You are both the most diligent worker at Sakamoto's Store and the most hypersexual person that Shin knows. Overhearing your thoughts and accidentally seeing your fantasies routinely leads to profound psychic damage for him, as well as the most poorly timed boners in the world.
All of this only gets worse when the two of you start hooking up.
6k words. comedy, smut. all the sex scenes are vanilla; however, the reader constantly reads and thinks about horny fanfiction tropes including: free use, omegaverse, and breeding. these are all mentioned but not discussed in detail. warning: the reader has a warped/unhealthy relationship with her sexuality, this fic is about shin fixing her with his stroke game lol. credits to @/cafekitsune for the dividers and @hansolen for the fic brainrot <3
You are the worst coworker that Shin has ever had.
This is saying a lot, given that he's worked with countless two-bit assassins who could barely a handle a gun (no one he worked with in his late teenage years could hold a candle to Mr. Sakamoto, truly), as well as Lu, who can barely orient herself within the store. You are, in contrast, brutally efficient with your work, incredible with the customers, and very cooperative with Shin. You even know how to handle a gun, and you do it with such pinpoint precision that it's always nonlethal despite being brutally debilitating. (Your skill level does hold a candle to Mr. Sakamoto in this respect, and Shin wonders if his boss has given you some kind of private training—a thought that fills him with such jealousy that it makes him want to chew on the sale stickers in his hands.) There's just one problem.
You are probably the horniest person alive, and Shin is about to lose his fucking mind listening to your thoughts.
Now, Shin is used to hearing the unfiltered stream of consciousness of the average human being. This naturally includes carnal desires here and there. He’s desensitized to most people’s erotic fantasies about their favourite gravure idol, memories of their last sexual encounter, intrusive thoughts about their friends, et cetera. He habitually tunes it out. But whereas a regular person might have these thoughts once or twice a day, you seem to have them once or twice an hour. And none of your thoughts are ever brief or underdeveloped. They usually last at least ten minutes each, with detailed internal monologuing and accompanying 8K UltraHD visuals, and you really only ever stop when you're trying to remember a code at the till or doing some quick mental math with the accounts.
Needless to say, Shin tries to keep you at the register as much as possible.
You used to tell yourself (in your head) that your mental fixation on sex was a natural consequence of your dry spell. After quitting the assassin life, you'd been celibate for the first time in at least a decade, forced to attain sexual gratification with nothing but masterfully written fanfiction and your vast collection of vibrators. (Your favourite one is hot pink, seven inches, rabbit eared. You sometimes have trouble getting it to fit, but it’s worth it for the way you cum when you do, and this knowledge makes Shin want to die.) You were convinced that getting laid would bring you enough relief to stop thinking about sex every hour of the day. You had thought that you'd go back to “normal” after that, though Shin doesn't know what “normal” entails for you. (One free-use fantasy a day instead of twelve? Daydreams strictly featuring humans rather than tentacle monsters? It's hard to say.)
Regardless, Shin had to agree: surely, there would be a limit to your sex-obsessed thoughts. It made a lot of sense that you were simply frustrated and in need of an outlet. Naturally, after sleeping with you, he'd expected your thoughts to quiet down.
(Yes—Shin slept with you. It was an accident, through and through, and he routinely feels bad about it. He'd been meaning to ask you out, treat you to dinner, maybe even get you flowers depending on the vibe. The type of thing that Mr. Sakamoto did for Aoi, when they first started dating. If everything went well, then you two could consider getting intimate. His interest in you has nothing to do with sex, after all—no, not even the fact that you've had explicit fantasies about deepthroating him while he works the cash. He'd die if you ever tried that, actually.
The plan was always to take things slow and maybe even start a relationship if the two of you really hit it off. He'd even asked Mr. Sakamoto for advice on what a civilian romance should look like! But then Shin walked you back to your apartment one night when you were feeling down, and you invited him upstairs, and one thing led to another, and, well… it turns out that you aren't the type of person to take things slow. Or think about relationships. Shin’s never overheard any thoughts from you about actually dating him, come to think of it. And no, before you ask—that doesn't bother him. Not at all. Not one bit.)
To both his surprise and yours, getting laid somehow had the opposite effect on you. Rather than being calmed, you're somehow even hornier—and now all your horny thoughts are about Shin.
It's nonstop. Shin can't believe it. Whereas you used to think about all sorts of people in your sexual fantasies (mostly your fanfiction men, but also some BL characters, occasionally Keanu Reeves, and very often that Nagumo guy), you now think solely of Shin. You're thinking about him right now, pausing as you finish restocking the onigiri.
Shin can hear every single thought from across the room, the way you feel the edges of your sanity fraying with the memory of his touch. The whole day, you've been remembering how it felt to have your pussy stretched around his cock, how it felt to have his hands on your curves, how he seemed to know exactly how to touch your body to make you keen. (Shin admits he cheated; a little ESP goes a long way in bed.) You soaked the sheets when you finally came, and he kissed you relentlessly through your orgasm. It made you so horny that you had to immediately go another round.
No other man’s ever made you cum like that, you keep thinking. You've fucked more people than you can count, but not a single person has ever felt so good inside you. The realisation is driving you crazy, and Shin feels like he's about to go crazy with you. In the absence of a cold shower, he wants to shove himself into the freezer right now. There's no other way to get rid of his raging boner.
How did it feel so fucking good?! you keep thinking, oblivious to his struggles. I need his cock inside me again. I need him to hit it raw this time. I need him to bend me over the counter and cum in my pussy right now—
It makes him want to die, listening to your thoughts. It also confuses him, somewhat: he isn't that experienced, and objectively he’s a little clumsy in bed. His performance is probably mid in the grand scheme of things, which makes him wonder why you feel like his dick is heaven-sent.
But more than anything, Shin wonders if you ever think about anything other than his dick. Sex isn't the only thing the two of you have done together. The first time you hooked up, he'd spent the night at your place. You clung to him in his sleep and you drooled on his chest and he thought it was kinda funny. He was careful not to wake you as he wiped your chin. You’d cooked him breakfast by the time he'd woken up: homemade miso, fresh rice, tamagoyaki. He made you burnt coffee after. You gave him a goodbye kiss, which somehow turned into a goodbye blowjob, which then escalated into wasting the day together in bed. You were really cuddly the whole time, and Shin could hear you think, how weird, I hate it when people hold me, and I hate it when people kiss me, but you liked it from Shin. You liked it so much that your pussy started dripping, and then what else could you do but suck him off again? (He returned the favour, of course.)
There was a lot more than just fucking, but you never think about any of that other stuff. You only ever think about his stroke game.
Not that that bothers Shin. Not at all. Not one bit.
By noon, he reaches his limit.
Shin considers himself a responsible guy and dedicated employee. He'd ordinarily never want to take off in the middle of the day to fool around with you—or anyone else—but it's his lunch break, and he has to get you to stop fantasizing. His dick is so hard that it's painful, and even with the apron it's getting tricky to cover up. As soon as the clock hits 12, he's throwing it off and making a beeline for you.
“We need to talk,” he says, grabbing you by the hand, and the face you make is so giddy that he can't help but sigh. You’re practically beaming as you take off your apron and say bye to Lu. We’ll be back in 30! you tell her in a sing-song voice, because you’re a very conscientious worker even when outrageously horny.
“You heard my thoughts?” you ask as the two of you climb the stairs to his room, and he snorts.
“How couldn't I?” He gives you a miserable look, cheeks flushing. “Were you doing that on purpose the whole morning?”
“No.” He raises a brow. “I'm serious—I wasn't trying to cause any trouble for you! It's just…” You bite your lip, and it takes all of Shin’s self-control to stop himself from staring at its glossy sheen. “I really just need to be touched again.”
“I don't believe you,” he says as he pulls you into his room.
“You're an esper! You should know I'm telling the truth!”
“I also know you like to torture me with your thoughts.”
“Well, yeah…” You smile at him, sheepish. “But I really just need a bit of relief. Want me to prove it to you?”
There's a sudden glint in your eye that makes Shin nervous, out of his depth. Sometimes he gets the feeling that you want to eat him alive, and he never knows how to handle it. He’s never gotten this level of attention before, and never in his wildest dreams did he think he'd get it from someone like you.
(Yeah—you're way out of Shin's league. For all his plans of a civilian romance, he wasn’t sure if he could actually score a date with you. He still isn't sure if he can score one. He's also not sure he’ll survive this encounter.)
He swallows. “Prove it…?”
“Uh huh.” You look so pretty right now, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Let me show you.”
You read too much hentai. Shin knows this firsthand (you read a lot of it on the clock, and all the images get blasted right into his prefrontal cortex), but he can also tell from how you act. It’s just way too fucking outrageous when you spread your legs for him, pulling up your skirt, and he's greeted not by the sight of your panties (you wore a lacy pair to work and kept bending over in hopes of flashing him—you had not been shy at all in this thought), but your bare, glistening cunt.
No fucking way.
“You’ve been working like that?!” he blurts out, mildly horrified even though his dick is jumping at the sight of you. You laugh, and you conjure up your panties from somewhere. They dangle from your fingertips, sheer and drenched.
“Took them off as we came up here. They're useless now anyway, see”—they’ve been soaked through for hours, and my thighs are all sticky—“and besides… I wanted to give you easy access.”
He thinks he's going to pass out.
“Easy access,” he repeats stiffly, bright red.
“Uh huh. Wanted to be efficient—we only have, what, twenty minutes?” Before he can even react, you're already turning around, bending over for him, ass up. From this angle, he can see just how wet you are—and how you're clenching around nothing, your cunt empty and needing to be filled. You glance over your shoulder, give him a teasing smile. “What are you waiting for?”
It’s a wonder that Shin doesn't cum on the spot, really. Like he said—he isn't an experienced guy. He's never slept with anyone so forward, or so—well. Smoking hot, for lack of better word. Half of him has a mind to just stand there and say that he can't believe you, and half of him has a mind to fuck you like you've been hoping all morning. Thankfully, this latter half of him wins out—probably for the better. If he helps you work this out of your system, you'll probably stop assaulting his mind with all your horny thoughts and his dick can exist in peace for the rest of the afternoon. Right?
Right?
(He ends up being extremely wrong.)
By the time he's pulled down his pants, put a condom on, and started pushing inside you, the two of you have seventeen minutes left. He worries briefly that it won't be enough time to get you to cum (nor him, though that isn't his goal currently), but it turns out to be a non-issue. Your pussy swallows his cock easily, stretching around him so perfectly that he nearly chokes. He always hears you talking about how sex with him feels leagues better than with any other person, but he’s not sure if you know that the same is true for him. No one's ever felt as good as you, and it takes every ounce of willpower in him not to cum immediately.
You're already close to the edge, too. Probably pent up from squeezing your thighs together all morning and thinking about his touch. You moan in a way that is obscene, like something out of an AV—but Shin knows that it isn't a performance. He can feel your body and hear your thoughts, all the genuine bliss you get from being filled up. When he starts moving, it's with intent. He fucks you like you’ve been fantasising all day, all week—with a relentless pace, focused on giving you nothing but pleasure. You tighten around him like you were made for him, and—
—apparently you feel like you're being used? Like a hole? The fuck! Shin almost stops mid-stroke to balk at you—he wouldn't do that to you!—but then you moan and he feels you getting wetter at the thought, and then he has no choice but to keep going. He's not about to kill your high.
Nine minutes left. Your clit is throbbing, neglected, and as soon as you think about touching yourself, Shin’s fingers are circling it instead and making you keen. He hits the spot inside you that has your eyes rolling back and your spine arching beautifully, and you can’t speak with your mouth, but he hears you anyway: the begging, the neediness, right there right there you're doing so good Shin you feel so good don't stop don't stop don't, don't—
“Oh fuck,” you whimper, pressing your face into the sheets, and then Shin feels you pulsing around him, drenching him. He gets dragged over the edge with you, gasping sharply as he finds his own release. You collapse as he twitches inside you, spilling himself inside the condom, and he almost snorts when he hears you thinking, wish you were cumming in my pussy instead. Do it raw next time, okay?
“You know we have to use a condom,” he says between pants.
“But I'm on birth control! Read my mind—you know I'm telling the truth!”
“And I also know that birth control is only 93% effective,” he says, rolling his eyes. He glances at the clock. “C'mon—we only have five minutes until our lunch break ends.”
It feels a little weird, rushing you. He’s never had a quickie before, but he understands that you can't exactly take your time with cleaning up afterwards. Still, he thinks about what it was like the last time the two of you did this—how slow and soft it was after, how he stayed inside you for a bit, how he kissed you long and cleaned you up carefully. It just felt like the right thing to do after sleeping with someone, especially given that that someone was you. He'd much prefer to do that right now.
But you are both punctual workers, and anyway Shin’s heard enough of your idle thoughts to know that you’re fairly apathetic to aftercare—you never expect it, and you’re never particularly sad when you don't get it. Sometimes you even fantasize about being used roughly and then discarded (a thought that he finds so unpleasant that it instantly kills his boner every time).
So it's probably fine to rush back downstairs, he figures. He throws you some wipes, lets you clean yourself up. You do it without complaint. You're not upset. He can even hear your mind humming with satisfaction, coming down from the highs of sensory pleasure.
