the moment when satoru gojo—the strongest, the untouchable, the man who raised him—fell. should describe how the world felt wrong after, like reality had tilted on its axis and couldn’t right itself.
but the words wouldn’t come.
you reached for him, and he let you pull him into your arms. he was taller than you now, had been for years, but he folded into your embrace like he was small again. your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, and he felt you shaking.
“it’s not your fault,” you said, voice muffled against his shoulder. “megumi, it’s not your fault. none of this is your fault.”
but it is, he thought. sukuna used my body. my technique. my face.
he didn’t say it. couldn’t.
inside his chest, there was a cavity where something used to be. he kept waiting to feel it—the grief, the rage, the breakdown everyone probably expected. but there was just… nothing. a vast, empty nothing that echoed when he tried to examine it too closely.
he remembered being six, seven, telling satoru he was annoying. remembered the way the man would grin, unaffected, unshakeable. remembered thinking, with a child’s certainty, that nothing could ever hurt satoru gojo. that he would always be there, too powerful to lose, too present to disappear.
you always looked stupid, megumi had said once, a lifetime ago.
good thing i’m pretty enough to pull it off, satoru had replied.
you were crying harder now, your tears soaking into his shoulder, and megumi wrapped his arms around you mechanically. this is what people did, wasn’t it? they held each other. they comforted. they grieved together.
but he felt separate from it all, like he was watching from somewhere distant. he saw himself standing in the apartment, holding you while you broke apart, but he couldn’t quite feel it. couldn’t access whatever it was that would let him cry, or scream, or react like a normal person who’d just lost their father.
father.
satoru had never asked to be called that. never insisted, never corrected megumi when he was difficult or dismissive. he’d just… been there. paying for everything, showing up at school events, teaching him to fight, ruffling his hair even when megumi scowled.
“he loved you so much,” you said, pulling back to look at him. your hands came up to cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “he was so proud of you. you know that, right? megumi, you know that?”
did he? satoru had never said it outright. he’d called megumi talented, called him promising, called him a pain in the ass with that fond exasperation that might have meant anything.
“i know,” megumi heard himself say. his voice sounded flat, distant.
your face crumpled. “oh, sweetheart.”
you pulled him back in, and he let you, because he didn’t know what else to do. over your shoulder, he could see into the living room. the couch where satoru used to sprawl, taking up too much space. the kitchen where they’d had a thousand pointless arguments. the hallway leading to what used to be his room, where satoru would lurk outside the door during bedtime stories, listening.
all of it exactly the same. all of it completely different.
megumi closed his eyes and tried to find something inside the emptiness. tried to locate the grief he knew should be there, the pain that would make this real. but there was just the hollow echo, and the weight of your arms around him, and the terrible certainty that the world had changed in a way it could never change back.
you’re annoying, he’d said, over and over through the years.
yeah, but you love me anyway, satoru never replied, but the words hung in the air between them regardless.
megumi tightened his hold on you, and somewhere in the vast empty space inside him, something finally cracked. not grief. not yet. but an acknowledgment, maybe. a recognition that the cavity in his chest was shaped exactly like satoru gojo, and nothing else would ever fit there again.
“i’m here,” you whispered. “i’m right here, megumi. i’m not going anywhere.”
he nodded against your shoulder, and you both stood there in the doorway as the afternoon light faded, two people holding onto each other in an apartment that smelled like jasmine tea and felt too quiet, waiting for someone who would never come home.
Summary: It's time to take down Vecna once and for all and, much to Steve's protests, Y/n puts herself on the frontline.
warning description of violence and injury
PREVIOUS PART
series masterlist // main masterlist
a/n: and we're back to the main storyline :)
this part was not initially planned, but it felt awkward moving forward without addressing what goes down during the big battle with Vecna! hope you enjoy :)
September 21st, 1978
Y/n sat at the kitchen table quietly, stewing in her nervousness as she waited for her mom to explain further. She had called her eldest to sit with her, which wasn't what made Y/n anxious. It was when her mom called her by her full name. That was never a good sign.
From underneath the table they sat at, Y/n's mom held up her daughter's school bag, unzipped it and pulled out a sheet of paper. Y/n hung her head, cursing herself for not just throwing it in the bin like she initially contemplated doing. Seeing her reaction, Y/n's mom softened her gaze.
“Why didn’t you tell me there was a school trip coming up?”
She could not understand it. Y/n was not the type to hide things from her mom, nor was she the type to pass up an overnight school field trip.
Y/n locked eyes with her mom for a short moment before averting them quickly. Her face was burning up from the embarrassment. She never meant for her little white lie to turn into a whole thing.
“I forgot.”
“Y/n, don’t lie to me.”
The young girl hung her head once more.
“There’s a fee. I didn’t know if we could afford to…”
She couldn't bring herself to finish her sentence. Not after the sharp inhale her mother took almost immediately. Y/n glanced up at her momentarily. She had seen her mother do a heck of a lot of crying over the last few months, but never like that, and never over her.
The older woman rose from her chair and sped around the table, pulling her daughter into her embrace.
“I’m so sorry, Y/n,” she said softly, before finally pulling away. “I know your dad and I have been fighting a lot, and constantly going back and forth about Sara, instead of making sure we were looking after you.”
“I get it, mom,” Y/n whispered.
Her mother felt her stomach drop further. This was the last thing she wanted for Y/n. Her sweet, vibrant Y/n who had gotten far too good at and far too accustomed to pulling a brave face. The older woman lifted her hands to the sides of her daughter’s face and frowned regretfully.
“We’ll do better, I promise,” she said before glancing back down at the sheet of paper on the kitchen table and taking it in her hand once more. “Starting with this field trip, because there’s no way you’re missing out.”
“Mom, you don’t have to-“
Y/n’s eyes widened as her mom held her hand up, stopping her from saying anything further. She pursed her lips tightly, giving the field trip handout a onceover before looking her daughter dead in the eye.
“I’m the mom, you’re the kid, ok?” She snapped, her voice filling the room to the brim, startling Y/n at first and then filling her with relief. She nodded.
The entire time Sara had been sick, nurses and doctors and family friends were commenting on how strong and mature her big sister was, shouldering extra responsibilities to help out her parents and spending all her free time with Sara all while keeping her grades up at school. Y/n never wanted to be strong and mature, but by the way everyone spoke about her, it was obvious that’s what everyone needed her to be.
Y/n’s mother sighed. The fees and the finer details were not to be any of Y/n’s business, she declared to herself. That was hers and Hopper’s. All she wanted from Y/n was a simple answer, and then she would move however many mountains necessary to make it work. The woman gazed intently at her daughter.
“You wanna go on this trip?”
Y/n opened her louth and hesitated for a moment before answering in a hushed tone, “I-I do.”
Her mom nodded once and looked at the handout yet again, her eyes searching for the information on the fee. It would be a stretch, but the woman’s mind was already decided. One of her girls was going to have some semblance of a nice year if it was the last she did.
“I’ll talk to dad. We’ll make it happen.”
Y/n blinked, dumbfounded. It was that simple? She had spent weeks analysing every sentence on the hand out, contemplating if the trip was even worth bringing up to her parents and contemplating ways she could come up with the money herself.
In one conversation, her mom had fixed it all for her.
The young girl was grinning ear to her. With glossy eyes she stepped forward and hugged her mother tightly. It was a small but immensely meaningful win for her, and she needed her mom to know that.
“Thank you.”
The woman felt her breath hitch. After several months of hell, a thank and a hug from a happy daughter was more than she could have asked for. She kissed the top of Y/n’s head and hugged her just as tightly, with no intention of letting go until she did first.
***
November 27th, 1984
Y/n needed a second to breathe. She left Steve with the kids for a few minutes so she could lock the backdoor and the windows, but she found herself standing in the hallway and catching her breath.
When Y/n finally made her way back to the living room, she did so slowly, puzzled by the gruff voice coming from the living room where the kids were. She could only just make out the words being spoken.
“You know what happens when I get angry, Max. I break things."
Her stomach turned as realisation hit and she raced towards the sound of the kids screaming. Billy Hargrove was yet again causing trouble. By the time Y/n reached the living room, he had already broken one of Joyce’s plates and held a petrified little Lucas against the wall by his shirt.
Instantly fuming, Y/n made her way towards him with clenched fists, her thumbs tucked in just as she had been taught by her old man.
“Hey asshole,” she shouted, pulling Billy back by his shoulder as hard as she could. Once he let go of Lucas and turned to Y/n, she swung her right fist with all her might and aimed right for his stupid face.
Billy doubled back, lifting his hand to his nose and kissing his teeth when he saw blood on his fingertips.
“Yeah, kick his ass Y/n!” The kids were cheering from the corner of the room, making Y/n forget about the pain in her hand, but only just for a moment. Billy laughed dryly.
“You know, I’m getting real sick of you butting your nose into my business,” he hissed, starting to get the impression she was more than just an old babysitter to the little boys who kept hanging around Max. “Just ‘cause your dad’s the stupid police chief, doesn’t mean you run this town.”
Y/n furrowed her brows, resenting being referred to nothing but the chief’s daughter, even moreso from a dingus like him. He inched forward, trying to intimidate her, but Y/n straightened her back and planted her feet.
“Just shut up and go pick on someone your own size, Billy,” she spat, still fuming. It was bad enough he had a habit of beating up unsuspecting freshman at school, now he was terrorising her kids.
Billy kept moving closer to her, the crease between his brows remaining steady, and it started to dawn on Y/n that if he had no issue with hitting a kid as sweet as Lucas, there was very little chance he would have an issue with beating her up. Her feet shifted backwards ever so slightly, and Billy took immediate notice of it. He smirked.
“Already did,” he taunted, nodding his head towards the window facing the front yard. “Didn’t you see your little boyfriend on the ground outside?”
Y/n was swinging her fist again before it could even register, but unfortunately Billy caught it before another blow could be made to his face. Just as his lips instinctively curved into what Y/n knew would be another infuriating smirk, Y/n jolted her foot upwards until it came to a sudden and aggressive collision with his groin.
Billy doubled back yet again, wincing momentarily and then donning an expression far more sinister. He recovered his stance in a seconds and was glaring daggers at Y/n, completely fed up.
“Oh, you are so dead,” he growled, moving forward with his hands balled up and winding back ready to swing. If he was holding back before, he clearly did not plan to anymore. Y/n stumbled backwards. Before she could remember to tuck her thumbs, a pair of strong arms pulled her out of the way.
“No you are.”
Steve, bloody nose and all, caught Billy’s fist mid-swing and sucker-punched the left side of his face before he could see it coming. Instinctively, Y/n lunged forward and reached for her boyfriend, startled by the injuries already evident on his face.
“Steve!”
While relieved Billy didn’t get the chance to punch her, Y/n did not have time to feel grateful for Steve’s impeccable timing, nor did she have time to watch him get into fight with Billy Hargrove.
Her fingers barely grazed her boyfriends arm before he was following Billy. Y/n stepped back and signalled for the kids to stay out of the way. She knew Steve had had a bone to pick with him ever since he got to Hawkins, so there was no telling where things would go, but something told Y/n it was gonna get ugly. Billy began laughing maniacally, clapping his hands sarcastically before shoving Steve back.
“So you do have a bit of fire in you,” he chuckled. “You know, I’ve been waiting to see the King Steve everyone’s been talking about.”
“Just leave,” Steve hissed, shoving him back just as hard. Billy’s smirk never faltered, despite losing his footing for a split second. Instead, he stood tall and inched forward again, narrowing his eyes at Steve tauntingly, as if testing to see what would set him off.
“Didn’t realise all I had to do was go after his bitch-“
Y/n inhaled sharply. Before Billy could get another word out, Steve was jabbing his face and his torso repeatedly. He could tolerate Billy poking fun at him, but not at Y/n. Never at her.
The kids were back to cheering again, and Y/n was grasping at straws trying to de-escalate, before one of them ended up seriously hurt. Sure, maybe she thought Billy deserved a few sucker-punches to the face, and maybe she didn’t mind if Steve was the one handing them out, but there was a bigger battle at hand and time was not on their side.
The two of them brought their fight into Joyce’s kitchen, where Billy took a plate and smashed it against Steve’s head, giving him the upper hand. Y/n muffled a shriek behind her hand and decided it was time to step in. Billy showed no evident intention of slowing down anytime soon, even with Steve on the floor and him towering over. Y/n sped forward and tried to pull him back like she had done before.
“Billy, get the hell off him!”
Steve was already losing consciousness, but Billy just kept going. Y/n tried to get a good grasp of his arm to yank him back, but he was moving too quickly. He swung his fist back just as Y/n leaned forward again, hitting her in between her eyes and sending her backwards.
“Uhh-“ she groaned as she tried to regain focus. Her ears were ringing and her vision was beginning to blur. The last she remembered was seeing Max’s faint figure come marching in wielding something. Then she lost consciousness for a few minutes.
When Y/n finally did begin to see and hear things clearly, Max had a strange bat in her hands and Billy was lying on the floor with a needle sticking out of the side of his neck.
***
March 31st, 1986
The days following Vecna’s attack on Y/n came by like a series of punches, not giving anyone a chance to recover. From kissing Steve in his bedroom, helping Eddie evade an angry mob and then helping Steve and the kids lie to the police about why they were all at lover’s lake in the middle of the night. Y/n could not wait to have a good night’s sleep again.
Unfortunately, the end was nowhere in sight. Everyone gathered around Nancy in Eddie’s living room as she explained what she saw— what Vecna showed her before she and Robin could leave the upside down. Almost immediately afterwards, a few of them started to discuss what to do next. Y/n, on the other hand, could only think about El.
She left to call the Byers’ house phone, but after twenty minutes of nothing, Y/n started to fear for the worst. She came back to the living room just as Dustin came up with a bright idea about thinking Vecna and his powers as another version of El’s.
“That all sounds great in theory, but we don’t even know when he’s going to attack next,” Robin argued, “we don’t even know who he’s gonna attack next.”
Y/n's breath hitched. Suddenly it was beginning to make sense why she still did not feel like herself again. Though she was definitely much happier than she was when Vecna was first targeting her, she could not definitively say her symptoms were completely gone.
“Yeah we do,” she said, looking up and seeing everyone's eyes glued on hers. Y/n had become accustomed to their worried expressions since recovering from Vecna. She knew they were going to be on the fence on what she was about to propose, one of them in particular
“I can still feel him," Y/n clarified before clearing her throat. "I think… I think I’m still a target. Still cursed.”
The room was silent. Everyone exchanged looks with each other. Everyone but Steve, whose attention never left Y/n. She couldn't be serious, he thought. But she was. If she wasn't before, she was now that she knew El might be involved.
“So, maybe I ditch the Bee Gees. I draw his focus back to me... and I keep him busy long enough so that you guys can get into that attic," she proposed. “Then you can chop his head off… or stab him- I don't know.”
Y/n shrugged her shoulder and finally looked up, meeting everyone's intense gaze. If she was going to do this, it meant they would have only a small window to do what was needed, to kill the son of a bitch once and for all.
“Just try not to miss.”
Steve furrowed his brows. His frustration grew as he looked around and saw everyone seemingly accept that as the official plan. Like there was nothing alarming about sacrificing his girlfriend to Vecna.
“Woah, hold on, time out," he scoffed, walking towards Y/n and taking hold of her hand, pulling her into the kitchen and out of earshot from the other. Y/n sighed, knowing any lecture he was about to give her would be in vain.
“Steve, don’t try to talk me out of this-“
He narrowed his eyes at her incredulously.
“What, so I should just let you get yourself killed?!”
“I’ve dealt with him before,” Y/n pointed out.
“And you were this close to dying,” he argued, holding his index finger and thumb up to show just how narrowly she escaped the same fate as Chrissy and Fred.
“But I’m not dead! I survived that, I can survive this too.”
She had to tell herself that. She had to force herself to believe it too. If not for her own sake, then for the sake of her loved ones, both in and out of Hawkins. The crease between Steve's brows persisted, and Y/n knew she had to get him on board.
“No one in California is picking up the phone. I’ve rang about 5 times already,” she explained shakily. “I have this… this gut feeling that they’re in trouble. And if Nancy’s right-“
“And what if she’s wrong?” Steve questioned, knowing he would never be able to live with himself if Y/n got hurt or died unnecessarily.
“But what if she’s right, Steve?” Y/n sniffled, her eyes brimming with tears. She was not happy about it either— far from it actually, but what other option was there? She pressed further. “I mean, what if me doing this is our best chance at putting an end to all of this?— An end to Vecna?”
He paused for a moment and realised she was right. If they didn’t go after Vecna with their best foot forward, there was no telling where things would go or how many more people he would hurt.
Even so, he still couldn’t bring himself to be ok with it. Steve wanted to find another, any other course of action that didn’t involve putting Y/n’s life in the palm of Vecna’s hands again. He knew his reasoning was selfish, but to hell with it.
“I just got you back, Y/n.”
Y/n sighed, her shoulders slumping and lips pursing to form a frown. A lump formed in the back of her throat as it dawned on her what he meant. She did not just come back from the clutches of Vecna, she came back to Steve and they found their way back to each other. Inching closer to him, Y/n placed her hands against the sides of Steve’s face.
“And I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured reassuringly, before dropping her hands and weaving her fingers with his. “This time is different. We have the upper hand, because I know Vecna’s moves.”
“You do?”
He studied her closely as he traced circles with his thumb against the back of her hand. She shuffled even closer until their hips met and nodded her head.
“I think so,” she answered quietly, thinking back to how she escaped Vecna before, a memory still vivid in her mind. “It’s like he uses my memories— my really bad ones, to make me vulnerable and easier for him to attack.”
It started when she was looking back at the cabin, she remembered. Then she saw her dad and everything got worse. Y/n tried not to reminisce for too long. That wound was still fresh.
“Oh,” Steve muttered beneath his breath before letting out a defeated exhaled. He hated that Y/n went through that, knowing just how bad things were and everything she had been through. He couldn’t stomach the thought of her going through it again just to stall Vecna.
“But when I survived the last time it wasnt just because I heard the song, but because I thought about good memories,” Y/n explained, smiling weakly, knowing that pulling a brave face would be in the best interest. Luckily, she had years of practise doing just that. “Shouldn’t be too hard to do again.”
“What if he does something unexpected?”
“I just think of a really good memory.”
Thankfully, she had a good number of those. Some with her mom and Sara, a lot with El, but most were with Steve. Her eyes locked with his and, without saying it aloud, Y/n knew it was mutually understood.
“But, even if something goes wrong, I’m not worried, because…”
Her eyes never left his. Y/n knew Steve was running out of reasons to be against it, but she also knew that no matter how much of a fight he put up, if she was going to through with being Vecna bait, Steve was going to be right there with her.
“I know you’re not gonna let anything happen to me.”
All she had to worry about was what would happen in her mind nad in Vecna’s territory. She knew Steve would keep her safe in the real world until she was back.
He gave it another moment’s deliberation. In a perfect world, it would not have come down to this, but there was clearly nothing he was going to be able to do to change her mind. Steve sighed.
“Ok.”
Y/n smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. He pulled her closer to him and took the time to appreciate it all— the feeling of her waist beneath his fingertips, her head against the crook of his neck and the smell of her perfume.
He knew it before and he knew it then. Whatever trouble she found herself in, he was always going to be at her side.
***
April 2nd, 1986 - 6PM
Y/n tested her flashlight a couple times against the doors to the Creel house and then turned back to the the other three. The plan was for her and Steve to lure Vecna out by going inside what was apparently his childhood home, with Erica and Max keeping an eye from the outside, while the others were headed into the upside down.
She had manage to pull a brave face for the last few days, but standing at the doorstep was beginning to test what little bravery Y/n had left.
“Max, you and Erica will be ok on lookout?”
The young girl nodded, "yup, we got it covered.” She then gestured towards Erica who was already setting up base on the front yard. Y/n watched Max head off and turned back to the front door, her hand reaching out to open it only to be stopped by Steve's.
“Wait, um..." He looked at his shoes, then at the door, then at his shoes again, trying to find the right words without putting a damper on morale. He licked his lips and sighed. "Just be careful, please.”
“I will."
Steve continued to hold her hand firmly, his expression beginning to morph from concern to desperation. He knew once they entered the house, there was no going back.
“If you start to feel like something’s wrong, just-“
“Steve. I will," Y/n assured him, knowing where he was going. Just let me know, she presumed.
Y/n did not need to be reminded that Steve had her back and would be ready to step in if things went south. It was already common knowledge to her. However, that was not what Steve was concerned about.
“You don’t need to put yourself on the line anymore than you already are," he croaked, his tone almost pleading. Y/n drew her brows together.
“What do you mean?”
“I know you, Y/n,” Steve whispered. “Don’t do anything reckless.”
Her breath quickened as she met Steve's gaze. Sometimes it felt like he could read her mind. Like he knew she made peace with the chance of not returning if it meant killing Vecna and any plan he had to destroy home and her loved ones.
“This is bigger than just us," Y/n reasoned. Steve kissed his teeth, frustrated. She gripped his hands tighter. "If Nancy’s right about what she saw, the whole of Hawkins could-“
“To hell with this shithole of a town," he scoffed. If the cost came at Y/n's life, it was never going to be worth it to him. Never. Steve narrowed his eyes. "If it comes down to it, I need you to promise me you’re gonna save yourself.”
Y/n froze. No one had ever asked anything like that of her, at least not that she could remember. All her life she had grown used to giving. Her time, her love, her kindness and her patience. There were times she seriously questioned if her selflessness was her primary source of value.
Steve inhaled sharply, trying to keep his composure, as hard as it was. Too much had happened over the last few weeks, much less the last three years. Even so, he knew exactly where his breaking point was, or rather who it rested with.
“Vecna’s taken enough people. And if he takes you too, I don’t-" He shook his head, not daring to finish his sentence for fear it would speak the worst case scenario into existence. Instead, Steve squeezed “Just, please… promise me.”
Y/n nodded, feeling a new and strange sensation in her gut. For so long she had been hyper-fixated on her death- humouring the thought of it, wishing would come sooner and then fearing it would arrive too quickly. Now, all she wanted to do was come back and live to have another burger date with Steve at the lookout and then some.
***
April 2nd, 1986 - 8PM
Steve and Y/n's first couple of hours in the house were spent wandering around and playing hangman while the Bee Gees played on the cassette they were borrowing from Eddie, until finally they found it.
She signalled for him to turn the music down and, while hesitant, Steve obliged. He gave her space to sit and try and lure Vecna out, but didn't stand too far away. Steve wanted a clear view of his girlfriend so he could begin timing from the moment her eyes turned grey. 15 minutes and the Bee Gees were to be back on and at full volume, not a second delayed.
Y/n sat down, placing her torch in front of her and crossing her legs. She was unsure where to begin. Hey Vecna it's me again, seemed an inappropriate start. She thought back to what he showed her and he said through the image of her dad, the very words that had been weighing heavily on her.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said…."
The dark and horrid words he said and he accusations he made, all of which were too heavy for her to repeat aloud even to Steve. It took her a while to realise why they haunted her so much.
"Because it was true.”
Y/n hated every second of realising it, but there was no denying it anymore. Vecna was just echoing thoughts that already existed in her mind. She took a deep breath in and out. If she needed to make herself vulnerable, she knew just the thing to talk about.
“My dad was a ghost after my mom died," Y/n began, the lump in her throat growing as she continued to remember it.
The police at the doorstep explaining that there had been a car accident, the moment at the hospital, the funeral and the memorial he was too inebriated to show up for.
“He stopped looking after himself. Stopped looking after me. Then, he started drinking all the time, and then... he just became the worst.”
He was a shell of a person who came in and out of the house, most times without saying even a word to his daughter. Even so, Y/n remembered the few nights he came home and lashed out at her for no particular reasons more than she did the nights he said nothing at all. Her anger and resentment grew and grew over time with nowhere to go but inwards.
“It was true, I used to wish I had died when Sara and our mom died," she admitted, her eyes falling down to the floorboards. There was no shame in admitting it anymore. If Vecna infiltrated her mind, he would have already known.
Steve's grip on his torch was beginning to weaken. Y/n had told her bits and pieces of the same story, but never this part. He wondered how she was able to this to herself for as long as she did.
“I felt like- um," Y/n sniffled, briefly wiping her eyes and clearing her throat before continuing. Steve did not like where this was headed. "I felt like maybe, to my dad, I was just a walking reminder of them, and of the fact that they were still gone... Maybe me living was just insult to injury.”
When Hopper did speak to Y/n in the years following his wife and Sara's death, he never called her a walking reminder in plain words. He didn't need to. His actions said more than enough.
“But then my dad sobered up,” Y/n continued, her tone and expression turning bitter. The day she had prayed for for years, and it came in a way that left her even more wounded and angry. “- and he cleared the heavy stuff out from the bathroom cabinet, and I thought things were finally turning around… But he was still awful to me.”
Perhaps not in the same way. Hopper and her talked more often and he did not lash out at her as often as he did before, but he still found a way to neglect her and inadvertently let her know she was both an afterthought and a burden. And it hurt Y/n all the same.
“And so, I guess between that and watching him be a better parent to El, I just… I started to hate him," she confessed. The thought used to terrify her, but Y/n had since come to terms with the fact that there was no other way of putting it. “I hated that he was good to her. I hated how he made me feel like shit, and I hated how everyone praised him for getting clean.”
From the people at the station, at her school and even at the post office. All people saw was a grieving father father turn his life around for his daughters. Y/n resented it and, because of it, she resented her dad even more.
“Then, I started to realise… I hated him so much, I didn’t want him to be around anymore," she squeezed her eyes shut. The thought came to her over time, but when it did it was vivid. “I wanted him gone, so all the pain and anger could go too.”
Y/n wanted that more than anything. The anger and the pain was all she knew for so long, but she didn't want it anymore and didn't know how much longer she could carry it all.
“It got to the point where some nights, I wished my mom and my sister had never died and I wished he had instead. And I told myself that maybe it was ok to think that, because I…”
This was it, she thought to herself. This was what the tipping point.
“I could never imagine my mom doing this to me.”
Steve squeezed his eyes shut. He never knew that- any of it, and it killed him she was only just talking about it now, in the Creel house attic of all places. When he opened his eyes and turned his focus back to Y/n, he realised she was still and silent but her eyes were wide open.
“Y/n?”
He waved his hand in front of her face, hoping for a reaction but there was nothing. Steve let out a huff and began to count in his head, trying not to think too much about whether the entire plan was a massive mistake.
***
April 2nd, 1986 - 9:00PM
The first time Steve took her to the lookout. That was the good memory Y/n held onto and focused in on once she was sure Vecna had come for her. She was inside Steve's BMW when Vecna himself appeared, only to be sent flying backwards into the woods. Y/n got out and scanned the empty parking lot until her eyes landed on a familiar silhouette. She was instantly running towards it.
“Is it really you?”
Her head was shaven and she was dressed in white, but Y/n recognised her El. Her little sister. She placed her hand on the sides of El's face, touching and tugging it, unsure if she really was El or just another illusion.
The younger girl held her big sister's hands and smiled, “it’s me.”
Y/n scrunched her brows together, puzzled. She knew this time would be different, but she never expected to see El.
“How?”
“I piggybacked from a pizza dough freezer.”
The older girl blinked, unsure if it was worth questioning further.
“Are you… are you ok? Are you safe?”
El nodded and Y/n felt instant relief. She glanced back at the woods where Vecna would undoubtedly reappear from anytime soon, then turned back to El. There was a chance they might never see each other again, and Y/n could not get past it or past the one thing she had been dying to say to her- that she know she would regret not saying.
“El, I’m so sorry," Y/n cried, her words spilling out in a panicked hurry. "I’m so sorry for every mean thing I’ve ever done or said to you.”
It was the first few weeks after moved in and the weeks following Hopper's death. Y/n was frustrated, resentful, and angry which resulted in being less than kind to El, who was the least bit deserving of it. She needed her to know she was sorry.
“Y/n stop,” the younger girl pleaded, gripping her sister's arms and shaking her slightly. “Don’t think about it.”
It would only make her more vulnerable to Vecna, which was the last thing El wanted. Besides, she never cared about those moments. El had plenty of moments herself where she was the same to Y/n. The memories El held onto and treasured the most were the times Y/n looked after, cheered her. Those moments outweighed the bad ones by miles.
Y/n shook her head. Maybe it wasn't the best time, but there was a decent likelihood it was her only chance at getting it off her chest.
“I never thought I’d get to have a little sister again," Y/n whispered. "I’m so lucky it was you, El.”
“I’m lucky too," the younger girl responded, not missing a beat.
Before anything more could be said, Y/n was lifted off the ground by dark vine-like tendrils outstretched from the woods where Vecna emerged from and began walking towards El.
“Y/n!”
The young girl screamed and lifted her hands, trying to fight back, but Vecna’s grasp on her sister only tightened. Y/n tried to fight it, but the tendril wrapped around her neck suffocated her windpipes. The last thing she saw was El, fighting with all her might to fend off Vecna. The last thought she had was was of how much she wanted and hoped for El to make it out ok.
Then she lost consciousness.
***
April 3rd, 1986 - 12AM
El was running and searching. Though still haunted by Vecna’s dying words, El could stand to worry about it later. First she needed to find her sister snd make sure was ok. El closed her eyes and focused, then she heard it— the sound of Steve screaming.
She could see where they were. She watched from a distance as Y/n’s levitating body come crashing against the floor beneath her. El started to run, praying Vecna hadn’t done irreparable damage.
There were gashes along her arms and legs and she was unconscious from the fall, but her limbs were still in tact and her eyes were unharmed. El let out a sigh of relief, counting it as a win.
“Y/n, Y/n wake up!”
El watched Steve pull Y/n into his arms and shake her roughly, shout her name and begging her to wake up, but to no avail.
Panicked and desperate, the young girl placed her hand atop Y/n and closed her eyes, chanelling all her focus and power into guiding her big sister back to consciousness, back to her body and back into Steve’s arms.
Y/n’s life flashed before her eyes, only it was the good parts. The best parts. All her best memories with all the people she lived— her sisters, her parents, Steve and everyone in between.
Then she heard the faintest voice whisper to her.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Back in Hawkins, Steve tightened his embrace around his girlfriend’s unconscious figure, tears streaming down his face as he continued to call out Y/n’s name, desperate for her to wake up. The cassette player gave out and there was no telling when the ambulance Max called would arrive at the scene. Steve was willing to try anything, do anything.
“There’s a light,” he croaked, his voice coarse from the screaming and shouting. Even so, he owed to Y/n to keep going. “— a certain kind of light, that never shone on me.”
Y/n fingertips moved first, then her eyes and then lips.
“Steve?”
“Oh my god,” he cried out, tears flooding his eyes as he watched hers slowly blunk open. Relieved, Steve leaned down and kissed her temple fervently. “Oh my god, you’re ok!”
Y/n tried to moved her arms so she could sit up, but with every slight movement came a piercing ache in her bones and a burning sensation against her skin. She sunk back into Steve’s embrace and groaned painfully.
“Max already called for help, an ambulance should be here soon,” he explained.
She took deep breaths and glanced up at Steve, smiling weakly.
“You used to hate singing that song.”
“I think I’ve got a newfound love for it now,” Steve quipped, a faint laugh beneath his breath. That Bee Gees song saved his girlfriend’s life twice now. As far as Steve was concerned, it was the best song in existence.
Y/n’s eyes drifted shut as the energy it took to stay conscious came to be too much. Steve shifted his arms and stroked the side of her face.
“Hey, c’mon… Baby, you need to stay awake.”
She opened her eyes and used all the energy she had to stay alert, but the linger she stayed concious the more time she had to remember what had happened— what Vecna said to El about everything that would happen to Hawkins. Y/n began to pant as tears formed in her eyes.
“It’s not over, Steve,” Y/n whimpered. Vecna may be gone, but they weren’t out of the woods. “It’s not over yet.”
“It’s over for now,” he assured her. Whatever it was was not important. Not to Steve and not in that moment. All that mattered was that she did what she needed to do and she made it back alive.
***
April 6th, 1986
Y/n placed her last box of donations on the table. The older woman smiled gratefully and passed to one of the volunteers for sorting. She turned back to Y/n, her eyes darting towards the bandges along her arms.
“How are you healing?”
Y/n came to the shelter at the school gym for three reasons: to donte, to volunteer and to get bandages for her injuries.
“It doesn’t hurt or bleed as much.”
“That’s good,” the woman smiled, remembering how much Y/n was in when she came to get her bandages changed the first time. “Just be sure to take it easy until everything fully heals, ok? And come see me if anything gets worse.”
“I will,” Y/n nodded, “— and hey I’ll come by tomorrow with a few others to help out for the day.”
With more and more families turning up seeking shelter or supplies, Y/n knew they could use as many volunteers as they could get. The woman nodded gratefully.
“That would be really great, Y/n. Thanks.”
Y/n turned around and fished her keys out from her bag as she weaved through the cots and headed for the exit. She looked up and saw a young girl sitting next to an older man.
“How long are we gonna be here dad?”
Y/n frowned as she listened in. Seeing the kids that came to the shelter always brought a pain to her chest. She watched the old man wrap his arm around his daughter and sigh.
“I don’t know, bug,” he huffed.
Y/n froze for a brief second, then quickly sped off before anyone nlticed her staring. When she started the car and turned the steering wheel, Y/n’s hands were shaking. She listened to the radio the entire drive home and by the time she reached the driveway, Y/n was thinking about something else.
Y/n parked Steve’s car in front of the cabin. As she got out and approached the front porch, she was puzzled by the strange vehicle parked adjacent to the house.
When she walked inside, she saw Steve sitting on the couch and tossed him his car keys. Then, when she turned towards the kitchen, she saw a woman standing with her back towards her. Y/n’s bag fell from her shoukder and she went racing towards the woman.
“Oh my god, Joyce!”
The woman wrapped her arms around Y/n, hugging her tightly and then letting go so she could get a good look at her.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re ok,” Joyce smiled, placing her hand against Y/n’s cheek. She had a million burning questions.
“Wh-where’s El? And Will and Jonathan?”
“I-I don’t know,” Joyce answered honestly. “… I was in Russia.”