Which is why he's confused when he hears you think, Huh. That didn't feel as good as I thought it would.
It's not like it felt bad.
This is what Shin hears all afternoon: You had a good time. You generally like being treated like a hole. You hadn't thought that Shin would have it in him to do that (neither did he, he admits), but it was kind of thrilling that he did. You want him to do it again for sure. He hit your g-spot with the kind of precision that only an esper can manage, and your vision nearly went white as you found your climax.
And that's what matters, right? You came. You had an orgasm. The little death. The ultimate goal of sex. You used to have a hard time with it, but after so many missions your body started to enjoy sex and now you cum very easily. And you came very easily with Shin, so that means you must enjoy having sex with him too, right?
But it was better the first time you had sex. Objectively better. You came way harder. You even squirted during your second round with him! Your orgasm was so intense that you felt blissed out for the rest of the night, and even the morning after. When you woke up and realised that Shin was not only still there, but also holding you, it made you so horny that you nearly woke him up with a blowjob. It was only with great self-control that you woke him up with breakfast instead.
You don’t feel like that right now, though. You don't feel horny and you don't feel like cooking and the euphoria of your orgasm melted away a while ago. You just feel sort of… empty.
You don't feel bad, though. It's a beautiful day. The char siu bao in your hand is incredibly fragrant. Piisuke is on your shoulder and chirping in your ear. Shin looks really handsome in his apron—did you know that, Shin? you ask him in your mind—and he goes bright red at this thought and looks away. You don't feel bad, you mentally reassure him. You just don't feel as good as you thought you would.
But Shin does feel bad. He feels miserable, actually. He's not a very experienced guy, but even he can tell that you’re the type of person who needs to be held after having sex. It seems like you probably don't realise it, but it's clear as day to Shin, and for the rest of the afternoon he hates himself for not having done it. It wouldn’t have had to be for very long.
Lu could have covered for an extra fifteen minutes, he keeps thinking. Fuck!
Eventually, you ask him to come over in the evening, and he scrambles to agree, desperate for a do-over.
Shin’s not really good at this hook-up business.
Now—he isn't exactly good at relationships either, but he feels exceptionally awkward about coming over to your place with the express purpose of having sex. He isn't familiar with dick appointment etiquette, especially not appointments involving a friend. Was he meant to bring a gift? A Netflix movie recommendation? It would have felt wrong to show up completely empty-handed, so he ends up bringing your favourite snacks and two bottles of Pocari Sweat. If this is anything like the first time he stayed over, you'll probably both need it.
You're delighted by the snacks and amused by the drinks. He wrestles with himself over what kind of small-talk to make—there’s a PS5 out right now, and your TV screen is paused on Leon Kennedy’s face, so maybe he can start a conversation about the horror genre? He watches a lot of films—but you're dragging him into your room before he can overthink it.
“I missed you,” you say, voice all sweet with affection as you straddle his lap.
“It's been two hours,” he points out, somehow managing not to stammer.
“Eight hours since we fucked.”
“That's not very long at all.”
“Felt like forever to me.” Your whisper is so tender in his ear, incongruent with the absolute filth you're thinking about right now. You need his cock so, so bad—you’d have it inside you 24/7 if you could have it your way, though he's also free to help himself to your body at any hour of the day. Sure, he can't smoke on the premises, but there's no rule against hiking up your skirt and pushing your panties to the side so he can—
“I wouldn't do that in the store!” he squawks, and you giggle.
“Then you should start taking me up to your room more often.”
Shin would be more than happy to host you, actually. He’s been thinking lately about having you over for dinner—Aoi’s been teaching him how to cook—and getting to know you better, in a non-Biblical way. But Shin knows that's not what you mean. You want him to carry you upstairs without asking and to throw you onto his bed and to fuck you into the mattress. You want to go back to your shift without your panties, his cum dripping out of your pussy and sliding down your—
“You really want me to finish inside you,” Shin remarks, bewildered at your sheer obsession over it, and you tilt your head.
“Don't you?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean—we shouldn't. It's, uh. Risky. I don't want to get you, y'know… pregnant…” His dick twitches in a way that makes him grateful that you don't have ESP. He's realising something about himself that he absolutely cannot think about, and which you would absolutely exploit if you figured out. He clears his throat, hoping he looks normal. “Like. You know. It's better to be on the safe side.”
You study him carefully. “I dunno, Shin.” You smile knowingly. “I don't think I'd mind it if you wanted to breed me.”
Shin is going to die.
The next twenty minutes pass in a horny blur. The two of you spend it all over each other, his cock sliding along your opening—dangerously close to pushing in. You beg him for just the tip, both verbally and mentally—pleaaase Shin please please please it'd be so easy, I'm still stretched out from before, you know it'd feel good—and he's watched enough adult films to know that this is a blatant trap. He somehow pulls away, and immediately feels bad at the crushed expression you make, so he decides he has no choice but to make it up to you by putting his head between your thighs. Within minutes he’s sucking on your clit and making you keen, his fingers curling inside you. He knows your orgasm is intense both from the way you gush all over his face and how your mind goes pleasantly, blissfully quiet for a moment.
It doesn't stay quiet for long.
The most debauched image possible comes to his mind—you, underneath him, your legs folded into a mating press as you take his cock. He’s giving you another load, pumping you full. It's filling up your womb, and you'll definitely get pregna—
“You’re fucking evil,” he groans. “And you read way too much hentai. Those visuals were so goofy.”
You laugh, unbothered. “Sorry, I'll adjust them for realism next time.”
“Please don't,” he begs, even though he knows he's going to spend the next week being mentally assaulted by your breeding kink fantasies. He just hopes they stay relatively normal and don't devolve into the weird omegaverse stuff. Or the monsterfucking stuff. Or the gangbang scenarios. Please, God, anything but the gangbang fantasies. He’ll scream if you imagine another threesome with him and that invisible asshole who kidnapped Lu. He’ll simply resign if you add Nagumo.
To your profound disappointment, Shin ends up using a condom. He doesn't give you much time to feel sad about it, settling quickly between your legs and practically knocking the breath out of you as he thrusts into you. He’s left kind of breathless too. You weren't lying—you are still stretched out from earlier in the day, wet and pliant for him, and there's hardly any resistance as he starts pumping into you. He watches you carefully, laid out underneath him—your eyes squeezing shut as you're made to take his cock. Your mind goes a little quiet again, overwhelmed by pleasure. It's simultaneously a blessing and a curse: Shin’s finally getting a break from your psychic teasing, but the knowledge that he's fucking you dumb is doing something horrible to him.
He changes his angle, and a whimper leaves you. You tighten and gush around him in a way that makes it obvious what he’s hitting; he doesn't need ESP to know to keep doing it. Still, your thoughts are going haywire, a tangle of desire, and it's impossible for him to ignore. I need, he keeps hearing as your thighs starts to twitch, as you start tearing up, I need I need I need I need—
Your eyes land on his lips, and Shin hears you.
His kiss is open-mouthed, clumsy, but you’re hungry for it anyway. You’re panting into each other’s mouths when you start pulsing around Shin’s dick, and you end up cumming so hard on his cock that it's dizzying for you both. He fucks you through your orgasm, and it's only when you're glassy-eyed and limp beneath him that he finally lets himself finish. He pulls back as he does, gasping sharply, but not for long—you draw him back in quickly, clinging to him as you seek out another kiss. The two of you stay like that for a long moment—still connected, breaths heavy with exhaustion, lips slow and lazy against each other.
“Enjoy yourself more this time?” Shin asks, and you hum sweetly against his mouth. You’re still too mindless from your orgasm to form any real thoughts, but Shin can tell that you don't really want to talk. You want to keep kissing him. And you want him to hold you while you do it, which he happily obliges.
Some ten minutes later, you make a small noise of protest when Shin pulls out of you, and it turns into a look of outright betrayal when he gets up. Shin’s heart clenches immediately.
“Just getting stuff to clean up,” he explains, and you relax visibly.
“Oh,” you say. “Right.”
You seem antsy. You feel antsy. You're antsy because you just realised how much you like kissing Shin. Specifically, you've realised that kissing him elevates your orgasms into mind-blowing experiences, and now you're questioning every other orgasm you've had. Maybe I don't actually enjoy sex that much? you wonder. Or maybe I always needed to be kissed to enjoy it more? Wait, no. I hate it when people kiss me. It's gross. Except for when it's Shin. Why Shin? Hm… that apron must really be doing something for me.
Your head hurts. Shin patiently watches you replay your past experiences in your head, comparing all those nights with this one, and he can’t help but frown. Deeply. Your eyes go wide when he gives you an alarmed look at one particular memory.
“Shit, sorry! I forgot you’d see all that.”
“No, I'm sorry,” he says, feeling—not for the first time—guilty about his powers. “If I could turn it off, I would.”
“Don't be sorry. You can't help it. That'd be like if I were sorry for breathing.” But despite your easy words, you’re watching him carefully, and your mind is stirring in an unsettling way. I'm nervous? you realise. Your heart is beating in a way that suggests a flight or fight response. It gets worse the longer you stare at him. Why am I nervous? Tell me, Shin.
“I wouldn't know.” Except he’s got a good guess, and he'd rather die than say it out loud because it would be embarrassing for you both if he were wrong. He'd have to resign. Nevertheless, he tries to guide you in a specific direction: “Have you really never liked it when people kissed you?”
“No,” you reply immediately. “I don't see the point of kissing during sex.”
He gives you a long look. “What if it’s not just sex? What if it's just a regular kiss on a regular day with, like, a partner? Someone you're really serious about.” He blinks at the confused stare you're giving him. “You mean you don't like that either?”
It's suddenly very noisy. Shin can hear your mind buzzing as you stare at the ceiling of your room, not with coherent sentences so much as shapeless confusion. His skin crawls with the echo of your discomfort; it's a wonder you aren't slipping out from the sheets to run away.
“...I don't know,” you finally decide. “I don't have much real dating experience.”
“Huh? You’ve said before that you've dated lots of guys.”
“Um.” You’re careful not to look at him. “Yeah, I guess. They all sucked though. I, like, wanted to kill every single one of my exes.”
“Like they were shitty boyfriends?”
No, like they were assassination targets, you think, and Shin has to keep a straight face as you reply, “Yeah, something like that.”
You rarely lie to Shin. You did it somewhat frequently until you figured out that he was capable of ESP, and then you stopped because you didn't see a point anymore. You only do it now when there's something you really don't want to talk about, so Shin relents. He focuses on cleaning himself up, and he interrupts the tense hum of your thoughts when he turns his attention to you. By the time he's finished and slid back into bed, your more complicated emotions have vanished, and you're back to marveling at the quality of the orgasm you just had. Apparently you like to keep things fairly simple in your inner world.
When Shin puts an arm around you, he can hear your pleasant surprise—and your immediate desire to press into him.
You're so happy just being held by him, it's shocking. And painfully endearing. Shin tries to pretend not to notice the warm glow of your thoughts, as well as your confusion over them: surely the simple act of being close to someone can't feel so good. Maybe the whole kissing thing was just a coincidence and Shin happened to be hitting it just right when your lips met. Or maybe he used his ESP on you to make you cum extra hard and he's still influencing you, and that's why you feel so tenderhearted right now.
“My powers only allow me to read minds,” he tells you. “I can't control other people.”
“Aw,” you say, “that's too bad. I bet forced orgasms with ESP would feel amazing.”
“...”
Shin realises something else about himself that he absolutely cannot let you know. Thankfully for him, you're none the wiser. Your mind’s somewhere else entirely when you climb on top of him, smiling neatly. Mind you, what you're thinking is still making him feel nervous. He's always a little out of his depth with you.
“Shin…”
You lean in, breath sweeping over his lips. His heart jumps.
“Y-yeah?”
“I'm still confused about how that felt so good.”
“I’ve noticed.”
You hold back a laugh. “Yeah, I guess you would have.” Then you give him an apologetic look. “Sorry I'm so stuck on it. I just thought I knew my body, y'know? I felt like I had tried everything worth trying. Sex was starting to feel boring, including the freaky stuff. But this is very new to me.”
This close up, Shin can feel the brush of your lashes when they flutter. See the glossy swell of your lips from all the kissing. Take in the fragrance of your hair. He starts to feel dizzy. “I-is it? I don't think we've been doing anything, uh. Crazy.”
“I didn't think so either.” Your thumb traces his lip. You're thinking about kissing him again, and you're also thinking about riding him as you do it. “I can't help but want to try it a few more times, you know? Just to make sure it wasn't a fluke.”
“A few more times,” he repeats, and you smile.
“You don't have anywhere you need to be tonight, do you?”
The two of you get two hours of sleep that night, and you end up going through both bottles of Pocari Sweat and all the snacks. There's no time for breakfast or burnt coffee the morning after; you make the executive decision to just eat something at the store instead. Shin leaves behind a toothbrush and you tell him he should also bring an extra set of clothes next time. He tries not to get too excited about the fact that there's going to be a next time. He fails.