Y/n blinked, unsure if she heard her correctly. Of all the explanations for not answering the phone when she called before, Y/n was not expecting that to be it.
“You were what? How did you get here then?”
Joyce started grin and patted Y/n’s shoulder, which left her puzzled. There was something going on, but Y/n had a feeling Joyce was not going to outright tell her what it was, and she had no clue what to make of it.
“I’ll tell you later, honey,” the older woman answered, knowing there was something else far more important for Y/n to do. The girl knitted her brows together.
“Why not now?”
Joyce nodded her head towards the door to one of the bedrooms, her smile never faltering, not even for a moment. The woman’s demeanour left Y/n greatly unsettled but also extremely curious.
“There’s someone waiting for you in the room.”
NEXT PART
***
i do not give permission for any of my works to be copied, translated or reposted onto another site.
Author Note: IM SO SORRY FOR ANOTHER VERY LONG ONE!!!
You met Bodhi at Basgiath before the ink of your surname had even dried on the parchment.
He had offered a sarcastic smile, a tilted chin, and a hand callused from hours gripping a dagger hilt. “You’re not gonna make it past the parapet if you keep hesitating like that, you know.” You had scowled, shoved back the dread rising in your chest, and stepped onto the narrow stone deathtrap anyway. He didn’t leave your side once.
That’s how it started. A friendship forged in adrenaline and survival. Bodhi, with his ridiculous jokes and sharp wit, always one step away from disaster. And you, calculating and quiet, the one who kept him grounded.
So when he introduced you to his cousin a few weeks into your first year, you’d been entirely unprepared for the impact. “Y/N, this is Xaden. Try not to stab him, no matter how punchable he looks.” You didn’t respond. Mostly because your tongue had stopped working the second Xaden turned his storm-dark gaze on you.
You hadn’t known then that your whole life would bend toward him like a compass to true north.
⸻
The relationship came slow. Xaden wasn’t the type to fall. He was the type to watch from the edge of the room, arms crossed, reading everyone like a battle plan. But with you, he softened—in ways he never meant to. You weren’t some damsel in need of protecting. You could break a man’s arm in three moves and had a signet that made even the third-years uneasy.
Still, when you were in his arms, curled up in his room with the sound of Sgaeyl’s wings rustling outside, you felt… safe.
He didn’t say I love you. Not with words. But in the way he tracked you across the training fields. In the way he’d pull you back from danger and growl, “Don’t do that again. I can’t—” and then stop himself. You knew.
But then Violet arrived.
⸻
The Threshing changed everything. You stood near the edge of the field, Kaerith’s massive body coiled protectively around you like a stormcloud made flesh. And then you saw them.
Tairn. Andarna. Violet Sorrengail.
Xaden’s expression didn’t change—but you felt it. The shift. The way he stepped toward her, as if fate had threaded something between them. You tried not to flinch. Tried not to see how Sgaeyl’s head dipped toward the golden hatchling with something like awe.
It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly. It was… displacement. Like the story had kept moving without you.
⸻
You didn’t break up all at once. It was in the missed glances. The quiet dinners. The way his fingers twitched when he reached for you—then stopped.
One night, you sat in his room, your back to the wall, knees pulled to your chest. Xaden didn’t meet your eyes.
“She’s bonded to them,” he finally said. You nodded. “I know.” “I don’t want this to change anything.”
But it already had. So you left. Not with drama. Not with screams or accusations. Just a quiet morning where you didn’t show up to sparring. A room left empty. A dragon that took to the skies before anyone could stop him. You needed air. Needed to remember what it felt like to live without always looking over your shoulder, waiting for war.
Bodhi didn’t ask questions when you wrote. He just wrote back, “Where are you?”
You met him a few weeks later in a forest clearing near a coastal cliff. Kaerith growled at his approach, then relented when he saw Bodhi alone. He offered you bread, water, and silence. “Gonna tell him?” he asked after a long while. You shook your head. Bodhi leaned back against a tree and said, “Alright.” Because Bodhi had always known when to push—and when to simply sit beside you in the quiet.
⸻
Months later
You don’t remember what exactly happened. One moment, you were walking through a small valley, scouting for herbs and supplies near a river. The next, a blade from a Venin ambush sliced across your abdomen like fire. Kaerith had roared, a sound that cracked the trees and sent every bird skyward.
You remember falling. Then… darkness. Miles away, a blue-scaled dragon lifted his head.
“She’s down.”
Bodhi knew something was wrong the moment Cuir stirred. His dragon had been resting atop the cliffside near the northern coast, where the wind howled like it carried ghosts, when he suddenly tensed—eyes flaring a deep, storm-touched blue.
“Kaerith called out. She’s hurt.”
Bodhi froze mid-step. “Y/N?” he asked aloud, though the question was useless. He already knew. A flicker of pain—not his—rushed through the bond with Cuir, sharp and nauseating, and the dragon launched into the sky without waiting for permission.
He didn’t need to ask where. He’d been there before. That small river bend surrounded by wildflower fields and cliffs, where you met him sometimes with a tired smile and the kind of quiet peace Basgiath never offered.
The sky blurred around them as Cuir pushed himself to the limit. Wind lashed Bodhi’s face. His hands in a fist.
Please be alive. Please.
⸻
Kaerith was a storm on the ground. His massive wings snapped trees like twigs, his tail lashing in wide arcs as he circled your still form—laid across a stone near the riverbank, barely breathing.
Bodhi didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He dropped from Virek before he landed, skidding to your side in seconds.
“Y/N—” His voice cracked. “Hey, hey, no sleeping on the job, remember?” You didn’t answer.
There was blood. Too much. Seeping from a gash just beneath your ribs, and bruises already blooming along your collarbone. Your pulse fluttered weakly beneath his fingertips. Kaerith let out a low, guttural sound that was more grief than rage.
“She needs Brennen,” Bodhi said to no one in particular. “Then take her.” Kaerith’s voice thundered directly into his mind, ancient and wild. Cuir rumbled in agreement beside him.
Bodhi swallowed hard and gathered you into his arms, ignoring the blood, the pain, the broken pieces. You were limp. Your head lolled against his chest. He held you like something fragile. Like you might vanish.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re not dying on me, okay? You don’t get to leave twice.”
⸻
They landed in Aretia under a storm-gray sky. The winds carried ash from distant fires, and the cliffs were shadowed by the late hour. But Bodhi barely saw any of it—he moved like a man possessed, Kaerith flying close behind with a protective shriek that echoed off the cliffs. He didn’t realize how much noise they made until people started running.
“Get Brennen!” someone shouted.
“Is that—?”
“Is she—?”
And then—
“Bodhi.”
That voice. Low. Cold. Laced with something dangerous. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was. Xaden stood near the edge of the courtyard, black hair wind-tossed, shadows clinging to his boots like loyal pets. Sgaeyl dropped down behind him in a whisper of wings, her eyes immediately locking on Kaerith. And then his eyes landed on you—in Bodhi’s arms, unconscious and bloodied. Everything about him stilled. Time cracked.
“What the fuck happened?” Xaden’s voice was sharp, near a snarl. “She was attacked,” Bodhi said flatly, shifting your weight as he moved toward the doors where Brennen was already shouting orders. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Xaden snapped, stepping into his path. Bodhi didn’t stop walking. “I asked you a fucking question, Bodhi.” He turned then, slowly. Looked his cousin in the eye—really looked at him. And saw it. The wild panic under the surface. The tremor in his jaw. The pain he was trying so hard to hide.
“I didn’t tell you,” Bodhi said quietly, “because she asked me not to.” Xaden’s fists clenched. “You should’ve—” “She was my best friend,” Bodhi said sharply, cutting him off. “Long before she was your girlfriend. I owe her that.” The words hit harder than any punch. Xaden reeled like he’d taken a blow to the ribs.
Brennen pushed between them then, snapping, “Unless one of you is bleeding out, move.” Bodhi did. He carried you through the doors and didn’t look back.
⸻
Later that night
Xaden stood outside your room. He hadn’t moved in over an hour. Inside, Brennen worked quietly, mending you with a tired, pale expression. Your chest rose and fell—barely, but it did. Kaerith loomed just outside the window, his silver eyes glowing through the storm. And Bodhi? He sat in a chair near your bedside, holding your hand. Xaden’s jaw tightened. You were here. Alive. And you hadn’t told him.
⸻
The sun rose slow over Aretia. Its light crept in like it was afraid to touch the stone walls, painting them in pale gold and soft blue. But inside your room, time didn’t move. Not really.
Your breathing was steady now. Still shallow. Still cautious. But steady.
Xaden stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed, shoulder pressed to the wall as if it were the only thing holding him up. His eyes hadn’t left you in hours.
You lay against the pillows, pale as ash. Bandages wrapped around your midsection and shoulder. A bruise bloomed along your jaw like a shadow of the battle you didn’t get to finish.
You hadn’t woken yet. Brennen sat beside you, murmuring quietly to Kaerith through the window every so often. The massive dragon had refused to leave. Not even when offered food. Not even when others tried to soothe him. “Your bond’s too deep,” Brennen had said once under his breath, fingers pressing over your wound. “He’ll feel her pain like it’s his own.”
Xaden didn’t reply. Because he understood. He felt yours like a phantom limb. A dull ache in the back of his skull, just where memory lived. And fuck, there were so many memories.
⸻
He hadn’t meant to fall for you. It wasn’t part of the plan—hell, nothing with you ever was. You’d been quiet where he was storm. Brutal where he was calculating. And still, you’d seen through him from the beginning.
That first year, he’d caught you and Bodhi sitting outside the barracks at midnight, stargazing like you weren’t being trained to kill.
You’d looked up, eyes full of stardust and steel, and asked, “Do you think we’re allowed to want more than survival?” And he hadn’t known what to say. He never had. Until it was too late.
⸻
The door creaked. Bodhi stepped out quietly, closing it behind him. Xaden didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched him with unreadable eyes.
“She’s stable,” Bodhi said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Still out cold.” Xaden didn’t reply. Bodhi sighed. “You don’t have to hover, you know.” “I’m not.” “You are,” he said flatly. “You haven’t blinked in a while,” Bodhi said again, a note of dry exhaustion threading through his voice. Xaden finally shifted his gaze, dragging it from your still form just long enough to glare at him. “I’m not leaving her,” he said. Quiet. Final. Bodhi leaned back against the opposite wall, crossing his arms. His usual lightness was gone. “Didn’t say you should.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the kind that settles in when two people have too much history to fill it with anything else.
“She cried when she left, you know,” Bodhi added after a beat, eyes locked on the ground. “Not loud. Not where anyone would see. But I did. I always do.” Xaden’s jaw locked. “You should’ve told me she was alive.” “She asked me not to.” “I would’ve gone after her.” “That’s exactly why she didn’t want you to know.”
Xaden’s fists clenched at his sides, but he didn’t say anything. Not at first. Not until— “I would’ve brought her back.”
Bodhi looked up, sharp. “Brought her back to what, Xaden? A war? A life she never wanted? You?” Xaden’s silence was colder than steel. “You weren’t ready to fight for her,” Bodhi said. “Not when she needed it most.”
That hit like a gut punch. Because it was true. Because he’d known—deep down—that he’d let you walk out of his life with too many words unsaid and too many fears swallowing him whole.
“I loved her.” Bodhi stared at him. “Then why didn’t you run after her when she left?” Xaden looked back toward your door.
“I thought I’d already lost her.”
⸻
Inside the room, the first signs of waking stirred in your chest. Your breathing hitched, shallow but quickening, and Brennen leaned forward immediately. “Y/N,” he said gently, pressing a hand to your wrist. “You’re safe. You’re in Aretia.”
Your eyelids fluttered open. Light spilled in too fast, too sharp. You squinted against it. The dull throb in your side surged, and Kaerith’s presence flared through the bond—solid, grounding, massive.
You are safe.
You reached out mentally, weak but steady. You didn’t leave.
Never.
Then the door opened. And everything slowed. Because standing just inside the frame, armor still dusty, hair a mess, shadows clinging to his boots— Was him. Xaden Riorson.
You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. He took one step inside. You blinked up at him, eyes glassy, chest burning.
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
Don’t—
“Hi,” he said hoarsely.
It shattered you.
⸻
The moment stretched. You stared up at him, chest tight, throat dry, barely able to process the reality of him standing in your doorway again. Of those eyes—dark, storm-torn, familiar—fixed on you like you were something fragile he didn’t know how to hold.
And Xaden didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. “Can I come closer?” he asked. It came out quieter than you’d ever heard him. You gave the smallest nod.
He crossed the room in three slow steps, dragging a chair beside your cot. His hands—gloved, blood-stained from flight, from war—hesitated for a moment before peeling the leather away. He set the gloves down, one over the other, like he was trying to do something with them. His fingers trembled once, then stilled.
When he sat, the chair creaked under his weight—but he didn’t lean back. He leaned forward. Toward you. Like he couldn’t stay away anymore.
His eyes traced every inch of you—your temple, bruised; your arm, still bandaged; the deep, angry wound over your ribs that Brennen had barely managed to stabilize. His jaw clenched.
“I didn’t know,” he said hoarsely. “Gods, Y/N, I didn’t know it was this bad.” You blinked, slow. “Would it have mattered if you did?” He flinched like you’d slapped him. You almost regretted the question. But not enough to take it back. Because it did matter. You mattered. And there were too many nights you’d fallen asleep wondering if you’d ever mattered enough.
“You’re the only thing that’s ever mattered,” he said finally, voice scraping raw across his throat. You looked at him—really looked. There was something so tired in him. So desperately, devastatingly tired. Like he’d been walking through a world that no longer made sense since the day you left it.
“I needed you,” you whispered. “I know.” “I waited for you.” “I know.”
His hand moved, fingers stretching forward. Then paused, inches from yours on the blanket. You didn’t move. So he let his palm drop gently onto the edge of your hand, barely touching. His thumb brushed your knuckle—once, slow. Reverent. It felt like something shattered in your chest.
“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said. “Not once. Not when I was training Violet. Not when I was sent across the ward. Not even when I should’ve been thinking about everything else.”
You swallowed thickly. “Then why didn’t you come?” He exhaled like the question burned. “Because I thought I already destroyed you once,” he said. “I didn’t know if you’d survive me again.” You closed your eyes. Because the truth was—you didn’t know either.
⸻
Outside the window, Kaerith shifted, massive wings stretching across the sky like a shield. Sgaeyl perched silently nearby, still and watchful. Dragons, quiet in their knowing.
You opened your eyes again. And whispered, “I still love you.” Xaden’s breath left him like a weapon had torn it out. His hand gripped yours. Tight.
And then he said it back—choked, ragged, as if it had been lodged in his throat since the day you left.
“I never stopped.”
⸻
You didn’t let go of his hand. Not for a while. There was something comforting in the way his thumb kept brushing over your knuckles, slow and steady. Like he was reminding himself you were real. Like he didn’t believe it. Your breath caught once, and Xaden stilled.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, already halfway to pulling back. “No,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper. “Just… not used to this.” He nodded, slow. You didn’t have to say what this was. Not really. Touch. Closeness. Letting him in again after all the silence.
The room stayed quiet for a long time, filled only with Kaerith’s distant grumble outside, and the low creak of Sgaeyl shifting beside him. Two massive dragons—bound by instinct, by history—standing watch like sentinels.
Brennen came in briefly to check your pulse, muttering something about how your color was better. He didn’t say anything about the way Xaden sat, hunched forward like if he let go of your hand for even a second, the whole world might crack open again. Brennen didn’t have to. He knew better than anyone what broken things looked like when they were trying to heal.
After he left, you shifted slightly in the bed, wincing as your ribs flared hot with pain.
Xaden was there instantly. “Careful.” “I’m fine,” you murmured. His brow furrowed. “You almost died.” You looked away. “I didn’t.” “Don’t do that.” You turned your head back slowly. “Do what?”
“Pretend like it didn’t matter. Like I wouldn’t have gone insane if Bodhi hadn’t brought you here. Like you’re just another mission casualty.” You stared at him for a long moment. “You didn’t come for me.” “I didn’t know where to look.” “You didn’t try.”
That landed.
Xaden leaned back, running a hand down his face, like he hated every version of himself that had let you slip through the cracks. “I was scared,” he said finally. You blinked. “You’re never scared.” His laugh was hollow. “I’m scared every damn day. Of losing people. Of being wrong. Of not being strong enough to stop what’s coming. But you?” His eyes lifted to yours again. “You’re the only thing I was ever scared of losing completely.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. So you said the truth.
“I thought you already had.”
⸻
A soft knock interrupted whatever would’ve come next. Bodhi pushed open the door a crack. “Everything alright?”
You and Xaden looked at him at the same time. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Come in.” He stepped inside, dragging a chair toward your other side. “You look less dead. That’s promising.”
You rolled your eyes, and the motion made your bruised jaw throb. “Thanks for the assessment, Healer General.” Bodhi grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Kaerith told me the minute you twitched. Bastard nearly knocked the whole roof off trying to get my attention.”
Xaden’s gaze flicked to him. “You’re still talking to her dragon?” Bodhi raised a brow. “You’re still pretending you didn’t want to break something when you saw her in that bed?” The silence that followed was sharp.