Mr. Sakamoto sees the two of you as you make it to work just on time together and immediately figures out what's happened. Shin gets a mental reprimand for not marrying you first, and the disappointment from Mr. Sakamoto is so strong that he briefly considers resigning out of disgrace. But he stays on, and the days pass, and your relationship with him remains the same. Sort of.
Because, see. Now that you're regularly getting laid, your horny thoughts have finally (finally!) calmed down. You now have one free-use fantasy a day instead of twelve, and your daydreams only occasionally feature tentacle monsters. You do like to torture Shin with breeding kink scenarios, but that's only once a day, and they never involve any other guys. Shin considers this a victory, respite from the psychic agony that he was previously experiencing.
There's just one problem.
You want to kiss Shin all the time now, and it's making him feel like the horniest person alive.
He can't believe it. He doesn't have a particularly strong sex drive, and he rarely ever has sexual fantasies. But holy shit is he having them a lot now, and he can't say it's strictly your fault.
You spend most of the day now thinking about what it felt like to kiss him in bed, and what it felt like to hold his hand as he moved inside you, and what it felt like to be in his arms afterwards. What it would feel like if you were to do those things that you used to hate—kissing someone, linking fingers, embracing them—with Shin. Not just in bed, but on a regular day, out in the open. In a secluded park somewhere, or maybe at the top of a Ferris wheel, or even on a random street corner if the mood is right. All of these daydreams are usually followed by very explicit fantasies about public, unprotected sex, but the kissing is the most important part of it. The subsequent creampies are pretty significant too, but not nearly as much as the bits where you make out.
And somehow, the thought of cumming in you is not the part of the fantasy that's driving Shin crazy.
You give him a meaningful look. A week ago, this would have been a sign that you wanted him to bend you over the counter and give you backshots. Now it means you want to sneak away to kiss him and hold hands, and this makes him want to do things to you that would get him fired immediately.
Shin sighs, and he contemplates shoving himself into the freezer.
END
I wrote this with one hand and did not proofread it. my apologies if you see any errors. I just needed to be free of these thoughts asap. release me...
PS - I know the Resident Evil/Leon Kennedy mention must have felt very random, but it's set-up for potential future sequels haha.
You slam the door behind you and stand wide eyed, panties a tight ball in your fist.
“I slept with Sanji last night,” you announce. You feel sick.
Nami sighs, not sparing you a glance from her focused nail painting. “Happens to the best of us.”
Your jaw drops. “Us?”
sanji x reader
6.3k words | oneshot, complete
minor spoilers for whole cake island, mutual pining, smut (p in v, fingering, overstimulation), porn with feelings, friends with benefits, friends -> fwb -> lovers, mentions of mutually drunk sex, reader uses she/her
read on ao3
note: this is me coming to terms with the fact that post-Whole Cake Island, I may in fact be in love with this stupid wet cat of a man. i tried my best to keep him in character but who knows!!
The sun is warm, its rays streaming through the windows. You hum while turning in the sheets, eyes fluttering open. It takes a few seconds for your vision to clear—soft edges sharpening as your body adjusts.
It’s a pleasant morning. You feel good: warm, a little sore, heart fuzzy with an inexplicable glee. Your forehead throbs from last night’s wine, but it’s dull against your giddiness.
You blink once, eyes flitting across the room, and your stomach drops.
The sheets fly as you throw yourself out of bed. Your legs wobble as you race to collect your clothes from the floor, tossing on your dress and clutching your undergarments in a vice grip before yanking the door open and speeding down the hall. Your stomach is a ball of knots while you sprint to Nami’s room. You burst in without knocking.
The ginger sits cross-legged on her bed, a bottle of nail polish at her side as she brushes liquid cerulean along her fingertips. Her only reaction is the quirk of her brow and a cursory glance.
You slam the door behind you and stand wide eyed, panties a tight ball in your fist.
“I slept with Sanji last night,” you announce. You feel sick.
Nami sighs, not sparing you a glance from her focused nail painting. “Happens to the best of us.”
Your jaw drops. “Us?”
She doesn’t reply.
“You—” you point at her. “You don’t even like men!”
She blinks, unphased. “You’d really call him a man?”
You have no response.
(The man—or not man, according to Nami—in question stands at the entrance of his cabin. In his hands is a tray with breakfast dishes: affectionately sliced fruit, neatly arranged bread, a serving of rice. It’s paired with freshly squeezed juice and an additional cup of tea, of course.
He stares into his room, now emptied of you. The covers are half strewn off the bed and a pillow is on the floor. Your hair tie sits on the nightstand. There’s a smear of lipgloss on the sheets.
His smile dies, morphing to a tug of disappointment. He sighs, shoulders and heart drooping.)
Nami stands by the door unamused. “You can’t hide here all day,” she says flatly.
You’re curled on the floor, leaning against her bed. “I’m emotionally processing.”
“You’ve been processing for an hour.”
“I need to process for longer.”
“You need to eat,” she retorts. “You didn’t have breakfast. Come to lunch.”
Your face twists. She’s not wrong; your headache has grown significantly, at least partially due to your empty stomach. But where there’s food, there’s Sanji—the other source of your distress. You are not ready to see him.
“You can’t ignore him forever,” she adds.
Meekly, you reply, “But I can ignore him today.”
She sighs, face softening with a poorly contained grin. She steps away from the door and crouches beside you.
“I’ll bring you lunch,” she says. “But you owe me a thousand berry.”
You huff, smiling.
“Fine.”
You crawl under the bed, hiding behind the bedskirt in case someone comes looking for you. It’s dark and quiet, the rocking of the Sunny a lullaby coaxing you to sleep.
But you can’t. Instead your mind continues to race, heart thrumming against the wooden floor as you run in metaphorical circles. Fragments of the night reel through you: ghosts of touches, whispers of filth, the most intense euphoria rushing through your body. Just the thought of Sanji’s hands on you makes your legs squeeze together.
Because as hard as it is to admit… you like Sanji. He’s handsome and charming. He’s a strong fighter, self-sacrificing, and always ready to serve others. If you listed all of his qualities on paper and held it at arm's length, you’d think he’s a suitable match, even. Because he’s Sanji, the chef for the Straw Hat pirates.
But he’s Sanji. Sanji the pervert and the man with eyes for any creature that looks remotely like a woman. He’s Sanji, the man who calls you his darling love, but uses the name for every woman he meets. He’s Sanji, a man who makes passes at you so frequently you assume they mean nothing.
And you know why he’s like this, all the answers turned crystal clear when he returned to the crew—when he returned home, here at the Sunny instead of Germa Kingdom. What can you expect from a man who… who wasn’t man enough, according to the standards of his family? Whose natural gentleness and desire to serve was rejected and punished. Whose only experience of love came from the women in his life.
You know the story of not-Vinsmoke Sanji. But knowing why he acts this way doesn’t mean you can handle anything beyond your usual dynamic—your amused dismissal of every pass he makes, no matter what kind of warmth he manages to strike in your heart.
You sigh. The boat rocks.
The door opens. Your stomach clenches before relaxing when you spot Nami’s shoes.
“What the hell?” she grumbles when she sees the empty room.
You slide yourself from beneath bed and she yelps. You feel like an idiot.
“Sorry,” you mumble, face burning. “I got worried someone would come looking for me.”
She smiles pitifully. “That bad, huh?”
You nod. She sets down the tray; a plate of fried rice with a small bowl of fruit and a slice of toast. You have both juice and tea.
“He insisted you eat it all,” she adds.
Your stomach clenches, stinging with hunger while your appetite simultaneously fades away.
(Sanji’s lunch is no easier, similarly distracted by thoughts of you.
But unlike you, his mind flashes with visions of the night before. You were a mess in the sheets, head thrown back as he bullied his cock against your clit, teasing your entrance with filthy condescension until you begged and wailed. Tears streamed down your cheeks, clumping in the length of your lashes. Your eyes sparkle beautifully.
He sunk into you with a promise— to give you everything you wanted. You had all of him; there was no reason to beg. He would give himself to you as long as you were with him.
And then you left his room in the morning.
You didn’t come to lunch.
The visions fade as reality settles in. He wonders if you’re okay. Will you eat all the food he sent with Nami? Did he upset you? Did he hurt you? Was it too much last night, when he… when he didn’t let it end with just one cry of release, one broken whimper of his name. What about when he turned you on your stomach, pushing his hand along the curve of your back and—
He exhales in his seat, gritting his teeth while recalling the way you clawed at the sheets, the tightness and… and the wetness and warmth you engulfed him in as he fucked you.
“You okay Sanji?” Usopp interrupts his thoughts. “Your nose is bleeding and you’re not even being a horndog for anyone.”
The cook coughs in surprise, rice catching in his throat.
Zoro makes a face of disgust across the table.)
Nami doesn’t let you escape dinner.
“I’ll give you five thousand berry!” you wail, trying to twist out of her grip. How is she so strong?
“You don’t even have that much,” she mutters. “And this is my room. Go rot somewhere else at least.”
Your stomach tightens. Nobody else would guard dog you effectively against Sanji—except for Zoro, but even in your panicked state you have the tact not to go that far.
So you sit yourself, begrudgingly, between Nami and Usopp at the table. Contrary to your worries, the cook doesn’t burden you with special attention beyond the usual, humming, “For you, dear,” as he tables your plate. You nod curtly, eyes averting to your food while ignoring the heat crawling up your neck.
He sits across from you. Despite the knots in your stomach you somehow sustain your appetite. Sanji offers you another portion and you manage to decline without choking on your last bite. You meet his eyes, those crystal clear waters, and are immediately hit with a full wave of guilt.
This is Sanji, you remind yourself. Safe, sensitive, sacrificial Sanji.
An embarrassed smile crosses your face, one just for him, and the grin he returns is blinding.
Relief settles in your chest. The knots in your stomach begin to unravel. With him smiling so sweetly across from you, eyes so earnest in their care, you trust that you can work this out. If that means a terribly embarrassing conversation followed by sweeping your feelings under the rug indefinitely, then by god that’s what you’ll do.
As an attempt to make reparations you offer to help with the dishes, but you leave when he begins a monologue about the disgrace of making a woman do his work for him.
“Oh, but share a bottle of wine with me when I’m finished here, yes?” He calls.
You nod meekly. He’s asking to talk, the minimum you can do for him after your earlier avoidance.
He flashes another sunny smile, and you duck out of the room before the flush can take over your face.
Once again, you wake up in Sanji’s bed.
This time there are no signs of an explicit night you don’t remember. You’re fully clothed—although, in different clothes than what you were wearing the evening prior—and your body has its strength, no soreness lingering in your hips and back. You lay tense, staring at the ceiling as you wonder why you’re incapable of learning from your mistakes.
You frown as your head throbs, digging through your memory for what happened. There’s a hazy vision of Sanji’s attempt to have a conversation, you downing glasses of wine like water to cope with your embarrassment. His somber smile is the last you remember.
(Sanji did his best, all things considered.
The first time truly was mutual inebriation. In his drunken state, he was weak to your advances. Or maybe the advances were his own, his usual dance of flirtation that you were all too willing to give into. But regardless you reciprocated, and he had no choice but to follow your lead.
But last night… you chugging glass after glass to find the courage to speak, to sit there with him… of course he wouldn’t touch you or take advantage of you when he had a power over you that he shouldn’t be privy to in the first place.
He can admit that he took you to his room for the night, partly out of his own selfishness to hold you close—no matter how troublesome his poor restraint might be—and partly to look after you, to be there in case something were to happen to you.
Oh—he would never forgive himself.)
“Good morning, my sweet,” his voice calls beside you. The mattress shifts and you reluctantly turn to the source.
The cook leans above you, seated on the bed. A tray of breakfast foods sit on the bedside table, his hands pausing their diligent spreading of jam on toast to carefully sweep at your hair instead. His touch is warm, loving. You feel nauseous.
“I’m so glad I didn’t miss you this time. You need to eat breakfast,” he continues.
You think you should die. You keep that to yourself, for Sanji’s sake.
The cook helps you sit up, offering foods that are easy on your stomach. You thank him diligently and shovel them into your mouth. He holds up a slice of apple after you’ve swallowed your bite of bread. You ignore his reddening face, his eyes trained on your lips.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t press for answers. Instead he watches you, moving gently, smiling warmly.
After your second piece of toast and three slices of apples, determination blooms in your chest. When you speak your voice wavers, but you push through.
“Sanji,” you start. He tenses at the call of his name. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to—” you pause, catching your own lies. “I mean, I did mean to run away yesterday, but I don’t want to act that way around you.”
You receive another smile, one so understanding that your heart squeezes. “It’s okay, my love. If you truly want to leave, I don’t mind. You must know that I would never do something you don’t want.”
Something shatters in your chest.
“No—” you immediately protest. This is Sanji: safe, sensitive, sacrificial Sanji. “It’s not that I don’t want this, it’s just—I don’t—”
Your face pinches in frustration, half pleading for help. But Sanji flushes again and you try to smother the expression.
“I don’t want things to change between us, I guess,” you manage flatly.
He hums, reaching to swipe at the corner of your lip. His touch brings your skin to life, buzzing. You swallow.
“I understand,” he answers.
Your heart crumples at his agreement. Then it hardens, annoyed at your own lack of consistency. Aren’t you the one afraid of taking anything further, of sharing your feelings with him out of fear for his character, fear for his loyalty?