Bodhi’s voice softened. “She’s my best friend, Xaden. She always has been. I wasn’t keeping her from you. I was protecting her for you. From everything. Even you.”
You didn’t breathe. Xaden didn’t flinch. But you could feel the tension radiating between them like heat off embers. Deep. Scalding. Unspoken.
“I’d do it again,” Bodhi added. “Because she asked me to.” “She’s mine,” Xaden bit out, low and raw. Bodhi shook his head. “Not anymore. Not unless she says so.” And for a long second, no one said anything. Then Xaden turned to you, eyes searching.
“Do I still get to be yours?” he asked. Your throat tightened. Your fingers curled into his. And you whispered, “I don’t know yet. But I want to.”
⸻
You made it outside by morning. Barely. Your legs shook with every step down the stone corridor, but you were walking. Brennen had raised an eyebrow, clearly ready to lecture you into oblivion, but Bodhi had just handed you a cloak and said, “Don’t fall. I’m not carrying you again.”
So now, you stood beneath the towering archway of Aretia’s outer courtyard, bathed in the golden light of sunrise, your breath fogging gently in the cool air.
And Kaerith? Kaerith was pissed.
He loomed behind you like a thundercloud with wings, tail sweeping close at your back, nostrils flaring every time someone so much as looked your way.
Xaden emerged from the barracks steps just as you reached the edge of the field. You stopped walking. So did he. Kaerith growled low. A sound of warning.
“Down,” you said, without looking back. Kaerith didn’t move. Xaden held his ground but raised his hands slightly, eyes never leaving yours. “Tell your oversized death machine I’m not here to fight.”
“I told you that last time,” Bodhi muttered from behind you. “Didn’t stop you.” You ignored them both and took another step forward. The movement made your ribs scream. Your body trembled. But Xaden was already in front of you. Hands reaching.
And Kaerith—Kaerith roared.
Sgaeyl dropped out of the sky like a dark streak of lightning, slamming between you and Xaden in one smooth motion, tail curling protectively. “Kaerith,” you snapped, grabbing a handful of his scales. “Stand down.”
He snarled, but relented—barely. Sgaeyl snorted. If dragons could roll their eyes, she absolutely just had.
Xaden waited, eyes full of something that looked dangerously close to fear. Not of Kaerith. Not of Sgaeyl. But of you.
“You okay?” he asked. You nodded once. “More or less.” He exhaled slowly. “You’re walking.” “Don’t get too excited. I still feel like I got trampled by a gryphon.” The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
You glanced up at Kaerith. “He doesn’t like you very much right now.” “I deserve it.” “He’s only like this with people who matter.” His eyes flicked to yours. “Do I still matter?” You blinked. Then—quiet, careful—you said, “More than I want to admit.”
He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. Not yet. But enough to feel. “Let me stay,” he said softly. “Wherever you are. However you need me. Just let me try again.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked at his hands, his eyes, the quiet desperation under the cool mask he always wore.
And then—
You reached up. Touched his face. Barely. Kaerith huffed but didn’t move. “Okay,” you whispered. “But you don’t get to break me again.” “I won’t,” Xaden said. Like a promise. Like a vow. You believed him.
Gods help you, you believed him.
⸻
You didn’t go far that day. A few steps into the courtyard. A brief moment in the light. Then you were exhausted, half-leaning on Kaerith, the world tilting slightly at the edges. Xaden had said nothing. Just stayed close enough to catch you if you stumbled.
By nightfall, you were in one of the smaller guest rooms inside the northern wing—one of the few places in Aretia that felt untouched by war. The walls were warm sandstone. A soft rug covered the cold floor. There was a window that looked out into the valley. Xaden had brought a chair again. But this time? You told him not to.
“I don’t want you across the room,” you said softly. “I don’t need the space. Not anymore.” He didn’t argue. Didn’t push, either. He just sat at the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, like he was afraid to move.
You watched him for a long moment. The shape of his shoulders. The way he exhaled slow through his nose like he’d been holding his breath for days. “Lie down,” you said. His brow lifted, guarded. “You sure?” You nodded. “I trust you. And I… I miss you.” That broke him a little.
He kicked off his boots and climbed in carefully, like you might vanish if he moved too quickly. The bed dipped beneath his weight. The warmth of him slid into the space beside you. He didn’t touch you—not at first. But his presence was loud. And familiar.
He lay on his back, hands over his chest, staring at the ceiling like it held answers to everything he couldn’t say. You shifted, slow and cautious, until your head rested just beneath his shoulder. He froze. Then—slowly, carefully—his arm wrapped around you. And gods, you didn’t realize how much you missed this. Missed him. The shape of his body beside yours. The weight of his palm at your side. The way your breathing fell into rhythm like it always used to.
Minutes passed like hours. Then he said—barely a whisper—“You still do that thing when you sleep.” You blinked against his chest. “What thing?” “You breathe out three times really fast. Then pause. You’ve always done it.” You smiled into the fabric of his shirt. “You remember that?” “I never forgot.” A beat. “I tried.” Your heart twisted. “I didn’t stop loving you,” he added quietly. “Even when it felt like I had to.”
You lifted your head. Looked at him. Really looked at him. There was a vulnerability in his eyes you rarely saw. Not even when you first kissed. Not even when you first fought. This wasn’t desperation. This was truth. And so you leaned in. Pressed your lips to his—gentle. Slow. Not a promise. Not yet. Just a memory finding its way home. When you pulled back, he exhaled hard, eyes still closed. And you whispered, “I still love you, too.”
⸻
The morning light bled into the room like an old wound—slow, reluctant. You stirred before he did. Your body still ached in all the places that hadn’t quite forgiven you. But you were breathing. Steady. Even. And you were warm. Because Xaden hadn’t moved an inch. He was still there, one arm around you, your cheek tucked against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, slow and thunderous. Like it had something to say.
You didn’t move. Not at first. You just listened. To the silence. To him. To the way your breath still fell in sync without trying. But eventually, you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being mad at you.”
Xaden opened his eyes. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it. “Then be mad,” he said, voice rough. “Yell at me. Hit me. Whatever you need.” You looked up at him, eyes burning. “I don’t want to hurt you.” “You already did,” he said quietly. “When you left.”
You sat up then, too fast. Pain flared across your ribs, but you didn’t stop. “You think that was easy for me?” “No.” He sat up, too, turning toward you. “I think it killed you. Just like it did me.”
Kaerith stirred outside the window, sensing the tension. His wings rustled like storm winds through the valley. You didn’t need the bond to know he was restless—protective.
Xaden’s jaw clenched. “I saw the way everything shifted after Threshing. After her. I couldn’t divide myself cleanly anymore. Orders from Tairn. Protection. Secrets. You—” He broke off, eyes burning. “You deserved better than being second to someone I didn’t even love.” The words hit hard. You felt them deep, like truth and regret in one sharp breath.
“But I still left,” you whispered. “I walked away. I didn’t fight for us.” “I didn’t give you a reason to.” He looked down. Fingers flexing like he wanted to reach for you. Like he didn’t know if he was allowed to.
“You were everything to me,” he said, voice raw. “And I got so good at pretending I was fine without you… I almost believed it. Until I saw you bleeding in Bodhi’s arms. Until Kaerith called out and I felt it in my bones.” You swallowed. Hard. The silence stretched again. And then, slowly, carefully—you reached for his hand. He didn’t hesitate. Fingers locked. Palms pressed.
“You don’t have to fix it all today,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “But if we’re going to try again… we can’t pretend the cracks aren’t there.” “I know.” “We build slow this time.” Xaden nodded. “Even if it hurts.” You leaned forward. Pressed your forehead to his. And this time, you both stayed there. No one ran.
No one turned away.
⸻
Later that day
The quiet didn’t last. By the time you’d managed to walk down the hallway—Xaden shadowing every step—Bodhi was already waiting in the courtyard below. Leaning against the worn stone wall, arms crossed, his dragon, Cuir, perched high on the cliff behind him like a sentinel of old.
He didn’t look surprised to see you. Didn’t even blink at the way Xaden hovered a step too close. “Still stubborn,” Bodhi muttered as you stepped into the sunlight, eyes sweeping over the bruises on your skin. “Still getting yourself nearly killed.” “Still dragging me out of it,” you returned softly. That earned the smallest of smiles. But it didn’t last. Because Xaden moved forward. And you felt it shift—like a ripple of old storms under calm water.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Xaden asked. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cracked with something sharp. Something ancient. “You knew where she was. For months.” Bodhi’s jaw tensed. “I did.” “You let me think she was gone.” “You let her think she was nothing but collateral.” The words landed like fists.
You inhaled slowly, ready to speak—but Bodhi raised a hand to stop you. His gaze stayed locked on Xaden.
“You want the truth?” Bodhi said, stepping away from the wall. “She was my best friend long before she was your girlfriend. I held her hair when she was sick. I taught her how to punch harder than you. I read every letter she wrote, even when she didn’t send them.” Xaden flinched.
“She didn’t leave just because of you,” Bodhi added. “She left because that place—Basgiath, war, everything—it was eating her alive. And I wasn’t going to drag her back just because you finally decided to miss her.” The silence that followed was brutal.
Xaden’s fists were clenched. His breathing ragged. But he didn’t argue. Because he couldn’t. You stepped forward, putting a hand on Bodhi’s arm. “Thank you,” you said quietly. His expression softened just a little. “I’d do it again.”
Xaden finally spoke, voice low, broken at the edges. “You should’ve told me.” Bodhi shrugged. “Maybe. But then again, maybe you should’ve looked closer when she stopped smiling.” Another hit. Direct. And earned. Xaden didn’t respond. But he nodded. Slow.
And for the first time… something passed between them. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But understanding. Mutual grief. Shared weight.
“Next time,” Bodhi said, backing away toward Cuir, “don’t wait until she’s bleeding to remember how much you love her.” And then he was gone.
The wind shifted. And you stood there with Xaden—both of you raw, scraped open, stripped down to nothing but truth and tension and too many things left unsaid. But this?
This was how healing started.
⸻
The sun was low by the time you returned to your room. The walk back was slow. Silent. Xaden didn’t reach for your hand, but his presence was a constant hum beside you—warm and steady, like a pulse that refused to fade.
You closed the door behind you with a soft click. And still, he didn’t speak. Not until you turned toward him, eyes searching his face like you might find something you’d missed the first time you fell in love with him.
“What are you thinking?” you asked softly. Xaden’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. More like a wince of truth. “That I don’t deserve this.” Your breath hitched. “Me?” “You,” he said. “This chance. Your trust. After everything I didn’t say. Everything I let happen.”
You walked toward him, slow and quiet. “Do you want it?” His eyes lifted—sharp, dark, wounded. “More than anything.” “Then earn it.”
You were close now. Close enough to see the way his shoulders shifted, to hear the subtle catch in his breath. He looked like a man standing in a fire, unsure whether to run or reach for the warmth.
“I don’t want the version of you who shuts down,” you said, voice low. “Not the one who hides things ‘for your own good.’ I want the version who looks me in the eye and lets me in. Even if it’s ugly.”
Xaden looked down at his hands. “I don’t know if I remember how.” “You don’t have to know yet,” you whispered, fingers brushing his. “You just have to try.” He met your gaze then, and something cracked open behind his eyes. Not pain. Not guilt. Hope.
He took your hand—slow, deliberate. “I can’t promise I’ll be easy,” he said. “Or perfect.” “I never asked for perfect,” you replied. “I asked for you.” He stepped closer. Pressed his forehead to yours. His voice was rough, full of truth. “Tell me what you need.” And you didn’t hesitate. “I need you to be here. Really here. Not just when I’m hurt. Not just when you’re scared you’ve lost me. But when I’m healing. When I’m angry. When I’m quiet.” “I can do that,” he said. “Gods, I want to do that.”
You leaned into him, heart thudding against his chest. “Then stay. Not because you owe me. But because you still choose me.” His arms wrapped around you—gentle, but sure. And you felt it, in the weight of his touch, in the way his breath slowed against your skin. He wasn’t running. Not anymore.
you know that. you've always known that. but it hurts a little more when he makes it so obvious. when he stops on the sidewalk to look through store windows, casually commenting how much she'd like a stupid stuffed animal. when you have to wait there on the street while he goes in to buy it for her.
holding in your hurt, barely managing to mumble that you missed him, that you hated how much he'd been ditching you lately to spend more time with her. you were supposed to be his best friend.
he just laughed, shrugged and said that she was his friend too. an infuriatingly charming smirk curling up on his face as he remarked that it wasn't like the two of you were dating.
no, he didn't need to say it for you to figure out he was holding the girlfriend position open for her.
her wish was his command. automatically granted before she even had to ask.
if he ever thinks about you long enough to pick you up food, it's her favorite. forget about calling him on it. you know he would only shrug again and say he didn't think about it. why would he bother?
he only ever thinks about what she wants. what she's doing. how she's feeling.
you'd been shoving your own emotions down so long you thought you could take it. thought you'd be okay watching his strong arms pull her into a hug. watching his eyes soften when she walks into a room. how he hangs onto every word that leaves her lips like they had to be treasured.
but being just friends didn't just break your heart. it broke you.
shattered your pride under the sole of his shoes without even meaning to, too focused on chasing after her to look back at what he left behind.
you distanced yourself. stopped calling. stopped texting. silenced your phone so you didn't have to think about the fact he didn't notice your absence.
it sucked.
tears sobbed into your pillow, curled up in your comforter with swollen eyes and a splintered heart. dishes stacked up until there was nothing left in your fridge or pantry. barely managing to make it to the bathtub to shower, watching stupid shows until you didn't have to think anymore.
but it got easier.
days dragging into weeks, weeks blending into months without him there to wreck your mood - and he was too busy to piece together that his best friend had stopped showing up until he saw you on a familiar street.
he froze. stared. brows scrunching together as his brain snapped to crunch the numbers and calculate how long it had been since he had actually seen you in person since you stopped replying to his messages. two months? three?
window-shopping with someone new. your hand in his. your head resting on a shoulder as you pointed at something through the glass. he was yanking you towards the door, and you were just fucking smiling at him like there were stars shining in his eyes.
he'd been replaced.
a/n: written with lads non-mc reader in mind!! but could also work with the jjk guys hehe <3 can you guys tell i have really been feeling the angst lately? honestly debating on doing a part two and having like how each individual guy would react from here :3
summary! choso's always had strong feelings for you, his sweet, impossibly cute roommate. after dropping out of college and introducing you to his band mate suguru, things take a turn for the worst when the man starts to take an interest in you. drummer!choso becomes increasingly more jealous and agitated with each fucked up thing geto puts you through, and he finally snaps. his quiet jealousy turns dark, messy, and impossible to ignore. (jealousy, slight angst, messyyy, toxic relationships (suguru –> reader) comfort, fluff, smut.)
choso hated when geto was over.
“suguru! fuck! it’s too much— i can’t— i can’t!”
“shut up—god—and take it.”
your muffled moans and the creak of the bedposts drifted through the thin plastered wall of choso’s room. the one you’d shared since signing the lease over two years ago, back when you were just strangers hunting for a nice apartment during your freshman year.
back then, things had been simpler.
you'd gotten close to the mysterious boy in only a few weeks. just you and choso, figuring out school and life together, finding comfort in each other’s company.
he had been one of the kindest, coolest people you’d ever met, someone who listened to your fucked-up problems without judgment, who cleaned up after himself, who held you on the couch when winter felt too crisp.
the perfect roommate, in every sense.
“you’d make a good boyfriend, cho,” you’d teased once, stroking his hair lightly.
“hmm, you think so?” he’d grinned, lazy and carefree.
but things were different now.
choso had dropped out to focus on his band, 'exorcize'—gojo on vocals, geto on guitar, toji on bass, and him on drums.
the band had taken off, and after being personally invited to one of their gigs, a small introduction from choso had suguru immediately hooked.
that had been the moment everything shifted.
quiet nights of spectated drum practice while you studied or long meaningful conversations were gone, replaced by surprise visits from geto and sleepless evenings that left choso restless and uneasy.
deep down, in that hazy, stoned part of his mind, he knew he felt something for you. something raw, unacknowledged, and unrelenting.
“god, sugu—i seriously can’t! —oh my god!”
he heard your cries, felt his stomach twist with a mix of disgust, anger, and jealousy. he couldn’t endure another sober second of listening to you plead.
his hand found a pre-rolled blunt in his dresser, lighting it with a red lighter you'd gifted him months ago, the smoke curling around him like a protective shield.
“c’mon, you can do it, just a few more—fuck!—seconds!”
he hated him. but more than that, he hated the way suguru spoke to you.
the subtle degradation, the possessive control masked by perfect composure. choso knew you noticed it too. the way your fingers curled around anything you could grab when suguru got too close, too possessive. the way you'd shy away from him rather than leaning into him lovingly. and yet, you stayed.
it tore something inside choso, some raw, unpolished piece of himself that had never stopped wanting you.
“just a little longer, y/n, fuck—you can do that for me, can’t you?”
he closed his eyes and inhaled, letting the smoke fill his lungs, the only thing that could dull the constant back-and-forth inside his head when it came to you. the only thing that dulled the voice in his head, from when you used to talk to him like he was the only man in the world. his addiction, his only vice.
~
morning
the brunette boy sat slumped on the couch, one leg folded under him, the other stretched across the coffee table. sunlight crept through the blinds, painting uneven lines across his face. his hoodie hung half-off his shoulder, hair tied back loosely, a blunt tucked behind his ear like muscle memory.
he looked fucking wrecked.
you padded out from the hallway, wrapped in a big t-shirt that definitely wasn’t yours. it hung too low on your thighs, smelled faintly like suguru’s cologne, and that made something twist in your stomach when you noticed choso glance at it once, then away with a twitch of his eye.
“good morning, cho” you said, trying to sound casual, cheerful, like nothing weird had happened last night.
he didn’t look at you right away. his thumb was tapping against the armrest, slow and rhythmic. “yo.”
you bit your lip, moving to the kitchen counter. the silence pressed between you like humidity. it felt different now, awkward, thick.
you’d never had awkward silence with him before.
“uh, you sleep okay?” you tried again, voice soft, careful.
he finally turned to look at you. dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his tone came out flat. “where’s geto?”
your stomach dropped. “huh?”
“suguru,” he said again, leaning back into the couch. “where’d he go?”
you blinked, your throat suddenly dry. “oh. um. he—uh—left early, he doesn't really stay the night...he sorta just comes at night whenever he wants and leaves when we're done.”
choso didn’t say anything, just nodded slowly, eyes still half-lidded. but you knew that look—his patience hanging by a thread, the faint twitch of his jaw, that lazy exterior covering something sharper underneath.
“choso,” you said quietly, walking over a bit. “did you… uhm— hear us?”
his eyes flicked up to yours. “mhm.”
the word hit heavier than it should’ve. you looked down at your hands, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “oh my god. i thought you were asleep. i didn’t mean for you to—”
“s’alright,” he said, cutting you off, voice rough. “walls are thin, y’know, i get it.”
you winced. “was it—was it bad?”
he let out a low, humorless chuckle, the memory of his band mates grunts and your pretty gasps still fresh in his mind. “mhm. heard it all.”
you felt heat crawl up your neck, mortified. “shit, choso, i’m so sorry. i really didn’t think—”
“don’t worry 'bout it,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “i’ll just sleep the morning away, got the gig tonight anyway, so it should be fine.”
you hesitated, wanting to say something to make it better, to make him better, but his tone was a closed door.
so you offered the only thing that came to mind. “let me make you breakfast? as an apology?”
he looked up, studying you for a second before nodding. “right... sure.”
you exhaled in quiet relief and turned toward the kitchen, grabbing eggs and bread from the fridge.
you weren’t sure what he liked this early. he usually slept until noon, leaving trails of smoke and half-empty cereal bowls behind, but it felt right to do something. the clinking of pans filled the silence.
behind you, choso leaned his head back on the couch, eyes half open, watching the light catch in your hair as you moved. he wanted to stay annoyed, to keep that boundary up. but the sight of you—bare legs, hair messy, humming softly under your breath while cooking in the kitchen—hit him in that dull, sore spot inside his chest.
“you should come to the gig tonight, if geto didn't already invite ya',” he said suddenly, voice low.
you glanced over your shoulder, surprised. “yeah, you want me to come?”
“i do.” he stretched, reaching for the blunt on the table but not lighting it yet. “you haven’t seen us play in a while.”
you smiled a little, flipping a piece of toast. “yeah, sure. i’ll come.”
he grunted something like approval, pretending not to notice how your eyes softened when you said it, the way your face lit up as you moved your hands.
you’d seen clips online—crowds packed tight in dark venues, neon lights washing over exorcize as they played.
they weren’t just another college band anymore. they were it. the band everyone wanted to fuck, to be, to orbit around.
gojo with his wild white hair and stupidly perfect grin, toji’s quiet menace on bass, suguru’s calm confidence, and choso behind the drums, silent but magnetic, his hair sticking to his face, eyes half-lidded, lost in rhythm.
they all had that look, that raw, sexy allure that made people crave them like meth.
and you’d been there at the start of it. before the crowds, before the smoke machines and the afterparties. when it was just choso, hunched over a kit in the living room, half stoned, tapping out rhythms while you studied on the couch.
the smell of butter and coffee filled the apartment. you plated up the food—scrambled eggs, toast, a few slices of avocado—and brought it over to him.
“here,” you said softly, setting the plate in front of him. “a really shitty peace offering.”
he gave a small smile, lazy but real. “yum.”
you sat down next to him, tucking your legs under you. the couch dipped between you, and the silence that followed wasn’t as sharp this time. he picked at his food for a while, eating slow.
“seriously though, cho,” you said after a minute, eyes on your plate, “i’m really sorry about last night.”
he shrugged, chewing. “told you, s' fine.”
“it’s not fine,” you insisted, voice quiet. “that must’ve been… weird for you. i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
choso let out a low snort, setting his fork down. “y/n. you were horny. you got dicked down. shit happens.”
you froze, staring at him with wide eyes, face flushing deep. “ew,”
he smirked a little, leaning back. “what? just sayin’. it's no big deal.”
“yuck, don't talk to me like i'm one of your little junkie friends!”
“why not? we're not friends now?” he asked, in a tone that was so laid back and careless it made you anger, “what are we then? don’t get all shy now, i'm tryna lighten the shitty mood.”
you swatted his hand away, embarrassed but smiling despite yourself. “stop it, we're just friends... it's just— just shut up.”
“yeah,” he said, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “heard that before.”
you laughed under your breath, shaking your head. for a moment, it felt like old times again.
easy, unspoken comfort settling back between you. but under it all, he felt that same ache still there, low and constant.
the thought of geto touching you, of your voice on the other side of the wall, it looped in his head like a bad song he couldn’t skip.
he finished his plate, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
“thanks for breakfast, it was real good, y/n. you'd make a good housewife y'know,” he said.
“god just shut up,” you said with an all too dramatic eyeroll.
the quiet lingered again, softer this time.
~
the studio reeked of ash and stale beer. gojo was already shirtless, sprawled across the leather couch, strumming suguru’s guitar with no real purpose.
“bro, put that down before you break a string,” suguru said, tone bored but edged.
“relax, i’m blessing it,” gojo said, flashing him a grin.
toji sat off to the side, bass in hand, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off the day. he didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to, his presence was enough to keep the room balanced.
gojo noticed the slight tire in getos purple eyes and decided to pry. “so,” he said, spinning a drumstick between his fingers. “you look fucked, man. late night?”
suguru stretched his arms overhead, dark hair falling into his face. he smirked like he couldn’t help it. “mmm, something like that.”
“oh, come on,” gojo said, grinning. “you can’t just say ‘something like that.’ i need details, you fuck some chick, or?"
toji gave a quiet snort but didn’t look up from his tuning. “you gossip more than a fucking teenager, huh?”
“yeah, keeps me in shape.” gojo’s grin widened. “so? do tell.”
suguru’s smirk deepened, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “you know, just y/n.”
“shit,” gojo said, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. “again? chosos little roommate? thought she was too sweet for you or whatever shitty excuse you made last time you slept with her and dipped.”
suguru shrugged. “sweet doesn’t mean boring.” he spoke like he was discussing a setlist, casual, detached. “can't stop going over to her place man. she's a great fuck, obedient, y'know? and tight as hell.”
gojo laughed under his breath. “oh yeah? she's sexy, sure, but i didn't know she had all of that going for her. you mind if i..."
“yeah, i do,” suguru said, unbothered. he leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs. “she's only sucking my cock right now and i wanna keep it that way.”
gojo raised both hands in mock surrender. “fair enough. so does she know about all the other pussy you get or?..." he teases.
"no. and she's not gonna. thinks i'm some fucking saint."
the way he said it made the air go strange—like they were both too comfortable talking about someone so badly who wasn’t even there.
toji glanced at them, expression flat.
“so what’s the deal then?” gojo asked, voice dropping just slightly. “you two dating?”
suguru’s tone turned dry. “not exactly. it’s just casual, a bit messy.”
“that mean she thinks you are and you don’t?”
little did the guys know, choso was standing in the hallway outside the studio, leaning against the wall, eyes half-lidded, hoodie drawn over his head. the door was slightly ajar.
at first he just wanted to pass, maybe pop in later when they started playing. but then he heard it—
“she’s a little too attached. wants to talk about everything. i don’t do clingy bitches,” suguru said, voice casual, almost bored.
choso froze.
“it’s fine. she knows what this is, if she gets hurt, that’s not on me.”
choso’s jaw tightened under the hoodie. his hands curled into fists, then unclenched. the smoke haze that usually clouded his head felt sharper now, stinging like cold air.
"does choso care? i mean, he's pretty much always high off his face so i doubt he'd even notice, but still. you can't be quite even if you tried." gojo added.
"nah, choso doesn't give a fuck about anything, i'm sure he doesn't care."
gojo just rolled his eyes and nodded along, clearly geto didn't know shit about his supposed friend.
choso was classical stoned, sure, but he was a deep thinker. although the never really voiced his opinions doesn't mean he doesn't have any. and the assumption that he doesn't care about you, the one girl he can actually feel himself around, feel comfortable with? it's a punch to the gut.
“plus, maybe he’s some sick cuck, maybe i’m doing him a favor fucking y/n loud enough for him to hear,” suguru said next, the words like a punchline to the room.
gojo laughed, oblivious, egging him on. toji’s bass sat idle, a quiet observer.
choso’s stomach twisted, sour and heavy, but his face stayed blank. he’d heard enough. everything he’d felt last night—the jealousy, the heat, the ache—coiled into a tighter knot in his chest.
and yet. he didn’t react. didn’t slam the door open or yell, he was too level headed for that. he just let the words hang there, let the laughter roll over him. the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat became his anchor.
then, like he always did, he slipped into his usual mask. the hoodie covered his eyes, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his baggy sweatshirt.
he pushed the door open, just enough to enter, and let his presence announce him.
“’bout time,” gojo said, lounging back on the couch, grinning like nothing was off, like he wasn't just talking questionably about him. “thought you were skipping rehearsal.”
“nah,” choso said, voice low, clipped, casual. “traffic was slow.”
suguru glanced up, immediately switching to his usual calm, lazy composure. “afternoon,” he said evenly.
choso gave a small nod, dropped his bag, and moved to the drum kit, adjusting cymbals without looking at anyone else.
but under the surface, the coiled anger, hurt, and frustration hummed. every tap of the drumsticks later would carry some of that weight, silent, restrained, but there.
gojo, pretending to be oblivious, grinned at him. “you good, man? look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“didn’t,” choso said, tone clipped.
gojo whistled, dragging the notion. “what, neighbor’s dog barking again?”
“something like that.” choso gave suguru a quick side glance before settling in further.
suguru’s hand stilled for a second on the fretboard. he didn’t look up, but he could feel choso’s eyes flick toward him.
toji caught the tension first, his gaze shifting between them. “you two done?” he asked dryly. “we practicing or what?”
choso exhaled, sitting down behind the kit. “yeah. let’s get it.”
the first few hits were slow, a warm-up rhythm, but every strike landed with more force than usual. the echo bounced around the room, sharp and deliberate, filling the silence that had started to suffocate the space.
gojo laughed lightly, trying to shake it off. “guess that’s a yes.” he adjusted his mic stand. “alright boys, from the top.”
the noise erupted again, guitar, bass, drums, the controlled chaos of sound. it filled every corner of the studio, pushing back whatever words had hung there before.
suguru played clean, precise, every note in place, but his mind wasn’t entirely in it. he could feel the weight of choso’s rhythm behind him, each beat heavy, almost personal.
choso kept his head down, sticks moving fast, steady. he wasn’t thinking about the music. he was thinking about voices in thin-walled apartments, about laughter that sounded just like this. about how easily people could talk about something that still sat raw in his chest.
gojo sang through the chorus, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes half-closed. toji’s bass lines held everything together. and choso, he hit the drums like he was trying to keep from saying something out loud.
when the song ended, there was a moment of quiet, the kind that comes right after noise when everyone’s heart is still beating too fast.
“tight,” gojo said, wiping sweat off his face. “we’re gonna kill it tonight.”
“yeah,” toji said simply, setting his bass down.
choso nodded once, not looking at anyone.
suguru adjusted his guitar strap, clearing his throat. “we’ll meet back here at eight,” he said, tone easy. “venue’s expecting us by nine.”
choso started packing up his sticks. the others were still talking, voices fading into background noise. he kept his head low, eyes on the drum kit.
“yo, cho,” gojo said suddenly. “you bringing anyone tonight?”
choso hesitated. “y/n said she'd show.”
“ahh, she better,” gojo grinned. “need a familiar face in the crowd.”
suguru’s hand tightened imperceptibly on his strap.
choso zipped his bag and stood. “mhm. see you later.”
no one stopped him. the door shut quietly behind him, the sound echoing longer than it should have.
for a second, the three of them just stood there. gojo hummed, breaking the silence. “yeah, i think he heard you, and he definitely does care.”
suguru didn’t answer. he just stared at the door for a long moment before setting his guitar down, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something and thought better of it.
toji rolled his shoulders and muttered, “doesn’t matter now. just shut up and focus on tonight's gig."
~
choso pushes the door to your apartment at around 7.p.m, his skateboard bumping against the wall as he toes his sneakers off. he decided to hit the skate park after the studio, and was just getting back now.
the apartment’s dark. not quiet-dark —off dark. no soft indie playlist humming from your room, no yellow light spilling down the hallway, no half-finished tea on the counter. just the faint hum of the fridge and the lingering scent of your coconut shampoo that always hangs in the air.
he squints toward the living room. nothing.
“yo, y/n?” his voice echoes a little. it sounds lazy, but underneath it’s got that edge, confused, half-worried. “you home, babe?”
nothing.
he pauses, drumming his fingers against his thigh. normally he wouldn’t think much of it, you liked to take long showers, disappear for coffee runs, but the place feels weird tonight. the kind of quiet that sits heavy.
“yo, for real, where the fuck are you?” he calls again, walking toward the kitchen, his hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from washing it after practice. the smell of weed clings to him, mixed with cigarette smoke and a hint of cologne he must’ve borrowed from gojo.
he flicks on the hallway light, flinches a little at how harsh it is. the walls glow pale and flat. still no answer.
“y/n,” he mutters, a little louder now, “don’t fuckin’ do this horror movie shit.”
he checks the balcony. empty. checks the bathroom, light off, door cracked. nothing. his chest tightens even though he keeps telling himself he doesn’t care, that you’re probably fine, that he’s overreacting like some clingy idiot.
then he hears faint music. a muffled bassline leaking through your bedroom door.
he exhales, tension leaving his shoulders all at once, muttering, “jesus, fuckin’—you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”
he knocks lightly, then pushes the door open without waiting.
and freezes.
you’re standing in front of your mirror, airpods in, the faint shimmer of your lip gloss catching the lamplight. you’re half-dressed, black skirt, sheer tights, tiny top, and your hair sits perfectly like you didn’t even try. your room smells like warmth and perfume and clean skin.
for a second, choso forgets how to breathe.
“shit,” he says under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
you pull an airpod out and turn toward him, surprised. “oh my god, you scared me.”
he blinks slowly, eyes dragging up from your legs to your mouth, then back down again. “yeah, uh—my bad. place was dark. thought you got kidnapped or somethin’.”
you laugh softly, shaking your head. “kidnapped? really?”
he shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “could happen. you never know. world’s fucked.”
you roll your eyes but smile. “well, i’m fine. just getting ready for the gig.”
“yeah, i can see that.” his voice dips lower without meaning to. “you look…” he pauses, tongue running over his teeth, trying to sound casual but it comes out rough. “fuck, you look hot as hell.”
you blink, heat crawling up your neck. “you think so?”
he nods, still rubbing his neck, eyes locked on you. “yeah. like, real talk, y/n, you’re gonna make it hard to focus tonight. literally everyone’s gonna be staring.”
you laugh, a little flustered. “you’re just saying that.”
“nah,” he says, finally walking into your room. “not just sayin’. like—you look fuckin’ insane. good insane.”
you smile, glancing back at your reflection, fixing your earring. “thanks, cho.”
he drops down onto your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “you mind if i chill here? watch the whole… transformation process?”
“be my guest,” you say, turning back to your mirror.
he leans back on his hands, watching you move. your drawers open, mascara wand twirling between your fingers, your skirt swishing when you shift. the music in your airpods leaks just enough for him to catch the rhythm.
he tries to stay cool, keeps that lazy look on his face, but his heart’s still pounding from the moment he saw you. his head’s full of too many things, practice, suguru’s voice, your laugh, the sound of his name coming from you.
after a minute, he says, “we gotta leave in, like, an hour. gojo’s picking up suguru and toji, you wanna ride with me or get there yourself?”
you turn around, surprised. “oh, i can come with you?”
“course,” he says, shrugging. “beats paying for parking. you'll be abit early is all.”
you grin. “then yeah, i’ll come with you, doesn't matter to me, cho.”
“aight,” he says, stretching his legs out, smirking just a little. “sweet.”
he’s quiet for a while after that. you keep getting ready, music still faintly playing, the smell of your perfume thick in the air. he fiddles with the ring on his thumb, his mind replaying suguru’s words like static.
she’s a great fuck, obedient and tight as hell.
she thinks i’m some fuckin’ saint.
maybe he’s some sick cuck.
the words crawl under his skin. he can’t stop hearing them, can’t stop imagining the look on your face if you knew.
he shifts, sits up straighter. “hey,” he says suddenly.
you hum in response, focused on your eyeliner.