He likes you, you know this. Or at least, you know he’s attracted to you, enough to have his eyes morphing into those obnoxious hearts, to be visibly affected by your presence. But his attraction to women, his fawning and his pledges of love, don’t necessarily mean he’s committed to one woman in particular.
Maybe he thinks you’re hot, and that’s that.
You watch the cook as blankly as you can, smothering any expressions while arguments bounce along the perimeter of your mind. You go back and forth, thinking up new perspectives just to immediately refute them. Sanji watches you, blue eyes trained as if he can read the dialogue.
Would it not be better to ask him?
No, that’s too easy. Too easy to set yourself up for rejection, to hear confirmation of every concern you have about his perception of you.
Instead a new idea blooms in your mind. A voice of reason sits on your shoulder, shouting at you that it’s a recipe for regret. But when you sit in front of Sanji’s warm gaze, his gentle eyes, his beautiful face, you find that you have no strength. You would rather deprive yourself of what you want from him if it means getting to be closer to him at all.
“I liked sleeping with you,” you clarify before you can stop yourself. Your face flames. Sanji freezes as he listens carefully. “… I’d be interested in doing that again—if everything else can stay the same.”
You avert your eyes, not ready to see his reaction. Even so, you can hear the sharp intake of his breath. One of his hands takes yours resting on his blanket.
“Angel,” he pleads.
You keep your eyes averted. His free hand raises to your chin, finger guiding it upward. When you meet his gaze, you can’t look away, even after his hand falls.
“You must know that I would do anything you wished.”
The confession makes your heart race, then sting. You frown.
“Sanji, I’m not asking you to do whatever I want. I want you to want it too—”
He huffs, face twisting in amusement, twisted with something else, something more complicated. Something almost melancholy.
In an instant his mouth is on you, hungry as it parts your lips. His hand runs up your arm, then slides down your back to clutch your side. You gasp in surprise, feeling him grin as he swallows the sound. You’re forced on your back, a hard chest pressing against your own. His hips meet yours, firm bulge already present and growing.
As soon as he’s on you, he pulls his mouth away, leaving you panting. His lips attach to your neck, peppering kisses on his way to the base of your jugular before he sinks his teeth into the skin. You gasp and feel him smile against you for a second time.
“Are you still hungry, dear?” he asks.
You’re dizzy, mind swirling as he continues south, sucking at your collarbones. Any hunger for food has evaporated, incinerated in your stomach from the fire that sparks. It’s replaced with a hunger for him.
“Sanji—” you breathe, brokenly.
He groans against your skin, hips rutting against your thighs. He’s fully hard, and you’re aching.
“My love,” he gasps. The name strikes your heart both in pain and glee. “If you say my name like that—”
“Sanji,” you cry again when his hand lowers to pinch your nipple beneath your shirt. He’s relentless, sliding his hand to cup your cunt. You nearly choke, “Sanji.”
When he has you like this, spread open and tearing off your clothes, lowering himself to get a taste of you everywhere, you’re powerless. All the heartache in the world couldn’t keep you from giving in, from letting him drag a finger up your wetness—wetness made for him—and sink into your folds.
(And it’s true, what you think: that it’s enough for him to have you this way. It’s enough to touch you and kiss you and memorize every curve of your body, to burn the memory of your taste on his tongue. If that’s what you want.
Or, that’s what he’ll tell himself, if it means having you at all.)
Things don’t change on the surface. You and Sanji are still friends, still normal around the others aboard the Sunny. Normal entailing that he makes you a drink when the sun blares harshly, offers to take your shirt if you want to remove a layer. These gestures and suggestions make your heart flutter and your gut tighten, but that’s how it is—how it’s always been.
Part of you leans into it, wants to play pretend for a moment longer as if he’s yours. Until, of course, you catch a glimpse of him with Nami and Robin, offering the same drinks, leaning in the same way he does with you.
Something twists inside your stomach. You look away.
This is how you want it—or maybe not how you want it, but how it needs to be for your own sanity. For your protection. It’s a reality check: no matter how much sugar Sanji feeds you, it will never be something special. You are just another woman.
“Darling, I—”
You grimace on instinct, butterflies turned to an ache in your chest as Sanji approaches with a plate. It looks delicious, layers of frosting and cake and fruit. Your expression must be easy to read, because Sanji backs off easily when you reject the offer of the dessert.
(You miss that there was only one plate. Only one dessert, made just for you.)
Somehow that same day you end up tangled in your sheets, face down and whining as he runs a hand along your spine to press you further into the mattress. You’re aching, slick bared to cool air as he teases you, bullies his tip around your overstimulated entrance, singing praise when he sinks in for another round.
The position is a savior, your face buried in the mattress where you can keep your feelings secret, where you can’t be read so easily. It feels good, so good. Sanji treats you well, knows all the ways to have you unravel for him, to have you lost and open and honest, so vulnerable in his grasp. How many women has he laid with to obtain this skill? You wonder if he knows how hard it is to let him taste your skin and come inside you, to give you moments that feel as if it’s only ever been the two of you, that his arms were made to hold you and only you.
When you come again, spasming around him while his lips mutter filth into your ear, there’s a hollowness in your chest.
He must be oblivious to how you feel, if he’s able to dance this dance with you—if he can see your tears as you finish and kiss them away in the aftercare. You smile lazily, playing it off as your subspace, and thank him. Isn’t this how you want it to be?
(But Sanji is one of the smartest of the Straw Hat Pirates. He is far from oblivious. However, he is weak-willed when it comes to you.
Something is warring in your heart, something large beneath the surface, with the power to shake the earth. He is aware, always on the precipice of asking. You are far too precious to feel pain, to be distraught. The end of your closeness with him, your tenderness and your touch, would wound him, but that sort of loss is nothing new for Sanji. He will manage.
He would ask, always wants to stop and hear you speak. But then you climb atop him, spreading your legs, and he throbs, aching for you. Your hand takes his length, hardening once more, to guide it through your folds, and all he can do is exhale as he watches in amazement as you sink down, beautiful face pinched as you fill yourself—fill yourself with him—
You take him to the hilt. He makes a sound, almost a whimper, before you lean back to grab his thighs and ride him. He gasps at the view: taut muscles, bouncing breasts, your cunt swallowing him with every drop of your beautiful body, and he has to bite down the string of I love you’s that threaten to leap from his lips.
He is powerless against you, too.)
“So can we call you two official?” Nami asks candidly. She sits cross legged on her bed, filing Robin’s nails.
“Huh?” you frown, painting clear polish across Usopp’s fingertips. The sniper is the honorary member of girl’s nights.
“You and Sanji.”
“What?” you and Usopp gawk in unison. His hands flail, smearing the brush over his skin. You frown at the mess.
“You and Sanji are dating?”
You huff, rolling your eyes while you reach for a paper towel. “No, we’re just seeing each other.”
“You and Sanji are fucking?”
Nami laughs while you scowl. Robin’s lips tug against her cheek. Usopp stares at you in disbelief.
“Usopp, I think even Luffy knows by now. They’ve been banging for weeks.”
The man’s jaw drops, a strangled noise coming up his throat. “No… No way. What do you mean you’re not dating? He’s been in love with you since—”
He yelps when you pinch him, flinching in your grasp.
“He is not in love with me,” you sneer.
Everyone stares at you blankly.
“He’s not!”
“Woah, I thought you were one of the smart ones,” the sniper says flatly. You pinch him again.
“He doesn’t love me,” you repeat. “He’d say those words back to anyone.”
Brown eyes blink at you. “Don’t tell me… You’re in love with him?!”
“It… I don’t know,” you trail off with a grimace. “It doesn’t matter, anyways. I don’t want us to be anything more.”
He groans, free hand covering his eyes. “This is the worst. You’re both idiots! Oh we’re doomed…”
You roll your eyes and resume your work on his nails in silence. Robin is the first to break it.
“You should know by now that you can trust your crew. Maybe—”
“Stop,” you command, cutting her off. Her eyebrows raise, both in surprise and challenge, but she obeys.
“Sanji,” you huff, shoulders rolling his arm away. “Enough with the couple stuff.”
His face flickers with something painful, eyes shining with a moment of hurt before he schools into an easy smile. “Sorry dear,” he answers, sliding away.
Your heart aches at the gesture, but you don’t take back your words. Instead you watch as he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pants and heads for the door of the tavern.
“Good riddance,” Zoro chimes beside you, nursing his third sake.
You huff.
A quiet falls over your corner of the room, the two of you taking in the space: Usopp and Franky dancing, Nami chatting up a rich-looking man, Robin standing quietly to the side. You frown when you notice Brook’s missing presence, head craning to finally spot him on the other end with the music. Zoro’s eyes repeatedly dart to Luffy, where he sits surrounded by empty plates and boisterous company.
Your heartache grows when you spot Zoro’s fingers tapping the handles of his swords. Ready, in case something were to stir. Ready to defend, time and time again without question.
A pang of jealousy strikes your chest. You wonder what it’d be like to receive that sort of devotion, too.
“You and Luffy—” you stop, not sure where you were going.
“Huh?”
You swallow, eyes dropping as you swirl your drink. “You’d follow him anywhere, I guess.”
The swordsman frowns. “He’s my captain. … Yours too.”
Something heavy crawls up your throat. “You would even if he wasn’t.”
He grunts. “... Yeah.”
You glance to the side, away from him. Your eyes meet the door again, just in time for Sanji’s second entrance. You think he’ll look for you first, make his way over even after you shrug him off. A woman walks by, faltering when someone bumps into her. Sanji reaches on instinct, arm securing her at the waist. You watch despite the turning in your stomach as he grins, eyes solely focused on her form when he helps her stand upright, fingers trailing down her arm to grab her hand.
Good riddance, Zoro’s words repeat in your mind. Even if you did manage to rid yourself of Sanji, you know you’d be the only one suffering, watching him fall to his knees for the next woman who loves him.
You turn away with a grimace.
Zoro is still watching you, brow furrowed in a way you can’t decipher. If you had to guess, it’s a mix of concern and displeasure.
“I know,” you mutter. “I’m an idiot.”
He grunts—you don’t know if in affirmation or denial. Your stomach flips again.
“It’s better this way,” you conclude.
Green brows furrow further, now in pure disbelief. You don’t know what the expression is for, but the thought of trying to explain anything makes you want to cry. Your nose stings, a glimmer pooling beneath your irises, and the swordsman’s eyes widen with pure concern.
His lips part to speak, but the words never come.
“Hey marimo, quit it. You’re upsetting her.”
Zoro’s face pinches in irritation at Sanji’s scolding. Grey eyes dart to your side, the source of the voice, to argue. “Don’t blame me for your idiocy—”
You stand abruptly. The chair screeches on the floor, not loud in the ambiance of the room, but enough to silence the men. “I’m leaving,” you announce.
“Darling, is something wrong—”
“I want to go to the Sunny,” you interrupt.
“Oh, of course—”
“Alone,” you add, stepping away.
Sanji moves to follow, huffing out a confused, “Wait,” but Zoro intercepts him. You don’t bother attempting to listen to their argument, instead bolting for the exit.
(“Marimo, move,” Sanji growls.
The swordsman refuses. “You’re just gonna make it worse.”
The cook fumes, rage flooding through his arms. He has the urge to throw a punch. How would he know what upset you? Something ugly burrows in his chest. Does he know? Would you tell Zoro something that you couldn’t tell him?
He swallows, feeling sick.)
You’re most honest when you’re under him. Even when you’ve only had one drink, body fully sober, you can’t lie—and you can’t hold anything back.
So he asks then.
Your legs are open for him, splaying you on your back while he stands above you. His large palms press your thighs as he connects your hips with harsh thrusts. A mewl escapes your lips, chest panting as a hand travels up your belly and your breast, stopping to smooth over your clavicle.
“What’s happening here, angel?”
The words hardly register. You’re too consumed by his brutal pace, so he slows and asks again.
You blink rapidly, confused. “Huh?”
He leans forward, hips suddenly stalling as they pull back, dragging his length out of you painfully slow. You whine, head dizzy from the change.
“Sanji?”
He groans but doesn’t relent, stopping with his tip just barely inside of you. He rubs the skin between your breasts again.
“Your heart, love. Tell me what’s troubling it.”
He punctuates the command with an unexpected thrust, filling you all the way to the hilt. You choke, winded, and then scowl as he starts slowly pulling out again. Groaning, you try rutting your hips, but his hand holds them in place.
Anger bubbles in your chest. “Nothing.”
He hums, the thumb on your thigh stroking carefully. “Please.”
You huff, frowning. “Sanji, I’m fine. The only thing making me upset is this pace.”
He thrusts again and you cry, tightening around him. This time he doesn’t budge, remaining buried inside you. When you meet his eyes, they’re firm, searching.
“Sanji—”
He twitches inside you at the sound but refuses to move. “Tell me. You can tell me.”
You scoff. “I don’t want to tell you.”
A noise catches in his throat. His hand returns to your thigh before he pulls out and slams into you without warning, continuing his torturous thrusts.