“can i ask you somethin’?”
“sure.”
“what’s the deal with you and geto?”
you pause mid-stroke. “what do you mean?”
he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “just… what are you two, exactly? like, are you dating or is it just some hookup thing?”
you blink at his reflection in the mirror, half-smiling. “why, you gonna make fun of me again for last night?”
he shakes his head. “nah. i’m serious.”
something about his tone makes you turn fully, leaning against your dresser. “oh. um…” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “i don’t know. i mean, i like him a lot. we hang out, we… yeah. i guess we’re dating? hes never actually said it, but it sure feels like it.”
he stares at you for a long moment, his chest tightening.
“you guess?”
“yeah.” you laugh softly, awkward. “he’s not, like, big on labels, i think. but we spend time together. he’s nice to me. i like being with him.”
choso nods slowly, but his face doesn’t change. “right. 'nice to you.'”
you frown, studying him. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
he looks away, picking at a loose thread on your blanket. “nothin’. just… didn’t figure him for the relationship type.”
“why not?” you ask, voice soft but curious.
he shrugs again, lazy like always, though his voice is heavier now. “he’s just… not the kinda guy who stays still, y’know? always got somethin’ else goin’ on. kinda hard to picture him with one person.”
you tilt your head. “you sound like you know him better than i do.”
“maybe i do,” he mutters.
“then tell me,” you say quietly. “should i be worried?”
his jaw tightens. he doesn’t answer right away. he wants to tell you, wants to let it spill out, the whole disgusting thing he heard at practice, the way suguru laughed about you like you were nothing but a story to pass around. it’s right there, sitting heavy on his tongue.
but when he looks at you, soft eyes, hopeful little smile, the way you look at him like he’s safe, he feels sick.
you’re too good for it. too sweet. too fucking naive to see how much he’s playing you, and he can’t stand the idea of being the one to shatter it.
“cho?” you ask gently.
he blinks. “yeah.”
“what were you gonna say?”
he opens his mouth, ready to just do it—to tell you everything, to ruin whatever fantasy you’ve built around suguru—but then your phone lights up on the dresser.
suguru calling.
you both look at it.
your heart jumps a little, that reflexive smile pulling at your lips. you grab the phone, swiping to answer. “hey.”
choso watches you, expression unreadable. your voice softens instantly, your tone sweet and familiar in a way that makes his stomach twist.
“yeah, i’m just getting ready,” you say, turning slightly away from him. “mhm… yeah, i’ll see you there, choso's driving me.”
his fingers drum against his knee. your voice is quiet now, almost a whisper. he can’t hear the words, only the tone—light, careful, like you’re trying not to say the wrong thing.
you laugh at something he says, that little laugh that used to be his favorite sound in the world.
and something in choso deflates.
he stands slowly, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. your perfume still hangs in the air, heavy and warm.
“hey,” you say, glancing at him mid-call, mouthing, one sec, before turning back.
he nods, grabbing his keys from your desk where he’d dropped them.
you’re still talking, giggling now, saying something about how you’ll be there soon. he heads for the door.
“yeah,” you murmur into the phone. “love you too.”
his steps falter for half a second, then keep going.
the door clicks shut behind him, quiet.
you love him? god, how could he tell you after hearing that...
~
the venue’s already packed when you and choso pull up. neon bleeds across the cracked pavement, the sound of bass leaking through the concrete.
you can feel the pull of the crazy fans even from the street. drunk laughter, the sharp scent of cigarette smoke, someone yelling over someone else.
choso kills the engine and leans back in the driver’s seat for a second, watching people shuffle in through the side door. the light outside hits his face in flashes. pale, pink, blue, he’s fading between moods.
“you ready?” he asks, voice low, lazy, but you can hear something else under it.
“yeah,” you say, adjusting your skirt, checking your lip gloss in the visor mirror.
he glances over, eyes flicking briefly down your legs before turning away again. “lookin’ like that, you’re gonna cause a fuckin’ riot, man.”
you laugh softly. “you said that earlier.”
“yeah, and i meant it both times.”
you shake your head, smilin despite yourself.
inside, it’s chaos. the place smells like sweat and beer, lights flashing in dizzy loops, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. gojo’s voice echoes somewhere backstage, already hyping people up. you follow choso through the narrow hallway, your hand brushing his arm as someone shoves past. since when was he so muscular?
“sorry,” you say automatically.
he glances back. “nah, you’re good.”
he holds the side door open, letting you through first.
the band’s gear is scattered everywhere. amps, cables, beer cans, half-empty water bottles. suguru’s there, tuning his guitar, cigarette hanging from his mouth.
when he looks up and sees you, his expression softens into that easy smile that always used to make your stomach twist.
“hey, pretty thing,” he says, walking over.
choso looks away, jaw tight.
“hey,” you say quietly, leaning up to kiss him. his hand slips to your waist, the kiss short but a little too public, a little too look-at-me.
“you made it,” he murmurs.
“told you i would.”
behind you, gojo’s laugh cuts through the noise. “yo, choso, you finally dragged n/n outta her cave!”
choso smirks. “yeah, figured she could use a little culture.”
“culture, huh?” gojo grins at you. “hope you’re ready for noise complaints and groupies.”
“i’ll manage,” you say, smiling.
toji doesn’t look up from his bass, just gives a small nod in greeting. the whole room buzzes with the kind of pre-show tension you can feel in your teeth.
everyone’s running on nerves and caffeine and whatever else they’ve put in their systems.
choso tosses his hoodie onto a crate, rolling up his sleeves. he looks good like that—focused, hair half-tied, a strand falling over his cheek. he’s calm but sharp now, a different kind of energy from the stoned version of him you’re used to. the one who drifts through mornings in smoke.
“five minutes,” someone calls out from the stage manager’s booth.
you hover near the wall, watching them all get into place. gojo bounces on his heels, suguru spins his pick between his fingers, toji stays silent. choso’s behind his kit, tapping his sticks against the snare like he’s talking to it.
the crowd roars as the lights dim.
you press closer to the side of the stage, the bass vibrating through your shoes.
gojo’s voice hits the mic, smooth and arrogant. “we’re exorcize. don’t fucking blink.”
the first chord screams through the room, and everything shifts.
the sound is huge. overwhelming. suguru’s guitar cuts clean through the noise, toji’s bass a low pulse under it all, and then choso—he owns the rhythm. every hit lands deep, every movement controlled but raw, like he’s drumming out something that’s been living under his skin for years.
you can’t take your eyes off him.
he’s sweat-slick already, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded. the lights flash white, then red, then blue across his face. every motion is deliberate, steady, like he’s trying to stay anchored in something only he can hear.
and even though the crowd’s losing their minds, it feels like it’s just him and the sound.
you glance at suguru. he looks good too—cool, collected, confident. but next to choso, he feels staged. rehearsed.
your chest tightens. you look back at choso.
there’s something different in the way he plays tonight. sharper. more aggressive. like he’s exorcising something, no pun intended. every strike on the snare is heavier, almost angry. you wonder if it’s just adrenaline or if something happened earlier.
when the first song ends, the crowd screams. gojo throws his head back, grinning, shouting into the mic. “holy shit! you guys showed up tonight!”
choso stays quiet, twirling his sticks, taking a long drink of water. his eyes flick toward the side of the stage, toward you.
you smile.
he doesn’t. just nods once, small, subtle, before looking away. the next song starts before you can think about it too long.
you dance a little, lost in it, letting the music carry you. but somewhere in the back of your head, you can feel his stare again. quick glances between beats, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long before he looks back down.
and for the first time, you realize you’re not sure which one of you it’s harder for.
by the time the set ends, you’re breathless from the noise, your voice hoarse from shouting. the band leaves the stage to cheers, sweat-soaked and buzzing. gojo’s the first to collapse backstage, laughing.
“we killed that shit,” he says, half-yelling.
“yeah, not bad,” toji mutters, towel over his head.
suguru grins, walking straight toward you. “told you we’d put on a good show.”
you nod, heart still racing. “you were amazing.”
he leans in to kiss you again, and you let him, even though your eyes flick over his shoulder for a second—to choso. he’s wiping sweat from his forehead, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor.
suguru pulls back, arm still around your waist. “so, you coming to the afterparty?”
you hesitate. “uh, yeah, i think so.”
“good.” he kisses your temple, then turns toward gojo to talk about something.
you stand there for a second, unsure of what to do with your hands. the noise of the room fills the space between you and choso. he finally looks up, trying to push aside the guilt he still felt for not being able to man up and tell you about suguru.
you smile, small and tired. “you were insane up there.”
he laughs, strong yet humorless, the phrase 'love you too' still haunting his every thought. “yeah? thanks.”
“no, really. i couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
his mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but doesn’t trust himself to. “yeah, well… guess i did my job.”
you step closer, voice soft. “you okay?”
he nods, eyes flicking briefly toward suguru, then back at you. “yeah. just… beat.”
you nod too, not sure what else to say. gojo yells something about shots, suguru laughs, and the night keeps moving around you.
but in the middle of all of it, you and choso stand there for a second, caught between the noise and the silence. like the whole night’s holding its breath, waiting to see which one of you breaks first.
~
the afterparty’s at some half-finished warehouse space two blocks from the venue, the kind of place that smells like spilled beer, sweat, and old amps. led lights are strung along exposed pipes, blinking unevenly. someone’s blasting music from a bluetooth speaker that keeps cutting out.
you walk in first, suguru’s hand laced with yours, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin. you look good under the dim light—like you belong there, like you’re glowing even in the noise and haze.
choso follows behind, slower, his hoodie unzipped and hair sticking slightly to his forehead. he already smells of weed; he’d lit up the second they left the venue.
people yell greetings, offer shots, hugs, congratulations. gojo’s already got his arm around two people he definitely doesn’t know, yelling about how they fucking killed it tonight. toji’s slouched near a speaker, scrolling through his phone like none of this matters.
suguru doesn’t let go of you. not once. he keeps you close, leaning down every so often to murmur something in your ear that makes you laugh. he’s magnetic in these settings. composed, charming, eyes sharp enough to make anyone feel seen.
choso sits on a couch near the edge of the room, elbow draped over the back, watching through half-lidded eyes.
you look happy.
and for a minute, that’s enough.
he takes a drag, holds it, exhales slow. watches the smoke drift toward the ceiling. you’re laughing at something suguru said, your head tipped back, eyes bright.
he can almost convince himself it’s fine.
you’re happy. maybe that’s all that matters.
but he can’t stop remembering the way suguru talked earlier at the studio, voice low, that half-smirk twisting his mouth as he said your name like it was something to toss away. you lean up and kiss suguru’s cheek, whisper something. he nods, still holding your waist.
“gonna go fix my makeup,” you say, smiling. “don’t move.”
he smirks. “not going anywhere, princess.”
you squeeze his hand and disappear down the hallway. choso takes another drag. exhales through his nose, slow. for a few seconds, suguru just stands there. then, like someone flipped a switch, his attention shifts.
choso notices it instantly, the way suguru’s gaze catches on someone across the room. tall girl. dark hair. red lipstick. she’s leaning against the kitchen counter, talking to some guy with a drink in her hand.
choso knows her. everyone does. she used to hang around the studio all the time. suguru’s old fling. the one he’d bragged about, laughed about, talked about like she was a good story, just like you. his shoulders tense.
suguru drifts over. slowly. easy. one hand tucked in his pocket, the other reaching for a drink as he greets her.
she smiles like she’s been waiting.
he says something that makes her laugh, that same half-grin sliding across his face, the same one he used when he looked at you five minutes ago. choso stares at them, heartbeat starting to pick up, jaw tightening around the joint.
he can’t hear what they’re saying, but he doesn’t need to. he can read the body language, the subtle lean-in, the flirtatious tilt of her head, suguru’s slow smile.
the same old act.
he feels something stir in his chest, something dark and heavy. he looks toward the hallway, half expecting you to come back. you don’t.
he looks at suguru again, and his mouth moves before his brain can stop it.
“yo.”
his voice cuts through the music, quiet but sharp.
suguru glances over his shoulder. “hmm?”
choso’s still on the couch, but his tone’s different—lower, edged. “you maybe wanna get your shit in order before she gets back?”
the girl blinks, looks between them, then takes a step back.
suguru raises an eyebrow. “huh?”
choso leans forward, elbows on his knees, smoke curling around his fingers. “you heard me.”
the room feels quieter even though the music’s still playing.
suguru laughs once, soft, incredulous. “you serious right now?”
“deadass.”
he looks away for a second, shakes his head like he’s amused. “you’re high, choso.”
“not that high.” choso stands up, slow and deliberate. “i just don’t like watching you act like a fuckin’ idiot when she’s not even gone five minutes.”
suguru’s jaw tightens, that calm exterior starting to crack just a little. “what’s it to you?”
“what’s it to me?” choso echoes, stepping closer. “she’s my roommate, dumbass. i actually give a shit if she gets hurt.”
“roommate,” suguru repeats, his smirk returning. “that what we’re calling it?”
“yeah,” choso says flatly. “that’s what we’re calling it.”
suguru laughs again, but it’s sharper this time. “come on, man. don’t tell me you’re getting protective. that’s cute.”
choso doesn’t smile. doesn’t blink. “just don’t be the asshole i know you can be, yeah?”
for a second, something flickers behind suguru’s eyes. annoyance, maybe. guilt. or nothing at all. he looks away, taking a sip of his drink. “you don’t know what you think you know, choso.”
“nah,” choso says quietly. “i know exactly what i heard.”
suguru’s gaze snaps back to him. “what?”
“the studio,” choso says, voice steady. “you should watch what you say when you think nobody’s listening to you talk shit.”
suguru freezes, for a long moment, neither of them move.
then suguru laughs again—soft, controlled. “you think you know what that was about.”
“don’t need to think,” choso says. “you said it clear as day.”
“she’s a big girl,” suguru says after a pause, voice low. “she can handle herself.”
choso’s eyes narrow. “you mean she trusts you. that’s not the same thing.” suguru doesn’t respond.
choso takes another step forward, close enough now that the smell of smoke and alcohol mixes between them. “if you don’t give a fuck about her, fine. just don’t stand here pretending you do.”
he steps back, drops the joint into an empty cup, and turns toward the hallway, he almost bumps into you.
you’re back, smiling, oblivious, still glowing from the night. “hey, what’d i miss?”
both men go still.
suguru’s mask snaps back on instantly, smile smooth and easy. “nothing, babe. just talking band shit.” you nod, glancing between them. choso’s eyes are hard to read. too calm, too quiet. you loop your arm through suguru’s. “oh! okay. drinks?”
“yeah,” he says, kissing your temple. “let’s get you one.” he leads you toward the kitchen, the two of you slipping back into the party’s pulse.
choso stays where he is, arms crossed, jaw tight. from across the room, he watches as suguru hands you a drink, laughs at something you say, leans in close like nothing happened.
and for the first time in a long time, choso feels the kind of anger that doesn’t burn out, it just settles. slow, deep, and quiet.
he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his lighter, flicks it once, twice. the flame dances for a second before he shuts it off.
he takes a breath.
then another.
the music swells again, the noise swallowing everything.
and still, all he can hear is suguru’s laugh and the echo of his own restraint cracking, one hairline fracture at a time.
.
a few hours later
choso doesn’t mean to, really.
but the tight, burning knot in his chest, the one suguru’s smirk planted there, the one that grew watching him flirt with that old girl, the one that pulsed every time he saw your smile linger on suguru instead of him. fuck, it’s unbearable.
he’s been quiet, slow, keeping that lazy, half-asleep stoner mask on, puffing on his joint like everything’s fine. but it isn’t. it never has been.
he promised. always promised. no pills, no hardcore shit. just weed. the band worried enough about him already, addiction has always been a shadow he could never quite shake, and they knew if he went deeper, it’d swallow him.
but now, standing in the pulsing warehouse light, the noise vibrating up through his shoes, the alcohol and smoke thick in the air, he’s feeling something foreign. anger. jealousy. raw heat that makes his chest ache and stomach twist.
“yo, kamo,” he hears a guy drop down next to him, some old friend from college, he's leaning in. “nice to see you man. it's been ages."
choso just nods along, letting the guy talk about whatever he thinks is so important, his ears only really peeking up when the guy says, "you look like you need somethin’ a lil stronger.”
choso looks at him, slow. “mm, like what.”
the guy holds out a small baggie. pills, little white caps. “just some party shit. everyone here's doing it."
choso stares. his promise to the band, to you, floats somewhere in the back of his head , only weed, nothing heavier.
you'd all told him how addictive he could get, how dipping his feet into any sort of hardcore drugs wouldn't turn out great for him.
he takes the bag anyway. too pissed if to give a shit about anything other than numbing what he's feeling. "yeah, alright.”