“You can tell me anything. We were friends before anything else—”
“We aren’t anything else,” you sneer beneath him, face twisted. It’s a truth that strikes your gut, rips through your skin and flays you beneath him—raw, open. The pain tangles with the pleasure, swallowing you. “So please stop acting like it.”
Sanji’s face twists, crumpling from the request. “I can’t,” he confesses, hips rolling into you again. “I can’t have you like this and pretend that it’s enough. Not… not when I’m in love with you.”
Your chest empties of air, his words a punch to the gut.
“You don’t mean that,” you manage to whisper.
His eyes widen at the accusation. “What?” he asks, in disbelief.
(How could you challenge him and his love, assume that he would lie to a woman—to you? It’s one thing to have you reject his feelings; it’s another for you to think he does not mean them.)
You whine at his next thrust, how it touches you somewhere deep. Tears well in your eyes. Sanji jerks in surprise, hands immediately coming to cup your cheeks as you release a sob. It’s too much, so much that everything flows out of you without warning.
“You don’t love me,” you cry. “You’d love any woman—you just like that I let you touch me.”
“I love you,” he repeats desperately. “Why does it matter where the feelings come from?”
“Of course it matters. I… I want to be special to you—I want you to love me for myself.”
“You want me to love you?” his voice shakes.
“For me. Not just because I fell in love with you first.”
“You love me?”
(His heart thrums, racing in his chest. The buzz travels through his body, throbs in his cock. He thrusts harder without realizing, trying to satiate the ache.)
You sob harder. “It doesn’t matter—”
“Of course it matters,” he echoes your earlier words. Both hands grip your thighs until his knuckles pale. Sanji is always gentle with you—sometimes condescending, but never rough enough to leave marks beyond a love bite. Now he holds you in a bruising grip, thrusts fueled by anger. “I could be treating you like my wife—treating you like you deserve. Taking you out, buying you gifts—”
“Stop,” you wail.
He doesn’t, instead huffing as he stares down at your body beneath him. Sweat-slick and glistening, spread and curved.
“Never, beautiful. Never ever—”
“You’ll leave,” you snap. That gets Sanji to stop, stuttering his hips when his arms nearly give out.
“I would never—”
“You don’t love me, so you’ll leave me for the next woman.”
“What next woman?” he demands.
“The next one who falls for you.”
His fingers clench harder, nails scraping your skin. “You—you think I’d let you go? Darling, after all this?”
One hand releases to slide along your thigh and rub your clit. You sob again, a broken noise, body shaking against your will. “Wait—” you plead, feeling the coil within you tighten, but Sanji refuses, fingers dipping to swipe your dripping slick and rub you with it. In the next second you cry, vision flooding with static as the rush of your release consumes you.
Sanji’s hips give two more deep thrusts before they stutter, slapping with urgency before he presses to the hilt with a groan. Heat floods your insides as the aftershocks finally start to fade.
Anger floods your system as he collapses over you, his body a weight you can’t shake.
“Sanji,” you growl as you wriggle beneath him, pushing at his shoulders.
He slides his hands to capture yours. Pressing them into the mattress as he lifts his head and chest to look at your face.
“Oh my love, my darling angel—”
“Sanji,” you bark, heart racing with panic. “Stop.”
“You love me,” he announces.
Heat crawls up your neck and face. Your eyes sting from frustration. He blinks at your expression, one hand coming to cup your face.
“I love you, too.”
Your face pinches, “You don’t—”
“Please.”
You swallow, mouth clamping at the anguish on his face.
“Please believe me when I say I love you. Especially if you love me too.”
You grimace. “Sanji…”
“What can I do to make you believe me?” He pleads, heart open on his face. Desperate.
“I—I don’t know… Sanji, you fawn for every woman we meet, so much that you lose your reasoning. All it would take is a weak moment for you to get whisked away by someone else. Women are just women to you.”
Hot tears hit your cheek. “You—you think that about me? That I would… that I could be unfaithful to you?”
Your stomach sinks at his broken voice, his crushed expression peering down at you. But you nod, knowing he needs you to be honest.
He sighs in defeat, pulling out of you while he sits back, a hand lifting for him to smother his face. You watch with confusion.
(This is the uncertainty you were suffering through? Uncertainty about him, his affection for you, uncertainty about whether or not he would stay with you, stay loyal to you.
Is this how you see him?
Is this who he is?)
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
You don’t know what to say. Instead you keep your eyes trained on him, still lying on your back because your body is too weak to lift itself.
“Sanji,” you call.
He doesn’t look your way. (His head is not strong enough to meet you.)
“Sanji,” you repeat.
He sighs, eyes closing before opening again with resolve. He turns to look at you, filled with determination.
“Give me a chance,” he says firmly. “Please, let me show you who I can be for you.”
Your heart clenches, eyes wide with disbelief. He holds your gaze, ocean blue irises pleading.
“I don’t know…”
“Just one chance,” he wagers.
Your face twists with uncertainty. One chance usually comes with many smaller chances; you don’t know if you can handle the back and forth, the constant heavy conversations.
“I only need one,” he pushes. “Now that I know how you feel about me.”
You exhale, feeling your heart crawling towards him. What difference does it make at this point? You’ve been kicking yourself acting like a jealous girlfriend even while asserting to him that you aren’t together.
He doesn’t press any further, waiting for your response. You roam your eyes over his face, tracing the swirl of his brow, the slope of his nose. His eyes are focused but patient, lips smoothed neutrally. Sun colored hair frames his face in waves, stubble emphasizing his jaw. He’s beautiful.
He’s here, waiting for you to let him give himself to you.
You fold. “Okay.”
The grin that takes over his face is blinding, so overwhelming you want to bury yourself in the blankets. Who are you to elicit this kind reaction—such genuine crinkles around his eyes? His hands reach for you, gripping your side as he leans forward to lay against your body. Your breath falters.
“Thank you,” he mumbles as he kisses your temple. His lips travel across your face, claiming every speck of skin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he says between each peck.
“Okay, okay,” you mutter, trying to pry him off you. But his grip is too strong.
“I love you,” he says, stealing your breath before capturing your lips. “My angel, I’ll prove to you how well you can be treated.”
Your chest stings at that, crawling up your face. You blink before tears can surface again. “Okay.”
Sanji laughs, a huffed and throaty sound, before burying his head into your neck. His hair tickles your skin, the touch of a feather, of lightness and freedom. You still feel uneasy, the future looming over you with all its unknown possibilities. But with Sanji in your arms, his warmth against your body, his declarations of love in the air—you feel there’s a future of joy waiting for you.
(On the horizon there’s a future where you still don’t understand. Maybe you will never understand; this is the reality of being two different people. However, there is a future with trust, where Sanji’s devotion has been proven, is proven daily, and you learn to lean into his love. A love he has never before received, and a love that he will only ever hold for you.)
sorry if the end is kind of bad and cringe and typical for me. i was going to try and make it sexier but i can only handle so much porn.
The Evil Eye doesn't love you. It's not in his nature as a demon, and he's not sure that it was in his nature as a human either. He wasn't loved and couldn’t love, and that's why he was given to the Tsuchinoko. But he likes to possess you nevertheless, and he often thinks about cursing you so that you’re bound to him. It would be the only way to keep you, because you probably don't love him, either—no human would embrace such a horrid and ugly existence.
You just love the Vessel he inhabits.
(Or: You and Jiji are now engaged. Of course, you have to ask the Evil Eye to marry you too.)
10.8k words. romance, smut, mild angst & comedy. rough sex with the Evil Eye (piv, creampie, overstimulation, bizarre magic, cnc elements in the “nooo it's too much” kind of way, dubcon with the magic). content warnings: aged up characterization, implied past sexual abuse (not involving Jiji or Evil Eye), brief mentions of suicidality, religious references (Taoist ghost marriage), use of English idioms that don't translate well into Japanese (forgive me), canon-typical crass humour. mdni.
I. THE GHOST
You’re in love with his Vessel.
The Evil Eye is well-aware of this. He hadn't known love as a human, but he saw it often enough in the House. Countless families moved in over the years, husbands and wives with little children who were frightened when he tried to play with them. After photography was invented, pictures lined the walls and decorated nightstands. They immortalized brides in their white kimono, grooms with their wide smiles, elegant ceremonies, decadent banquets.
The couples always looked like they were having so much fun, the Evil Eye noticed. Not just in the photos, but in their daily lives in the House—dancing with each other, pressing their lips together, laughing and singing and holding each other. Then they'd die together, hanging themselves because of that shitty worm. The Evil Eye always felt a kind of sadness seeing them in love—he’d never had that, and he'd never get it, and it was unfair in a way that filled him with a searing rage.
But he was even angrier when they died.
It used to make him angry too, when you talked about the Vessel. When he took over and he caught you laughing at something the Vessel had said, or dancing with him, or pressing your lips together. (Kissing, you’d told him the first time it happened. It's called kissing someone, when you do that.)
Then you started kissing the Evil Eye too, and suddenly he wasn't so angry anymore—the latent rage in him for once eased.
Still, it makes him feel sullen when you tell him, “Jiji and I want to get married.”
You are lying next to him in bed. Sweat is cooling on your naked body—you always get so hot when you and the Vessel get into bed with each other, or sometimes when he’s got you bent over the dining room table, or occasionally when you touch each other in that place you call the ‘locker room’, which tends to leave you extra breathless. No matter the place or the time, you’re always lighthearted, glowing, satisfied. It's the effect that the Vessel has when he’s inside you.
(Sex, you told the Evil Eye once, it's called having sex. Or making love. Not all sex is making love, but it's making love the way that Jiji and I do it. And then the Evil Eye demanded that you show him what exactly that meant, and that's when you took him inside you for the first time. He felt so good and so close with you that for a while, it was all he wanted to do.
Wants to do.)
“What does that mean,” the Evil Eye asks, although he has a good idea. You want to live in a House with the Vessel and laugh and sing and hold each other. You want to die together too, probably, your corpses hanging side-by-side from the same bannister.
“It means we’re going to dress up and make vows to spend the rest of our lives together,” you say. “And we’ll live together and build a home and maybe we’ll have babies too.”
The Evil Eye thinks of all those babies who lived in the House, impossibly tiny humans who were cradled by their mothers before they were burned alive as sacrifices. Before he became the Evil Eye—back when he was merely the ghost of a waif—he’d tried to play with them too, making silly faces and dancing as they giggled at him. He liked to pretend that they were his younger sisters or brothers, but sometimes he wondered how it'd feel to hold them and sing to them like their parents did. How it'd feel if he were a husband with a wife and a kid, what it would be like to dance with someone in the kitchen or tuck a child away into its cradle.
But every time he tried to pick the babies up, his hands would pass right through them. Kind-hearted ghosts can't love people in such a physical way; you need to be vengeful to hold onto anything. He'd had to learn to hate all humans before being able to touch them again, and now he's so rife with hatred that he can't love them anyway. All he can do is haunt them.
The Evil Eye doesn't love you. It's not in his nature as a demon, and he's not sure that it was in his nature as a human. He wasn't loved and couldn’t love, and that's why he was given to the Tsuchinoko. But he likes to possess you nevertheless, and he often thinks about cursing you so that you’re bound to him. It would be the only way to keep you, because you probably don't love him, either—no human would embrace such a horrid and ugly existence. You just love the Vessel he inhabits, and that's why he can kiss you and that's why he can hold you and that's why he’s allowed to sex with you (sex, not love—you've never called it making love when you do it with him, and you never look lighthearted after, and you never glow from his touch: he always leaves you panting, marked up, bruised, possessed).
You love the Vessel, so it makes sense that you would want to do all that with him: live in a House together and make babies together and eventually die together.
“Oh,” he says. “Sounds fun.”
You laugh. “Yes, I hope it'll be.” Then you lace your fingers with his, and look at him in a tender way that he'll probably never get used to. In a tender way that's meant for the Vessel.
“So, then,” you say almost shyly, “Do you wanna marry me too?”
II. THE VESSEL
Auntie Seiko is as beautiful, young, and no-nonsense as ever. Between meeting her as a child, coming into her care as a teenager, and now seeking her help as an adult, Jiji doesn't think she's ever changed. Most familiar to him right now is the expression that she’s wearing, the one that suggests that he might have shit for brains. Turbo Granny, perched on her shoulder, seems equally bemused, her porcelain cat eyes narrowed into judgemental slits. He'd been hoping that Momo and Okarun would understand his feelings, but they seem equally exasperated—Momo might even be a little appalled.
Anyone else might be disheartened by this reaction, but Jiji is undeterred. These are the people who once realised his wish to protect the Evil Eye; surely, they’ll also realise his wish for him to find happiness.
“—so we talked to him, right? Or my beautiful wifey talked to him, anyway—”
“We're not married yet, Jiji,” you interrupt dryly. “Don’t call me that.”
“—my future beautiful wifey talked to him about getting married, and he said yes! I'm on board. I think they should get a proper ceremony and everything. I know it's a little unconventional since she’ll be marrying me too, but I don't mind sharing, and I'd be willing to work out any legal issues. I'm sure we can find a country where polygamy is allowed.”
“Don’t you think the bigger problem is that he's an evil spirit?!” Momo asks—yells—but Jiji only shrugs.
“Evil or not, don't you think he deserves love and romance just as much as anyone else?”
“No!”
Jiji supposes that he can't blame Momo for her reaction, given how many times the Evil Eye has nearly killed her. Deeming her a lost cause, he turns his gaze on her boyfriend instead, almost puppy-like.
“Don’t you think so, Okarun?”
“Not really,” he admits, and Jiji nearly wilts at the betrayal before he adds, “but I understand where you're coming from. The Evil Eye was like a child when he first possessed you; his greatest wish was to find a friend to play with. Now he's basically a young man who's found his first love and his greatest wish is to be with her… and she, um, happens to be your wifey…”
“Don’t call me that!” you protest, oddly embarrassed, and Jiji resists the urge to squeeze you. You're so cute when you're flustered, it's unbearable. He makes a mental note to tell you this on the way home, though he already does this every day as a rule. When you were both still students, he would say it whenever he walked you home from school; nowadays, he more often says it during long-distance phone calls, or on FaceTime, or occasionally via text if your schedules are that misaligned. But he still makes it a point to remind you everyday, no matter where he is in the world: You're so cute. You're so pretty. You're beautiful, did you know that? I love you.
I love you, he thinks as he watches you. You look bashful right now. “We both want the Evil Eye to find happiness, and I’m pretty sure marriage will make him happy. And, well…” Your gaze drops. “It’d make me pretty happy too.”
Something in Jiji’s chest swells when he sees your expression. It feels mostly sweet, but there's also a painful edge to it. He’s always carried a kind of ache in his ribs ever since the day he caught his parents dangling from the second floor of the House and had to untie the nooses himself. Nowadays, he isn't sure if the pain is from that memory or if it's from the weight of the Evil Eye’s curse. Sometimes it feels like they're one and the same. Often it feels suffocating, like he's drowning and there's nothing he can do to breathe again—not laughing or joking or playing or running.
But you're always there when it’s hard. You're always beside him when he wakes up in the middle of the night to gasp for air, the way he used to when he was haunted as a teenager: It's okay, Jiji, you tell him, voice tender, I'm here for you. You aren't alone. I won't leave you. I won't let anything hurt you. I love you. The nightmares always leave him soaked in cold sweat, so he often switches in these moments, his consciousness displaced by a lonely, crying spirit. He doesn't know what it is you say to the Evil Eye, but when he comes back his heart feels lighter, and from that he knows that you've comforted him too.
The Evil Eye loves you—that much is clear. He loves you as much as Jiji does, probably. In a different way, sure, but just as much in strength.
It follows that nothing would make the Evil Eye happier in this world than getting married to you, Jiji figures. Dead or alive, who wouldn't be elated to marry the love of their life? And Jiji knows it'd make you equally as happy; only an idiot would think that you didn't love the Evil Eye back, and he's no fool. Some people might find it weird that he wants his wife to marry another man—and an evil spirit, at that—and maybe they're right for that. But why would Jiji ever turn down so much collective joy?
So he nods vigorously, giving Momo an intense look. “It'd make us all happy. Trust us!”
Momo gives you both a long, disbelieving stare.
“Well, when you put it that way…” She sighs, resigned. “When’s the wedding?”
“That's what we wanted your help with,” Jiji says, and he gives her grandmother an earnest look. “We want the wedding to be perfect, but we're not really sure how a ceremony would work with a youkai. What dates to choose, what venue to book, who could perform the rites… I mean, could you perform the rites, Ma’am?”
Auntie Seiko frowns. She looks on the verge of admonishing both of you, but Turbo Granny beats her to it: “Idiots. You can't do a Shinto ceremony with the Evil Eye. All three of you will combust into flames.”
“Oh.” Jiji remembers all the aliens and spirits alike that have burned upon attempting to chase them into the shrine grounds. He deflates. “Then… he can't get married?”
You squeeze his hand, and Jiji suspects that it's more for him than yourself. You don't seem nearly so worried.
“Would a Buddhist temple take us?” you ask.
“Doubt it,” Auntie Seiko says around her cigarette. “They’d probably try to exorcise your hubby on the spot—and even if they didn't, no Buddhist priest here would ever stand for tying the spirit of the deceased to a living person. It's how you get hauntings.”
“I don't mind being haunted by the Evil Eye,” you say immediately, and Auntie Seiko snorts.
“I know you don't, but it’s not in our job descriptions to curse people just because they're horny for a ghost.” Momo and Okarun cough loudly, and Jiji feels himself flushing; you cover your face with your hands. “I know a Chinese Taoist who’s done a few ghost marriages, though.”
“They’re okay with cursing people?” you ask, watching her through your fingers. “I mean—not that I mind.”
“Nah—they perform it as a pacification ritual. It would be the safest way to do something like this.” Auntie Seiko studies you closely. “I'm not sure how my acquaintance would react to an evil spirit or to polygamy, but I’ll call him and ask.”
“You're the best, Ma’am!” Jiji bursts, beaming. “We’ll save you an honoured spot in the front row! Turbo Granny too!” Elders should be respected, after all.
Turbo Granny makes a skeptical noise. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, numbnuts. Even if Seiko can find a priest stupid enough to oversee this wedding, there’s something you need that you probably can't find.”
“If we could find Okarun’s balls, I’m sure we can find anything,” you joke, but Granny seems unimpressed, her paws crossed over her chest.
Jiji frowns. “What exactly do we need to get?”
Turbo Granny gives you both an ominous look.
“His bones.”
III. THE CHILD
The Evil Eye hates being in the House.
All the spirits that he carries hate it too, airy things pulsing with rage and sadness and grief so palpable that he can always easily weaponise it. Any good memories that were ever constructed in the House are eclipsed by the hangings, the knife wounds, the suffocation, and also the burnings. Especially the burnings. Especially the white-hot lava washing over him, eating into his flesh—especially his last few days as a twitching, starving, dying thing on a stake; especially being buried, then the House being built atop his remains. Then all the children and babies sacrificed after him, wailing and screaming: unfair this is unfair let me go let me go let me go it hurts it hurts it hurts please stop this please help me Mom Mommy please help me please come back I don't want to die.
Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?
He isn't ordinarily bothered by rage; he was born of it, after all. But he doesn't like feeling so much rage around you. The Evil Eye likes haunting you and will probably someday curse you—both things he once did to the families in this House—but he doesn't want to kill you.
He glances around the basement—the man cursed by Turbo Granny is here, and so is his lover. (Girlfriend, you’d called her. Momo is Okarun’s girlfriend, just like how I'm Jiji’s. You agree to be someone’s girlfriend when you have feelings for them and want to act on them. A-ah—what? Y-yes, I do have feelings for Jiji… Why do you ask?) The dancer and the Shinto priestess aren't here, and neither is the girl with the lizard suit, but they aren't needed.
If he tries to kill you, Okarun alone could probably stop him. This is the only reason that the Evil Eye agreed to let you come in the first place.
“This is so gross,” you whine, completely oblivious. You're knee-deep in the white gunk left by that shitty Tsuchinoko worm. “I can't believe you spent a whole day buried in this stuff, Okarun.”
“It saved me and Turbo Granny,” he replies, pushing his glasses up as he digs through the mess with you. “The lava would have gotten to us otherwise. I think it probably preserved the Evil Eye’s bones too.”
“I hope so…” You turn to the Evil Eye, head tilted. “Are you sure they're here, Jashi?”
Jashi. You say his title like it's name and not a curse. (Jashi, we should go try out this cafe, you'll say, or, Jashi, let’s go check out this show, or, I missed you, Jashi, it's been too long—here, can you feel how much I need you?) Sometimes he wonders if you ever forget that he's a ghost, or if using this Vessel fools you into thinking that he's human. If you lay beneath him in bed thinking that it's technically the Vessel inside you, and not just the monster possessing him.
“I’m a ghost,” he reminds you bluntly, “‘course I know where my remains are. Dunno if they've turned ash, though. Guess you can't marry me if they have.”
“No, we’ll get married,” you say, unbothered. “I'll dig up all the dirt from this shithole and say my vows to that if I have to.”
Okarun gives you a funny look. “How are you gonna get all that dirt out?” he asks.
“I'll make you carry it.”
“Huh? Says who?”
“Says Momo. He’ll help me carry it, right?”
“He will,” Momo affirms, and her boyfriend chokes. She ignores him, scanning the wreckage. “I hope it doesn't come to that, though. Hey, Evil Eye—can’t you be more specific with where we're supposed to dig? Coordinates or a map would be nice.”
“I'm not a fucking radar!”
You give him a pleading look. “Please, Jashi? Can't you try? For your future wifey?”
The Vessel's face gets hot. Its heart does the stupid thing where it jumps when you're around, or when he holds you after the two of you have sex, or when he stares too long at the engagement ring that's usually on your finger (now hanging around your neck on a silver chain, safely away from Tsuchinoko gunk).
“...fine. Gimme a sec.”
He closes the two eyes of the Vessel so that he can focus on his third. Human vision is too bound by shapes and light and figures; it distracts and deceives him. When he can't see your face, it becomes easier to hone in on his resentment. Unfair, his remains whisper to him, this is unfair let me go it hurts it hurts please stop please stop help me help me help me I don't want to die.
Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?
“There,” he says eventually, pointing at the ground, “it's all there. In one spot. Guess I'm still a skeleton.”
You've got something of a sixth sense—whether it’s an effect of touching the golden ball or coupling so often with a spirit, the Evil Eye can't be sure. However it came about, it seems to tell you that he's right. Your eyes go soft when you rest a hand on the dirt he’s pointed at.
“Momo, Okarun,” you say, “Thank you for your help. I can dig this up myself—you guys can take a break.”
“Huh? No, we’d be happy to…” Okarun starts, but then Momo’s dragging him out by the collar and making him squawk.
“Sure—we’ll wait outside!” she says. “C’mon, Okarun, let's look for Mongolian Death Worm remains—I saw an occult article saying that it has medicinal properties if you make a powder extract from it…”
“You can't take that stuff seriously, Miss Ayase…”
After they leave, you spend the rest of the afternoon digging.
The Evil Eye offers to help, but you are determined to do it yourself. It's okay, Jashi, you say, I’m going to do it. You're going to be my hubby—the Vessel’s heart does the throbbing thing again—so it's only right that I'm the one to unearth you.
He doesn't understand it, but he shrugs anyway. Suit yourself. And he watches as you your fingers dig into the dirt, delicate nails collecting detritus. You don't want to use a shovel, you say, because you're sure that his bones will be fragile and you don't want to damage them. Even when he tells you that his bones are likely ruined in the first place, burned to shit and frail from rot, you don't let up. You just keep digging until you’re picking them out of the dirt.
You roll out a silk cloth, revealing lotuses against a pale backdrop. One by one, you lay his bones atop the pink and ivory thread, and you've found about half of them before he realises that you're reconstructing his skeleton. It's a small, pathetic thing. Help me help me I don't want to die, he can remember himself screaming. It hurts it hurts it hurts please stop. Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?
The ghosts of the House begin to wail with rage.
Part of him worries for you—probably the part of him influenced by the Vessel, which is capable of a love that ghosts are not. It knows that you don't deserve his wrath.
“You should leave,” he says, but you shake your head. You take your time as you gather up bones, treating them all delicately as you roll them up in the silk, holding them close to you. As if you aren't in the presence of countless wrathful spirits. As if you are with the Vessel, and not with him.
“You were so small,” you say quietly. “Sometimes I forget that you were a child when you died.”
The Evil Eye stares at you, at the pathetic bundle in your hands. “That was ages ago.”
“But it never stops hurting, doesn't it?” you say, and the walls of the House close in on him. They tell him you're right, that you're a human, that you'll hurt him just like the rest of them, that you need to die too. But you look at him, soft in a way that belongs to the Vessel, tender in a way that the waif-ghost covets, and then the House shudders and goes quiet.
“I’m sorry I didn't help you back then,” you say, and it makes no sense, but he doesn't interrupt you. “I promise I'll make your married life a good one, now that we’re together.”
That's stupid, the Evil Eye thinks of saying, pedantic: I'm already dead. But you rise from the dirt before he can protest, and then you're taking his bones out of the House, cradling him in your arms.
Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?
For the first time since being born, his body is allowed to leave the confines of its prison.
IV. THE BRIDE
The ceremony happens at night.
You spend the whole day readying yourself. Aira helps you get into your dress, admonishing you for the satanic rituals you'll soon perform but giving you her blessing anyway. Momo does your makeup, telling you to ignore Aira. Vamola says that you look lovely in stilted, earnest Japanese. Auntie Seiko helps you with your hair; she asks you, all the while, if you would like to wear a headdress that might protect you from evil, or for her to perform a consecration on your body. Turbo Granny is less roundabout, offering to take the Evil Eye’s banana in advance of your marital rites. Serpo warns you not to let the Evil Eye take your bananas—Why are you even here!? Momo yells at him—and Reiko Kashima says you shouldn't listen to any of them. You need to hold onto your man no matter what, she advises.
She also says you're beautiful, though of course you aren't as beautiful as her.