“sweet,” the guy says, handing him a drink to wash it down.
the high hit him slow at first, a gentle fog wrapping itself around his chest, legs, fingers. choso felt the kind of calm that usually made him drift through a morning on the couch, hoodie loose, blunt tucked behind his ear.
but tonight, it was different. it hit like a wave he couldn’t ride without tumbling. and the warehouse, sticky, crowded, glowing in neon and sweat, was the perfect storm for it.
he wandered through the party, each step lazy, like he was moving through molasses, yet every sense screamed sharper than usual. the bassline rattled his chest, people’s voices blurred into a constant hum, the smell of booze, perfume, and sweat mixing into a heady cloud.
he took another long drag from his joint, holding the smoke, letting it curl around him, thinking it might shield him from the gnawing coil in his stomach, but it didn’t. not really.
“hey, choso,” a familiar voice broke through the haze. a fan, a girl maybe nineteen or twenty, pressed forward with wide eyes and a camera phone. “can we… like, take a pic? i love your band, dude, you’re insane on drums..
choso blinked slowly, the effects of the drug tangling with his words. “ahh, yeah… fuckin’ yeah, for sure.” he motioned lazily to the spot, half-smile tugging at his mouth. he let the girl snap a few pictures, asked her dumb little questions, about the band, gigs, where they got the idea for that last song—and he answered, voice drawling and thick, slurring words just slightly.
every few minutes, though, his gaze flicked back to you. and every time, there you were. pressed against suguru, who had that impossible grin plastered on his face, thumb brushing your hip while making conversation with someone else. choso’s stomach twisted. you weren’t tense. you laughed at something suguru said, head tilted back—but his jaw clenched.
and then he noticed it. suguru’s eyes, dark and dirty, sweeping across the room, lingering on every passing girl with a flash of that smug, possessive look. choso felt something sour bloom inside him, anger. jealousy. something he hadn’t felt in a long time, something sharp and alien.
he sucked in a long drag of his joint, letting it burn down slowly, but the warmth didn’t soothe him. the high pressed against the raw edges of his chest, amplifying the foreign heat that bubbled with every glance suguru threw.
the way his lips curved slightly at you, and yet his eyes traveled over the figure of every passer by, made choso’s fingers itch to smash something, anything.
and then it happened. a girl, tall, laughing, hair loose over her shoulders, crossed the warehouse floor, and suguru’s gaze latched onto her, heavier than he had been doing.
just like that, he leaned down slightly to you, whispered something, and before choso could register it, suguru excused himself.
"gonna step out for a bit,” he said smoothly, voice low, eyes catching choso’s once before he disappeared through the side door.
you watched him go, smiling like it was nothing. like you didn’t notice the tension he left behind.
choso’s lips parted slightly, and for the first time tonight, he felt some clarity in the chaos—the haze, the crowd, the thrum of the bass—all of it funneled into one magnetic point: you.
he made his way through the crowd, knees a little wobbly, mind thick and messy with high thoughts, each step pulling him closer to you.
when he reached you, he leaned against the wall beside the couch, blinking slowly, trying to anchor himself despite his brain telling him to just spout nonsense.
“yo,” he said, voice low, a lazy drawl that was already fraying at the edges. “hey… hey you- you look… fuck, you look like— like somethin’ really fuckin’ hot. like, goddamn, don’t even—don’t even talk, just stand there, yeah?”
you looked at him, frowning slightly. his eyes were glassy, unfocused, but they held a sharp, almost wild intensity.
“cho… did you..? what did you take?” you asked carefully, voice low, hands resting lightly on the couch back. “you’re really high right now, aren’t you?”
he blinked slowly, shaking his head, hair falling into his face. “nah… nah, it’s… just… the whole place… it’s like—fuck, it’s like the world’s spinning.”
he ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting to you, then back toward the doorway where suguru had disappeared. “man, I swear, every time I look… he’s lookin’… like—fuck, like he’s owning somethin’ that’s mine. not yours, mine.”
you frowned, stepping closer. “cho… slow down. breathe. you’re not making sense.”
“sense? ha!” he laughed, sharp and hoarse. “fuck sense, you’re… you’re standin’ there, and I’m… I’m—shit, I’m like, all these fuckin’ feelings,” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at you, voice cracking a little with the intensity.
“cho,” you said softly, moving to grab his arm, trying to steady him. “look at me. what did you take?”
he shook his head violently, sitting down on the edge of the couch, hands tugging at his hoodie strings. “nah… nah, can’t… fuck, can’t tell. you'll be mad at me. but you… you’re like… god, you’re fuckin’ everywhere in my head.”
you bit your lip, exhaling through your nose, letting a faint groan of frustration escape. “hey… listen to me. you’re too high. you’re spiraling. it’s not healthy. come on… we’re going home.”
he blinked up at you, expression softening slightly, but the haze still clouded his gaze. “home?” he muttered, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. “fuck… home. yeah, yeah, you… you’re home.”
you knelt beside him, voice gentle but firm. “yeah. c’mon, we’re leaving, you're fucking soaring.”
he blinked at you, then laughed softly, a little shaky. “you… you’re fuckin’ bossy, y’know that? like… goddamn, bossy as hell… I fuckin' like it. I like it a lot.”
you shook your head, smirking despite yourself. “yeah, well, bossy is gonna save your ass tonight. now get up.” you extended a hand. he took it slowly, fingers brushing yours, gripping tightly for a moment.
as you led him through the crowd, you leaned slightly toward gojo, speaking over your shoulder. “hey, tell geto I’m leaving for the night. also tell him not to come over later.”
gojo’s grin faltered slightly, but he raised a hand in mock salute. “yeah, yeah. whatever.”
you didn’t answer, just kept walking, guiding choso toward the side door. the night air hit him like a splash, sharp and cold, clearing some of the fog from his mind. he shivered, pulling the hoodie tighter around himself, looking at you with wide, almost pleading eyes.
“fuck, it’s… it’s cold out here,” he muttered, voice rough. “but… yeah, fuck… you smell, like… everything good.”
you rolled your eyes, smiling, tugging gently on his arm. “c'mon, get in the car you big baby.”
he followed, shuffling along beside you, shoulders hunched, hands fumbling with the hem of his hoodie. he let you guide him into the passenger seat of his sleek black mercedes, heat and regret and longing pressing together as you let go of his arm.
“yo… you know,” he said suddenly, voice low and rough, “I… I like you. fuckin’… like… goddamn, like really, really… yeah.”
you glanced at him, surprised, hand resting lightly on his arm. “cho… you don't know what you're saying,” you said softly, voice steady. “now let’s just get you home before you do anything stupid.”
he grinned, shaky but wide, and leaned slightly into you as you guided him along the sidewalk. “yeah… yeah, okay… home… yeah… but fuck, I swear… I swear, I’m like… all my feelings… all of ‘em… you’re fuckin’… yeah, you’re it.”
you laughed softly, shaking your head. you were starting to get really anxious. he's ever like this, never so open, never so talkative. “you're high. i don't want to hear any more of this nonsense, okay?”
~
you open the door to your apartment with a slightly more sober choso trailing behind you. normally, it was warm here, soft, your little refuge from the chaos of the outside world. tonight it was cold, unfamiliar, as if every object, the counter, the fridge, the chipped mug in the sink, was holding its breath.
choso was already inside, leaning against the kitchen bench, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes.
normally, even high, he was lazy, drifting. tonight he was… heavier. darker. like every beat of his pulse carried some of the tension from the warehouse, every breath filled with something raw, sharp, desperate.
“cho?” your voice was soft, tentative, as you stepped closer. the door clicked shut behind you and the sound seemed louder than it should have been. he didn’t answer at first, just watched you, eyes glassy but unblinking, half-shadowed in the dim light.
then he moved. suddenly, decisively. one long step forward, and he was close enough that you felt the heat from him, smelled the faint mix of weed, sweat, and his cologne. before you could react, he caught your wrist and guided you toward the counter, pressing you lightly against it.
“hey,” he murmured, low, rough, voice shaking just slightly. “don’t… don’t move. just… just listen.”
you froze, pulse jumping. normally he was lazy, teasing, stoner-lazy. not like this—not intense, not… commanding in that way that made your lower stomach tighten.
“choso—” you started, but he silenced you with a sharp glance, his eyes flicking up to yours, desperate, pleading.
“i… i’ve been keeping something from you,” he said, voice tight. “something stupid. something i should’ve… fuck, should’ve told you about a long time ago.”
you swallowed, your heart picking up. “hmm?… what is it?”
he exhaled slowly, hands brushing against the edge of the counter near your hips, close but not overbearing, just there enough that you felt trapped in the tension he carried.
“it’s… it’s about… suguru,” he said, jaw tightening. his voice caught in his throat for a second, then he pushed through. “about all the… shit he’s said. about you, y/n.”
your stomach dropped. what the hell was he talking about? he was clearly fucked out of his mind, slurring his words as his jaw twitched. you wanted to put him to sleep, tell him to calm down, but he looked too controlling, like he'd explode if he didn't get this out.
“suguru, he… he talks about you like you’re nothing,” choso continued, hands tightening around the edge of the counter as if he needed the anchor. “like… like he’s the only one with a right to… to even fucking look at you. he… he laughed, y/n. we were at the studio, and... he said—he said such shitty things about you."
your breath caught as he leaned in closer. "l-like what?..."
"shit... he said that he likes you because you’re obedient, you're 'tight as hell', a good fuck, like you’re… like you’re just… I don’t even know, a thing for him to screw. and then—”
he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, dark eyes flicking to yours. “—then, tonight, while you were in the bathroom, doing your makeup, he went straight to his old fling, the girl he used to bang and brag about, just… just to… to prove something. he looked me dead in the eye. like he was… like he’s proud of it.”
you felt your throat tighten. your hands gripped the counter instinctively. “oh choso... i'm sorry you had to hear all of that… i—”
“no, no,” he cut you off, urgency flashing. “don’t you fucking start apologizing. don’t. you didn’t do anything. it’s all him. it’s… it’s just… i hate him. i fucking hate him, y/n.”
his voice was raw, breaking a little on the last word.
the smoke curling around him made him look sharper somehow, the dim light accentuating the edges of his face, the dark lines under his eyes. you’d never seen him like this. vulnerable, angry, but also… unflinchingly honest.
“choso... he's your band mate, i know what he did to me was shitty, but don't let that ruin your relationship with him... cmon…” your voice was quiet, unsure. you weren’t sure if you were supposed to comfort him or run. your chest hurt at the honesty in his voice.
“no. i don't care, y/n... and that’s not the worst part,” he said, leaning just a little closer, hands still on the counter, gaze locked on yours.
“the worst part is… i can’t—i can’t stop thinking about it. about him touching you, talking about you, laughing at the way he’s—fuck, i don’t even know. it makes me… it makes me feel like i’m losing my mind. like my chest is… i don’t know, ripping in two.”
your lips parted slightly, unsure what to say. his usual lazy, stoner-laden grin was gone. this was… desperate. needy. almost like he couldn’t stand not saying it out loud.
he was slurring his words, looking frantic.
“and i… i want to—” he paused, swallowed, voice rough, low. “i want to tell you… that i’d never… i’d never do that. not to you. not like him. not even close. you… you’re too good, too… i don’t… fuck. you’re not like that. and i… i like you, y/n.”
the words hit harder than you expected. you’d thought he was joking before, rambling high, maybe even teasing. but this… this was different. he was standing close, breathing uneven, heart thudding in his chest, eyes pleading, and you realised, he meant it.
“choso…” you whispered. you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, your chest tight. “you… you mean that?”
“yeah,” he said, a harsh exhale of smoke escaping his lips. “i mean it. i’ve liked you for so long, and i… fuck, i just… kept it buried. kept it lazy, kept it… i don’t know, hidden. i didn’t wanna make it weird, or fuck things up. but tonight… tonight i saw everything. you with him. and i couldn’t hold it anymore.”
he reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. his hand lingered, trembling slightly. “you're... you're really special to me, y’know? not like… possessive or some shit. just… like… i need you. i need you to know i don’t want anyone else doing what he did. talking about you like that. looking at you like that. not ever."
you bit your lip, heart racing, conflicted. the intensity of his confession, the anger at suguru, the neediness, it was… a lot.
you didn’t know how to feel. your body was leaning slightly into him, the pull of him against you magnetic, but your mind was spinning. suguru. choso. confusion and lust and relief all knotted together.
"why are you just telling me this now...?" you ask, shyly as he inches closer, grabbing your jaw and holding it loose.
"because i'm off my fucking face, y/n."
it was sudden, and you even giggled. because he was right. sober choso, stoned choso, he'd never been this open, never this vulnerable.
"... i don't know what to say, this is all so— fuck— it's so sudden. what am i supposed to do about suguru..." you ask, he closes his eyes and responds with his forehead pressed to yours.
"if i had it my way... you'd block his ass, never speak to the mother fucker again, and spend your nights wrapped up in my bed, instead of his. letting me take care of things, keeping you close so you'd know i was yours, asking you out like a proper fucking guy. not using you like some sort of pocket pussy."
that hit. because that's all you'd ever really wanted from someone. companionship, love, the kind of respect you just didn't feel from suguru no matter how many times you'd try make yourself think you did.
he finally let go of your face and stepped back, rubbing his hands down his own thighs like he needed the grounding. “c’mon,” he muttered, voice rough, low. “bed. i… i just wanna… be near you. just… lie down, okay?”
you nodded, still unsure, heart pounding, but the pull was magnetic. his bed was just down the hall, soft, slightly messy, with a blanket he probably hadn’t folded in days.
normally he was too stoner-lazy to care about anything resembling organization, but tonight the bed felt like a sanctuary. he moved ahead of you, swaying a little, still fumbling with his hoodie, and you followed, careful not to trip over the rug in the hallway.
once inside, he lowered himself onto the mattress with a groan that was half frustration, half relief. he patted the space beside him, a small, awkward gesture but charged with meaning. “get in here,” he said, voice soft now, almost pleading. “just… be here. with me.”
you perched at the edge for a moment, looking down at him. he looked vulnerable in the way you hadn’t seen before—high and open, yet completely raw. then, slowly, you slid in beside him.
he shifted slightly, making room, then wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. your head rested lightly against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the soft heat of his skin beneath your cheek.
“fuck… you feel good,” he murmured, voice thick and rough. “like… like everything i’ve been waiting for, all at once. i… i don’t want to move,"
you exhaled softly, heart hammering. “i’m here,” you whispered. “i won’t go anywhere.”
he pressed his face into your hair, a quiet groan escaping him, not sexual, not demanding, just… relief. he was holding onto you like no one's business, like proximity to you was the only thing keeping him tethered.
“i… i fucked up tonight,” he said, voice muffled against your hair. “i know… i was all over the place. off my face. but… you gotta know… i meant everything i said. every word. you’re the only one i want to be… like… close to. like this.”
you shifted a little, looking up at him. the sharp, high tension in his face had softened, replaced by a mixture of haze, exhaustion, and longing. “cho… i get it,” you murmured. “you don’t have to explain anymore. just… be here.”
you let yourself sink against him, chest pressed to his, but your mind was a storm. part of you was still sharp, aching with betrayal. the thought of suguru’s words, his casual cruelty, it stung, too fresh to be jumping into anything emotionally taxing as of now.
it left a sour taste, a tight knot in your stomach. you hated that you’d ever tried to make excuses for him, that you’d tried to convince yourself his calm exterior meant anything other than manipulation.
and yet, lying here with choso, pressed close to him, his warmth and his raw honesty wrapping around you, it felt like a shield. the tension, the anger, the hurt—they softened at the edges, dulled by the simple fact that he was here. that he wasn’t pretending. he wasn’t playing games. he didn’t want to own you—he just wanted you near, wanted to take care of you in the quietest, simplest way.
your chest warmed despite the lingering anger, the betrayal still gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. and yet, in this space, tangled together, pressed close in the dim glow of his bedroom, you could let yourself be content. content with the one person who’d always been honest with you, who’d finally shown you exactly how much he cared.
for now, that was all you needed.
~
the weeks had slipped past since you’d messaged geto to fuck off. you hadn’t spoken to him since that curt text, and honestly, it was quieter than you’d expected. no drama, no confrontations, just the dull ache of his absence.
the apartment felt calmer for it, too. you and choso hadn’t talked about that night, about the confession, the intensity, the things he’d admitted, but it hovered in the space between you like a low hum, unspoken but insistent.
and slowly, almost imperceptibly, a rhythm emerged. mornings were quiet, coffee mugs and peeling toast and sleepy smiles. afternoons slipped by on the couch, half-watching a show, half-dozing, your knees brushing against his.
evenings smelled like takeout and weed, music humming in the background as he sprawled lazily on the carpet, drumsticks idly tapping against his legs.
there were moments where it almost tipped, where the electricity between you made your fingers tremble and your stomach twist. a brush of hands in the kitchen, a shared laugh over something dumb on your phone, and for a heartbeat it felt like you could collapse into each other right then and there.
but choso was careful. patient. giving you space to breathe, letting the sting of geto fade, even as his gaze lingered longer than it probably should. he still wanted you close, but he held himself back, letting you set the pace. only on your own terms would he get close, letting you slip into his bed when you got lonely, letting him rub your back when things got stressful. the little things.
the band had its own tension.
practices had become sharper, more pointed, the edges of old frustrations showing. suguru’s sulking was more obvious these days, jaw tight, fingers always on his guitar strings like he was ready to snap at any moment.
he hadn’t forgiven you, or himself, for the way you’d just ended things. toji sighed more than usual, muttering about drama infecting the rhythm of the band.
gojo, predictably, had made it his life’s mission to tease both suguru and choso mercilessly. apparently, choso had spilled every detail from that night to him, and gojo’s sharp, smug grin had never left since.