Beautiful. Are you beautiful? You'll be beautiful when you marry Jiji, because you're certain that his PR agent will want you prettied up by a team of stylists rather than a bunch of goofballs. You will need to look good for the photos, at least as handsome as him, and you don't know if you can manage that. You will need to be poised in front of the five hundred people attending, about which ten are your friends and none of which are your family.
You're already married to Jiji, technically. The two of you had a civil ceremony that only Momo and Okarun attended as witnesses, quick and dirty and secret. But the official ceremony will make it real, and you are terrified of that. You love Jiji beyond comprehension, and you know he loves you back tenfold, but you've never been able to rid yourself of the small voice in your head that tells you that you aren't good enough for him. It's been haunting you ever since the two of you fell in love, and you think maybe even before that. Maybe it started plaguing you when you were young.
When you were a child, you used to ask yourself if anyone would ever love you enough to save you from the things being done to you—the things you were convinced would be irreversible. You had confessed this to Jiji before you had sex with him for the first time. (Making love, he corrected you, I want to make love with you, and it made you feel so shy you nearly kicked him out of your bed.) He'd replied that he did love you enough, and that he would save you as many times as you wanted (I’m sorry I couldn't help you back then, he'd added nonsensically, but now that we’re together, I'll make sure your life is a good one), and you were so happy that you cried.
Sometimes you still cry, thinking about his words. But no matter how many times you replay the memory, no matter how often you tell yourself that Jiji is an honest man, the small voice in your head always warns that he’d lied to you. That your wedding to him will be a lie, too.
You often think about how he would leave you (gently), and why he would leave you (the list is endless). And then you try to imagine life without him—no cheerful kisses peppering your features, no goofy expressions putting you in stitches, no grueling morning runs, no messy kitchen sinks, no you're the cutest girl in the world, you're so beautiful I can't believe I'm dating you, how come you don't believe me when I say that stuff, I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again, I know you can get better I'll help you, I dunno how to talk about this with anyone other than you, sorry I cried that was kinda lame of me, sorry I need to go to Spain, sorry I was away for so long, I got you this merch, I got us tickets to this show, is it my fault you're going to therapy again, can you come with me to Berlin, is everything okay, come with me to the U.S., are you okay, are we okay, I don't want to break up, I love you, I love you so much, marry me, I'm being serious please marry me, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, I promise I won't leave you—
You don't think you could imagine living without Jiji.
Your looming wedding to Jiji terrifies you, but your ghost marriage does not. You feel calm in your dress, certain in your decision. Jashi has never scared you the way that Jiji has, after all. He doesn't frighten you even when the Taoist priest pulls you aside and tells you, “You can still back out of this.”
“Why would I?”
He dabs at his temples with a handkerchief. “This ritual is dangerous with a being like the Evil Eye. Ghost marriages are meant to pacify benign spirits—not vengeful ghosts. I can't guarantee that he will be calmed by this.”
You give him a quizzical look. “If he isn't calmed, then what would happen?”
The priest swallows. “There are three potential outcomes. One—he is pacified completely and moves on to the afterlife.”
This would scare you ordinarily, but you know Jashi well enough to understand that he would never move on. “Okay. What else?”
“Two—he is unaffected, and things remain the same.”
You wait, watching the way his fingers tremble. A wind blows; it carries the scent of burning sandalwood from the wedding altar.
“And?”
“And three—the most likely possibility—he will attach himself to you and curse you.”
“Oh.” The thought should scare you, but you don't think it's fear that’s squeezing your heart. “What would a curse be like?”
“Devastating. You'll never be able to live a normal life, nor will you have a proper afterlife.” The priest shudders at this possibility, which apparently frightens him too much to further describe. “Listen—if the Evil Eye doesn't pass on, you must not complete the marriage. Completing it would make the attachment permanent, and it would realise any curse he places upon you.”
“‘Completing the marriage”?”
“Consummating it.” His face is white. “Sex magic is unspeakably powerful. I don't believe anyone would be able to break a curse that’s born from it—at least not involving such a great yaoguai.”
Anyone else might laugh at his words, but you remain quiet. After spending so long chasing golden balls and bananas, after nearly a decade of fighting off aliens trying to have sex with Momo and Aira, you know that he is telling the truth.
And besides—you know just how permanently a touch can linger (a lifetime, forever, doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?), so you aren't surprised to hear the kind of curse it inflicts.
“Okay,” you say. “I promise I won't let it happen.”
It is only with this vow that the Taoist consents to overseeing the marriage.
The affair is a hodgepodge of Chinese funerary practices and Western weddings—foreign in every respect, but not uncomfortable. Auntie Seiko, clad in red-and-white robes and a golden headdress, walks you down the aisle. Against all her counsel, a white veil sits atop your head and chases after your shoulders. You stop before an altar of offerings and summoning talismans, Taoist spells lit up by the full moon hanged above. Instead of a bridegroom, you are next to a coffin that holds a tiny skeleton. The priest is before you, now possessed by a death god that will call Jashi back to his remains. Supposedly it is a Taoist deity, but its presence feels more extraterrestrial to you than anything spiritual. You will need to ask Serpo about it later.
You study the audience as the priest begins the summoning ritual. Jiji sits in the front row, watching you intently; if all goes well, Jashi will leave his body for the duration of the ceremony, along with all the vengeful ghosts that once resided in the sacrificial house with him. The spirits of the house scare you more than Jashi; you do not know how they will behave once cleaved from his control. There's a banquet for them in the back, a long table with a spread of incense, flowers, rice, and fruit—but you do not know if it will be enough to pacify them.
Your wedding party is equally on edge. As the White Impermanence begins its rituals, Jiji’s body slumps, and everyone else stiffens in their seats. The air grows rife with malevolence. The stars and moon blink out of existence, the world around you grows silent, and a suffocating darkness overtakes the night—almost as if you have been submerged in Empty Space. Tiny cyan flames erupt in the air around the banquet table, their glow eerie in the darkness. They must all be onibi, you guess.
Jashi himself emerges before you, standing over the coffin that holds his bones. You’d expected him to look like the emaciated child that he'd died as, or perhaps the stick-thin monster that used to haunt Jiji—but he takes another form altogether, a formless shadow that your mind can barely comprehend. You're vaguely aware of Turbo Granny covering Momo’s eyes, Okarun transforming, Auntie Seiko readying her bat—but you don't look at any of them. You only stare, as if in a trance, at the single vertical eye that is now peering at you from the darkness.
It is probably strange that you feel so calm. If you were a normal person, you'd probably run from your wedding altar of incense and offerings. Or, actually—if you were a normal person, your mind would be fraying at the edges, gripped by a desire to self-destruct. You would sob and beg the Evil Eye to lift its gaze and let you go and to return to you your life.
But you are not a normal person. The Evil Eye has never really made you feel particularly suicidal, nor have you ever really wanted to beg for your life before it. Your gaze is calm as you recite your vows from memory:
I shall marry this man. No matter what tragedies may arise, I will love this person, respect this person, console this person, help this person—until death, and beyond it. I swear these things before the gods.
When the Evil Eye makes his vows, it is in speech that human ears cannot understand. From the wedding banquet, the spirits of the house cry, their wails cacophonous and wrathful, and suddenly you realise that something has gone terribly wrong. Something has changed with this ghost wedding, and not for the better, but when Seiko rises from her seat, you raise a hand.
Finally, the Evil Eye recedes. The darkness lifts, although the spirits linger. Jiji’s eyes flutter open, immediately anxious and disturbed. You give him a reassuring smile—and the rest of your wedding party, too.
Something has gone terribly wrong. Still, you go about your business cheerfully. You thank the Taoist priest, and you insist to him that you will clean up the altar yourself. You greet your friends and say that they should head for the reception, which will have food for humans rather than ghosts. You peck Jiji on the cheek, beaming at him, and he relaxes and congratulates you.
He cups your face tenderly, kisses you on the nose. “You look happy,” he says.
Something has gone terribly wrong, but you still smile and tell him, “Yes.”
V. THE OFFERING
Your marriage bed is an altar.
Ivory petals are scattered across the bed, along with whole lilies and chrysanthemums. Sweetness permeates the room, carried by the smoke of burning incense. Flames dance upon red candles, flickering as they cast a gentle, soft light. This is your attempt to set an intimate mood, but the Evil Eye does not feel any form of love—he only knows greed. Every object in this room is an offering for the dead, meant for ghosts to consume, and you are the greatest offering of all, waiting for him on the centre of the bed in white silk. You are more fragrant than any joss, riper than any fruit, and he is the most ravenous ghost in existence.
“Isn't this romantic?” you say, beaming at him, and this is when the Evil Eye understands that he absolutely cannot have sex with you.
The wedding was meant to pacify him, perhaps even allow him to move on, but it only did the opposite. Seeing you before him at the altar, vowing to spend a lifetime with him despite all his resentment and ugliness made bare—it only made him more covetous. To move on would be to give up all the love you’ve offered him, the kind of love he'd been denied his whole life.
The kind of love he cannot return.
But he wants it anyway. And like any ghost, he’ll take it—take your love, your heart, your body, your life—if he is allowed to spread your legs and fuck you.
He knows this intuitively, although Turbo Granny also told him this. If you care for her even a little bit, she'd groused, you won’t go through with it. Then she'd threatened to take his banana and his nuts.
But vengeful spirits cannot care for human beings, not truly. It's a wonder that the Evil Eye is hesitating at all, why he feels a pit when he thinks about trapping you. It must be a consequence of his Vessel, who loves you so selflessly that even his body resists hurting you.
“We shouldn’t do it,” he says outright. You blink at him.
“Why?” You tilt your head. “...are you getting wedding night jitters? Do ghosts get nervous?”
He stares at you, uncomprehending. “What? No! I'm not fucking nervous!”
You frown. “Then what's the matter?”
It'll be dangerous for you, he tries to say, but then you're giving him a shy look and untying the sash around your waist. He swallows as the silk robe drops around your shoulders, pools around your thighs. The ivory lace covering your breasts and your core is so sheer that he can practically see through it. It's delicate, pretty—and he wants nothing more than to tear it off and ruin you.
“Don’t you”—you look so flustered, so cute, an echo tells him—“don’t you wanna make love to your wifey?”
Part of him thinks he might cum in his pants. The other part of him wants to leave. Wifey, making love—those are all words that you use on the Vessel. All words that are meant for the Vessel. You're confusing the Evil Eye with your real lover, under the delusion that he is human, unaware that you're being haunted. The Evil Eye is not the man you wish to marry, to live in a House with, to make babies with, to grow old with.
Unfair unfair unfair it hurts it hurts it hurts please please please I don't want to die. I don't want you to die. Why can't I touch you? Why can't I hold you? Please please please—
“I can't.”
Your brow arches. “What do you mean?”
“I can't make love to you.” He pauses, feels a kind of frustration bubbling up when you give him a confused look. “I don't love you.”
Your mouth opens, and you make a faint, strangled noise before asking, “What?”
“I don't love you.”
It takes a moment. You stare at him; you look down; you close your eyes. Your shoulders shake. You'll probably get angry and throw him out, or you'll just calmly ask him to leave. However you do it, you would cast him out, and it would be for the better. You would remain uncursed, free to live out a proper life with the Vessel, and the Evil Eye would get to keep his nuts.
But instead of doing either of those things, you start sniffling—and all the blood leaves his face.
“You”—your voice is so fragile, and it cracks and breaks and his throat feels like it's closing up—“what do you mean you don't love me?”
The Evil Eye's mouth drops open as you start to sob. “W-wait, wait—why are you crying? Don’t cry!”
You start to wail. “You don't love me! I just married you and you don't love me! How am I not supposed to cry?” Between hiccups and sniffs, you pick up one of the pillows and throw it at him. He's paralyzed, forgets to dodge, and it hits him square in the face. “What did I do wrong?!”
“Nothing!” he yells. His heart is pounding. It's squeezing and twisting and it feels so bad that he nearly wants to dispossess the Vessel. “You didn't do anything wrong! It's not you! It's—”
“If you say ‘It’s not you, it's me’, I'll kill you! I'll really kill you!”
“I’m already dead!”
“Then I'll beat your ass!”
“You can't beat my ass! You're not strong enough!”
“Then I'll banish you! I'll spray Jiji with hot water everyday and I won't let you come out! Not even to have Pampy! Not even to play with Okarun!”
The Evil Eye’s mouth drops open. “That's fucking mean!”
“You're fucking mean!” You look at him, and your gaze is so watery and pained that the Evil Eye can't help but go to you. He doesn't realise that he's wiping away your tears until his fingers are wet, and he can’t find it in himself to push you away when you press your face into his shoulder and cling to him. His arms—no, the Vessel’s arms; it must be the Vessel doing this—tighten around you.
“Why—why don't you love me?” you whine between hiccups, and the Evil Eye should call you foolish for expecting him, a spirit who intends to kill all of mankind, to ever love a human. To think that you could spend all these years around him and be so delusional about his true nature—is it that you've forgotten that he drives people to suicide? That his intent is to someday kill all of you, after killing Okarun? The spirits of the House scream at him to grab your face and force you to look at his hideous third eye, to remind you of what he is, to say you're a human you should die like the rest of them you’re as guilty as all of them, you would lock me in a cage too, you would burn me alive and bury my bones beneath a House.