“yo, cho,” gojo called during a rehearsal break, plopping onto the bass amp with a lazy flop. “have you swooped her up yet? any new updates on your little scheme to make her your play thing?"
choso’s eyes flicked up from the drumkit, one stick lazily twirling in his fingers. “shut the fuck up, gojo. that's not what i'm doing,” he said, voice flat but amused, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
he was back to his usual rhythm now. easy, teasing, present, but the underlying tension in the studio hung there anyway, like the air before a storm.
suguru scowled from the corner, tuning his guitar obsessively. “idiots,” he muttered, voice sharp. “both of you.”
toji snorted. “cho’s chillin’, you're the only one sulkin' man.”
the drums hit again, slow and steady, choso’s stick tapping a rhythm into the carpeted floor.
back at the apartment, it was quieter. the city hummed outside the windows while you and choso settled into something gentle, unspoken, almost tender.
one night, he was sprawled on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, knees bent, and you were perched at the edge, flipping through a magazine. your hands brushed, his fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary as he gazed into your eyes like a man starved, the pull was undeniable.
“choso… we shouldn't just…ignore it.” you started, heart hammering.
he cut you off with a soft hum, eyes still hidden beneath the hood. “i know. but i’m… i’m trying… letting you breathe. letting you… heal first.”
your chest tightened. “it’s… it’s still weird. still raw. geto… he—”
“fuck geto,” he interrupted softly, voice low but firm. “he’s out. he’s done. i’m… here. for you. not asking for more than you can give.”
and that was enough. the rest of the night passed in quiet, soft laughter over dumb shows, slow music, the faint drumbeat from his sticks echoing against the walls.
no confessions, no admissions, just presence and the weight of his calm, steady warmth.
practices were intense now. the band had a gig coming up, the biggest they’d ever do. every session was longer, every riff tighter, every cymbal crash deliberate.
choso’s drumming drove the rhythm, his usual lazy charisma replaced by a quiet focus, punctuated by moments of laziness where he’d just lean into the kick drum and let the beat flow through him.
and through it all, you were there with choso. kitchen chats between sessions, lounging on the couch while he absentmindedly tapped his sticks on your coffee table, brushing against your knees when you passed by.
the apartment was your sanctuary and your battlefield, tension and warmth coexisting, your bodies close but boundaries carefully observed as you'd talk about everything.
"so, will i see you at the gig?"
"duh. i'll be front row screaming your name."
god, he wishes you would scream his.
~
the venue pulsed with energy. bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and anticipation.
you could feel the bass thumping through the soles of your boots before the band even came on. a low chant started somewhere in the crowd—ex-or-cize, ex-or-cize, ex-or-cize—and spread fast, a heartbeat made of strangers.
you were front and center, caught in the current of people, hands gripping the barricade. your chest was tight, a knot of nerves and excitement wound together. this was their biggest gig yet—bigger venue, bigger crowd, the kind of show that could push them up a tier.
the lights went low. a hush fell. and then gojo’s voice hit the mic, clear and cocky, dripping with that smug grin you knew even without seeing it.
“alright, alright, you sexy motherfuckers,” he drawled, drawing out every syllable. “we’re exorcize, and we came to make your night filthy.”
the crowd erupted. lights flashed red, then white, smoke rolling over the stage. suguru stepped up first, guitar slung low, hair slicked back, jaw set tight.
toji followed, head down, fingers flexing around the neck of his bass.
choso came last, sliding onto the stool behind his drumkit, sticks already spinning between his fingers. the moment he sat, everything in the room seemed to lock into rhythm.
you couldn’t take your eyes off him.
the set kicked off hard; gojo’s voice raw and teasing, suguru’s guitar slicing through the noise, toji’s bass thick and grounding. but choso… god, choso was something else entirely.
his body moved with the rhythm like he was the rhythm. sweat already glistened at his temples, hair falling into his eyes as he leaned into each beat. his arms flexed with every strike, the muscles shifting beneath the fabric of his tee, drumsticks flashing in the lights.
it was hypnotic. enticing. you felt it low in your stomach, that steady pulse syncing with his.
geto was there, of course. you’d spotted him near the sound booth, head low, arms crossed, pretending he didn’t care. the sight of him twisted something sharp in you at first, but it faded fast, burned away by the heat rising from the stage.
because when choso hit that first solo, nothing else mattered. not the press of bodies, not the alcohol hiring your tounge, and definitely not suguru geto.
he tilted his head back slightly, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as his hands blurred.
you’d seen him play before, countless times —but this was different. this was him, stripped down, alive. raw talent and rhythm and restraint all breaking loose in front of a crowd that screamed his name.
and you were screaming it too.
every cymbal crash sent a jolt through you. every roll of his shoulders, every flick of his wrist made your breath hitch. your fingers gripped the barricade harder as heat coiled low in your belly. you couldn’t stop watching him. didn’t want to.
gojo grinned into the mic between songs, sweat dripping down his jaw. “give it up for the best damn drummer in tokyo—my guy choso!”
the crowd roared, and you swore you saw choso’s mouth twitch into the faintest, shyest grin. his gaze swept across the crowd for a fleeting second, and when it landed on you, your stomach dropped. he saw you. he felt you.
the rest of the set blurred together, grinding guitars, crashing percussion, gojo’s voice splitting the air like lightning. when they closed out with exile mind, their heaviest song, the crowd went feral.
choso drove the final beat like he was trying to break through the floor, and when the last note hit, he threw his sticks high into the crowd. one disappeared into the sea of hands; the other bounced off the barricade and landed right in front of you.
you picked it up, clutching it tight.
the lights faded. the crowd’s roar slowly dissolved into chatter and laughter, the sound of the night spilling back into the open air. the band vanished backstage, swallowed by cables.
you slipped through the press of bodies, heart still pounding, the drumstick warm in your hand. a couple of drinks from the merch table had loosened your nerves, and you could feel a confident heat rolling low in your belly, pressing against the restraint you’d been holding onto all night.
when you found him outside—behind the venue, near the alley where the smoke from the back door curled upward—he was leaning against the wall, hoodie half-zipped, head tipped back, still catching his breath.
“you were…” your voice caught, breath slightly slurred and warm from the drinks, “holy shit, choso, you were incredible.”
his lips quirked, soft and tired. “yeah?”
“yeah.” you stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face, deliberately letting your hand linger a second longer on his chest. “i couldn’t look away. like… i don’t even have words. you sounded—” you lowered your voice, letting the warmth of the drinks give you boldness, “you sounded so good. so fucking good.”
his gaze flicked to yours, something dark and quiet sparking in it. the pull between you was immediate, electric, and you let your fingers brush his hoodie again, teasing, deliberate.
“you think so?” he asked softly, voice rougher, more ragged than usual.
you nodded, stepping closer until your body nearly pressed against his. “yeah. you made me feel it. every beat.” your lips curved into a half-smile, half-grin, letting the alcohol fuel a boldness you usually didn’t give yourself.
after weeks of pretending like there was nothing going on between you, this was definitely the breaking point.
"i couldn’t stop thinking about you, how i'm so lucky to have such a talented friend.”
he swallowed, shoulders rising, that lazy grin cracking just slightly as he stepped a fraction closer.
for a second, the air felt so thick you could barely breathe.
the back door swung open then, and gojo’s voice cut through the air.
“yo, you two!” he shouted, grinning under the streetlights. “afterparty at mine. everyone’s invited. you better show up, cho—you owe me a joint and a round of beer for that call out, man.”
choso didn’t even glance back. his gaze stayed on you, dark and intense.
you tilted your head, voice soft but teasing, letting the boldness roll over your words. “maybe skip it,” you said, hand still lightly resting against his chest. “the last afterparty didn’t go so well for you, remember?”
his laugh was low, slightly hungry, genuine. “yeah,” he murmured. “fair point.”
“come home,” you said, your body brushing against his side as you spoke, fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of his hoodie. “come home. with me.”
he hesitated a heartbeat, then exhaled, eyes softening, a slow smile tugging at his lips.
“yeah. home sounds really good.”
.
as soon as the door clicked shut, the air between you ignited. his hand found the small of your back before you could even react, pulling you flush against him. your body pressed to his chest, heart hammering, pulse racing, every nerve alight with anticipation.
“fuck,” he breathed, forehead leaning to yours, voice low and rough, vibrating in your chest. “i can't take this anymore. i can't keep ignoring this.”
you swallowed, breath hitching, hands braced against his shoulders. “cho—”
he cut you off with a growl, lips brushing against your jaw as his hands slid down to grip your hips firmly, anchoring you to him. “no. fuck that. i mean it. i… i’ve been holding back everything. every word, every look, every feeling.”
your stomach fluttered, heat pooling between your thighs, and you couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down your spine. he tilted your chin up, eyes dark, heavy with desire and something softer, something raw and unguarded. “i can’t… can’t stand it anymore, y/n. that night, everything i said… everything i’ve wanted… i need you so badly.”
“choso…” your voice was breathless, half warning, half pleading, but your body betrayed you, leaning in closer, the tension unbearable.
he laughed, low, rough, almost a growl. “jesus, look at you. you're so fucking beautiful… i want you all to myself, all of the time. i don't know how i control myself most of the time, y/n.” his hands roamed lower, teasing the curve of your waist, thumbs brushing against the soft line of your hips.
“i need you. i’ve wanted you… every lazy, fucking long day i’ve spent here in your vicinity, it's like i can't breathe properly without you.”
your chest tightened, mind spinning, everything he’d said that night pooling back into focus—his confession, the anger at suguru, the raw truth. you’d thought it was a high, a ramble, but now… seeing him, feeling him, you knew it was real.
“ i—” you started, voice trembling, then cut yourself off as he leaned in, pressing his mouth to yours.
the kiss hit first soft, lips delicately meeting for the first time, then it grew demanding. a low growl vibrating from his chest, hands gripping your hips tighter, rolling you against him like it was the only natural motion in the universe.
you gasped, fingers tangling in the back of his hoodie, pulling him closer, feeling the press of his hardness against you, the undeniable weight of him. your body arched instinctively, pressed to his, heart hammering, chest rising and falling in sync.
“tell me,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough, low. “tell me you want me… all of this… me.”
your eyes fluttered open, heart in your throat, and you met his gaze. you looked him up and down and pulled him in tight, letting your lips do the talking.
"does that answer your question?"
he groaned, a sharp, feral sound that made your stomach clench, and pressed harder, pinning you against the door like it was his god-given right. “good,” he breathed, tilting his head as his lips sought yours again, slower now, tasting, teasing, claiming. “i need to… i need to ask, too.”
“ask?” you whispered, breathless.
he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing along your jaw. “be… mine, y/n. completely. no games, no half-assed shit. i want you. all of you.”
your chest tightened, eyes swimming with heat, desire, and relief. “yes,” you breathed, voice trembling, letting everything spill out.
that was all he needed. his grin cracked wide, teeth grazing your lips, and he dove back into your mouth, hands wandering over every inch he could reach, lips and tongue claiming, teeth grazing just enough to draw gasps from you.
you pressed into him, hands clawing at his back, hips grinding, the friction of his body against yours setting you alight. each kiss was sharper, heavier, demanding, full of need and want and something that had been simmering for years.
he backed you into the hallway, every step making the tension coil tighter, until finally he spun you gently, but with no less force, toward the bedroom. the air was thick, your breaths ragged, hands clutching at each other’s clothing, trying to close the distance you both had held back for too long.
“god, you’re perfect,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and you shivered violently. “i’ve needed this… wanted you… for so long.”
you couldn’t hold back anymore. “me too, cho. so badly.”
he groaned, a deep, rough sound vibrating through your chest, hands gripping your hips and pulling you closer as you crossed the threshold into the bedroom. the door shut behind you with a definitive click, muffling the city outside, leaving only the sound of your hearts, your breaths, and the magnetic pull between your bodies.
and then… he kissed you again, slow and searing, full of hunger and want and heat, pressing you onto the bed as your legs tangled together, bodies seeking, finding, consuming.
he’s all teeth and tongue, biting, sucking, nipping at your neck, shoulder, jaw, dragging low, urgent groans from deep in his chest that make you ache and melt at the same time.
your nails rake down his back, pulling him closer, and he leans in, grinding, pressing, heat and hunger radiating from him in waves that make your knees weak.
“fuck, choso—” you gasp, but he swats your hands away gently, lips still devouring yours, teeth grazing, tongue probing, tugging, tasting.
every touch, every snap of his hips as he grinds his clothed cock against you, makes your clit pulse with anticipation.
his fingers slip under your shirt, pressing and pinching at your hardened nipples, trailing down your sides slowly, dragging heat across your skin.
your hands clutch at him, tugging his hoodie off of his body, anything to get more of him, more contact, more friction. he responds with a low, guttural growl, teeth sinking into your shoulder, hips snapping hard, testing, teasing, driving you insane with want as he tears off his shirt.
you catch a glimpse of the body you'd see on the daily, a perfect chiseled masterpiece, only this time, it was all yours.
he doesn’t just kiss you, he devours you. hands roaming over your pretty body, he slips your skirt off next, and slides his big, veiny hand down, down, until the thick pads of his fingers tease and prod at your wet bundle of nerves. you hiss in reply.
"fuck! choso— that feels— so good!"
he smirks at your confession and slowly pushes his thick digits inside, scissoring them back and forth, driving you up the wall as you let out pretty, breathless moans.
"ch-choso!"
his mouth drifts lower, teasing the swell of your breasts, biting just enough to make you arch and cry out.
after working you open, he kisses your lips tenderly before pulling down his pants and underwear in one swift motion. his rock hard cock springs free, and, wow. just wow.
"th-that's not gonna fit..."
"we'll make it fit, baby."
and fit it did. he slowly pushed his fat tip past your puffy lips, whispering reassuring praise as you squeezed your eyes shut from the streeeetch.
"aww— you can do it, ma. you're doing so good for me. that's it, just keep breathing baby."
his hips jerked forward, letting the last few inches fully stretch you out, earning a porn star worthy moan rip from your throat.
"holy fuck— holly shit! choso, you're so big!"
he groaned in satisfaction, your cunt swallowing him whole as he slapped his hips back and forth over and over again, cursing and moaning deeply into your ear.
his pace turns brutal, like all of his emotions were being poured into fucking you nice and deep, the way you deserved.
he dips his face down impossibly close to your face to capture your quivering lips in a kiss. he smirks against your skin, letting lewd comments tumble out of his smirking lips.
"you moan so prettily for me baby— shit— nothing— hah— gets me harder than hearing you whine like a slut while i fuck you fast."
you arch, grinding against him without thinking, letting the friction and his raw heat take over, body trembling beneath him. he groans into your neck, claws digging into your thighs, holding you open, guiding, punishing, claiming.
he’s insatiable. every roll of his hips, every snap, every deep press of him against you makes your body combust, trembling, gasping, aching for more. your moans, ragged and loud, fuel him, and he leans in, tongue and teeth and lips all at once, relentless, like he’s trying to imprint himself into your skin.
you can’t think. can’t breathe. can’t do anything but ride the fire, hips rolling into him, chest pressing into his, skin slick and shivering. he drives you higher, deeper, grinding with unrelenting intensity, low growls vibrating through his chest, vibrating through you.
"fuck! baby— gonna cum— gonna fill y' up, shit!"
you locked your legs around his torso as his thrusts become more and more feverish, the sheer pace making your face squeeze tight in ecstasy.
he's breathing heavy, holding your hips against him so hard you're sure his hands will leave bruises, your cunt being relentlessly pounded as he finally lets go.
"fuck— y/n! fuck i love you, i love you so much!"
you gasp at his words and blurt out a response like it was muscle memory, like it was the most perfect irrevocable truth.
"i love you too, choso— hah!—,"
when he finally drives the both of you over the edge, it’s explosive. he pants and collapses immediately, groaning into your chest as he caresses your hair, speaking soft praise into your ear.
"god, that was so good. you did so well f'me... holy shit, y/n. you're so perfect, so good... you took me like a fucking champ."
you were too busy coming down to fully comprehend, but you cradled his head against your chest all the same.
he doesn’t pull away. just holds you, chest pressed to yours, lips brushing your forehead, arms tight around you, skin slick and sticky, breaths mingling, pulse still wild. the tension hasn’t left, it’s just simmering now, a coiled heat between you two that promises this is only the beginning.
you’re still gasping, shivering, trembling in the aftermath, but it’s… thrilling, dark, messy, and perfect. he leans down, brushing his lips over yours once more, teeth grazing, murmuring something low and rough that makes your stomach knot again.
"i love you, y/n. you're mine. i don't fuck and dip, this is a forever thing now, okay? i promise, i'm never letting you get away from me."
the world outside is gone. it’s just the two of you, tangled, fevered, and utterly, terrifyingly alive.
you reply through breathless speech, looking deep into his beautiful, tired eyes.
"i know, cho. and that's all i've ever really needed."
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