Instead, he rubs your back until your breath begins to even out. And rather than grabbing you and threatening you, he clears his throat.
“I'm… a vengeful spirit,” he says lamely. “Love just isn't something that's in our nature.”
“Why not?” you sniff.
“‘cause if it were, we wouldn't be vengeful. We wouldn't even be ghosts in the first place, probably.”
“B-but,” you whimper, “we've been dating for so long. We live together and sleep together and eat together. You take care of me and I take care of you. We go on dates and hold hands. We even have sex—like, a lot of sex. You initiate it!” You sound accusatory, and the Evil Eye doesn't understand why. Of course he wants to have sex with you; it's one of the most addictive things about having this body. The part of the living world he wants most, nowadays. “If you didn't feel anything for me, why would you do any of that?”
He bristles. “Of course I feel something for you,” the Evil Eye says, oddly agitated. “Just ‘cause I can't love doesn't mean I can't feel. Resentment is what anchors ghosts to this world in the first place.”
“Then what do you feel for me, if not love?” Your fingers dig into the Vessel’s white suit. “Resentment?”
The Evil Eye stares blankly. He doesn't know how to describe it all—the longing, the greed, the envy for the Vessel. The euphoria and closeness of being inside you, a feeling so good that he didn't even know that such joys existed when he was human. The idea of living in a House filled with wedding photos, the thought of making babies with you that he might hold and touch and kiss. So many things that he never had in life. So many things that he can't help but want in death.
So many things that he can't help but want to trap you for them.
“...no, I don't resent you,” he says. “It’s more like I wanna curse you.”
He expects you to cry more—after living for such a long time among humans, he now has enough manners to understand that it is rude to curse someone who has only ever treated you with unconditional love, even if in error—but instead, you become strangely quiet.
You pull away from him so that he can see your face. It's—hopeful?
“You wanna curse me?”
“Yeah. Curse you—haunt you, possess you, control you.” He shrugs. “The usual things that ghosts do when they're so attached to something that they can't move on. You know.”
“Oh.” You wipe your eyes, and the Evil Eye has to stop himself from helping. “I'm so happy.”
“...you're what?”
“I'm so happy that you feel that way about me.”
He stares at you. “You're happy that I wanna curse you?”
“Yeah.”
The Evil Eye studies you. You never react to him in ways that make sense—you’re endeared by him when you should be afraid; you treat him sweetly when you should be callous; you even seem to enjoy his violence when everyone else always punishes it. Now you’re touched by the idea of being cursed.
“Why?” he asks flatly. “I thought you wanted to be loved. Or make love. Something like that.”
You give the Evil Eye a long, thoughtful look.
“Jashi,” you start, voice gentle now, “what do you think love is supposed to look like?”
A married couple in a House. A baby in his mama’s arms. Three children dancing in a field, giggling in the sunlight.
“Dunno.” When you stare at him, as if expecting something, he grows agitated. “I said it's not in my nature. Talk to the Vessel about that stuff, not me.”
One of your brows arches. “Why? You're my husband”—his heart kicks violently at that; he hates this fucking body sometimes—“I want to know what you think love looks like. And besides…” Your voice gets all quiet, and you look away. “It’s not like Jiji would necessarily agree with my views anyway.”
That gets his attention. “What do you mean?”
You hum. “How do I explain it… well, for example—if I found happiness with someone else and left to be with them, Jiji would be heartbroken, but he would be happy for me. Because he loves me, it's ultimately most important for him that I'm happy.”
A married couple in a House. Two corpses dangling from the rafters. A baby in his mama’s arms. A child suffocating in the darkness, crying for his parents. Three children dancing in a field, giggling in the sunlight. Starving in a cage nearby, I'm so hungry, I'm so cold. Unfair unfair I don't wanna die I wanna play with other children I want to dance in the field please please please why can't I touch you why can't I hold you why why why—
“That's fucking stupid,” the Evil Eye blurts out.
“But that's what he’s told me—and I believe him.” You smile at him. “Now, how do you think I'd react if someone took you or Jiji away from me?”
This feels like a trick question. He squints at you. “The same?” he tries.
“That would be ideal. But honestly,” you admit, “I would resent you all for the rest of my life and then think about killing myself. That's what love looks like for me.”
“Oh.” The Evil Eye nods, relaxing. “Yeah, that makes way more sense.”
You laugh, sounding genuinely amused. “Jiji doesn't think so. It really worries him that I feel this way. It would worry most people, actually.” Then you get a little quiet. “I do want to get better for him, but it doesn't come naturally to me, the way that he loves me.”
He doesn't like the tone you're using—soft, uncertain. Mournful. You feel like one of the spirits in the House right now. He thinks about the way you cradled his bones, and his hold on you tightens.
“Where are you going with this?”
“I'm saying that I don't mind that you want to haunt me, or possess me, or whatever.” Your eyes are earnest. Steadfast with the confidence you had as you unearthed his grave. “To be honest, being cursed by you isn’t nearly as frightening as being loved by Jiji.”
The Evil Eye cups your face, thumbing away your tears. Would you cry like this if you knew what it would mean, to be possessed by him? Would you regret your offer to him, the way that the Vessel regrets his? Or would you stare at his true face as you did at the altar and vow to love him anyway?
Instead of asking you any of this, he allows you to loop your arms around his neck.
“I want you to make love to me,” you murmur sweetly as you climb atop him, and that makes him pause.
Two corpses dangling from the rafters. A child suffocating in the darkness, crying for his parents. Starving in a cage nearby, I'm so hungry, I'm so cold. Unfair unfair unfair why can't I touch you why can't I hold you why why why—
“I said I don't know how to do that.”
“Fine,” you say, and then you’re pressing your lips against his, grinding your cunt against his hardening cock. “Then curse me instead.”
VI. THE DEMON
You've always known that the Evil Eye couldn't love you in a normal way.
It was obvious from the outset, simply cataloguing him for what he is: a monster born from human sacrifice; a curse that drives people to madness, to suicide; a thing that regularly exploits Jiji for his body and makes him commit violence against his will. Jiji and Okarun and the rest might be delusional about the Evil Eye nowadays—thinking that he's just like a kid, that he just wants to play, that he’s in love and wants to get married and play house—but you are not. He can't play with Okarun in normal ways, and he can't love you in normal ways. Every desire ends in blood. That's how it began for him, after all. How he was born.
Your mind has always known this, but your body only learned it the first time you had sex. The Evil Eye doesn't know how to make love to you the way that Jiji does. You’ve tried countless times now, and he's even demanded that you make him do it that way so that he knows what the Vessel gets to feel during sex with you. You've kissed him deep and slow, gently touched him until he felt desire, taken him inside you and pressed your forehead to his. Just like that, you encouraged him countless times, you're doing so good. Good boy. You're doing so well. I love you.
You always end up with your face pressed into the mattress, cheeks wet with tears and throat hoarse from screaming. Sore and bruised and fatigued and it's too fast, it's too big, I can't, please, and with any other man you'd probably hate it but when it's Jashi you always end up moaning and begging for more. You'd always thought you’d be disgusted with yourself for having this kind of sex, but with him, you feel too good to really care. All you can think about is his teeth marking your neck, the cruelty of his rough hands, how his cock fills you so well that you can hardly breathe.
He’s taken you like this countless times, but something feels different about it right now. It might be the incense, so thick in your throat and your lungs that you're dizzy with it. It might be the fragrant petals crushed beneath you, soft and strange things that you stole from your wedding altar. Flowers for the dead, the priest had said to you, given to the ancestors, or to bodies as they're lowered into the ground.
You think maybe that's happening to you, right now: you’re dying, you're being torn apart, you’ll break in Jashi’s hands. It'll leave a mark on your body for a lifetime, forever—and you don't need to be saved.
But even after being fucked so many times, even after your mind has been made so hazy and distant, you're still trying so hard not to come apart at the seams. An agonizing pressure is building in your belly, and you can't let it burst. It’s inconvenient when you get too wet; it makes Jashi switch, which is normally hilarious but would feel catastrophic right now, when you’re drunk on the feeling of his cock inside you and don't want any of this to end. But it's so hard, keeping yourself from drenching him—you can hardly think when he's fucking you like this, let alone control yourself.
“I c-can't anymore,” you whine. “Jashi, you gotta stop, I need a break, please—”
Jashi doesn't care. He takes and takes and takes, and of course he does. It's in his nature as a vengeful ghost, as an existence so empty it can't do anything but consume the life around it. It's not enough that you’ve been ruined by his cock, that you're being used like a fleshlight. It's not enough that he’s made you cum countless times—not out of consideration to you, but simply because he's addicted to the feeling of you squeezing and milking him. It's not enough that he's spilled himself inside you more times than should be possible, uncaring of the consequences. It's not enough, it's never enough—he always needs more from you; more tears, more begging, more feverish, white-hot pleasure.
You shouldn't be surprised when you feel his hips start to stutter again, his cock twitching inside you. Some distant part of you is alarmed anyway, even as your cunt tightens around him, eager to be filled. You've never let anyone fuck you raw before tonight, never had anyone fill your womb up like this—not him and not Jiji; you've always been too afraid of pregnancy—but with each passing moment, it is harder to remember why. Not when it feels so good to be pumped full by him, your body flooded with a strange warmth each time. Unnatural, you keep thinking, this feels weird, he's doing something to me, he's cursing me, he's claiming me. But all you do is wrap your legs around his waist when he cums again, greedy for more, and you sigh in relief at the feeling of it.
He has to stop after this. He has to be sated. He pulls out, his cock throbbing against your swollen pussy, painting it a creamy white—and then he throws your legs over his shoulders and sinks back into you.
“Nooo,” you moan, squirming, thrashing, knowing you'll burst if he fucks you again. “I can't, I can't—I can't hold it in anymore, I can't—”
“Then don't,” he grunts. He looks straight down at you, his weight heavy on you, oppressive, unnatural. You hold your breath as you look at his face—dark and vicious, the vibrant eye on his forehead enrapturing. For the first time in your life, you feel a madness creeping in as it stares at you, fraying at your control. You can't move, can't resist him, can't think, and when he starts thrusting again, your body floods with a euphoria so hot that all you know how to do is cry.
You’re going to break from the ecstasy.
“W-what,” you gasp, “what are you doing to—”
Something hits your sweet spot, and your voice clips off into a desperate whimper. His cockhead starts grinding against it, and you try so hard to squirm, to stop, to control yourself—but whatever he's done to you has made you weak, pliant, and you feel yourself start to pulse. Pinned beneath his gaze, you can neither get away nor fight it. You can only surrender. The pressure is too much, your womb is too hot, and suddenly your back is arching and you feel like you're dying as you gush all over him.
You're in hysterics as you come down, panting and gasping for breath. “No more, no more,” you beg, squeezing your eyes shut, clinging to him. You sob into the crook of his neck, and finally—finally—he relents.
He’s gentle as he pulls out, careful as he sets you down on the bed. Kisses pepper your cheeks, your eyelids, your lips. Then, finally—his forehead pressed against yours, lashes fluttering against your skin.
Jiji saw it on your body: a sunburst of strange characters on your stomach, an eye in the centre. The Taoist priest had broken into a pale sweat at the sight, its implications: if anyone else tries to touch you, whether with the intent to do harm or pleasure, then the untold carnage will be wrought upon them. Should you ever try to leave the Evil Eye, he will drag you back with such violence that it will shatter you. That so long as that vengeful ghost is bound to this earth, then so too shall be you.
Jiji is less worried than he probably should be. He doubts that the Evil Eye would truly ever hurt you, and also doubts that you’re physically capable of leaving him anyway. Ever since being marked, you haven't been able to go a day without having either of them inside you—brutally if it is with the Evil Eye; gently if with Jiji. Either way, you’ve been desperate for their touch, plagued by an all-consuming lust if you can't have them. It puts a wrench into all the plans for your respective careers and for the long distance arrangement. Auntie Seiko plans to train you to suppress the curse, but it isn't sustainable.
Privately, though, there's a part of Jiji that doesn't mind the excuse to see you all the time. It’s not that he wants to deny you your freedom, quite the opposite, but—you're his beautiful wife. And he's ridiculously in love with you. He can't help but miss you every day you're apart, and he also can't bring himself to complain about this particular aspect of the curse.
He also understands the Evil Eye for doing this to you. Sure, cursing you wasn't Jiji’s first act as a newlywed—but he also kinda gets it.
Jiji shares dreams with the Evil Eye, sometimes. He sees within them everything that the Evil Eye has experienced—not just as a demon, but as a spirit, a child, a waif. Sometimes he hears the thoughts that he once had, the ones that made him turn vengeful: unfair, this is unfair let me go it hurts it hurts please stop please stop help me help me help me I don't want to die.
Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?
After all that? Of course the Evil Eye doesn't experience desire the way that a human would. Of course playing with someone is the same thing as killing them. Of course loving someone is the same thing as cursing them. And the Evil Eye loves you—that much is obvious, would be obvious to Jiji even if they didn't share a body—so of course his instinct was to carve you open and mark you with his spell.
Jiji feels poorly about it sometimes, guilty and selfish and like he should have ended things after all. Then you'd be free to love whoever you want, without the threat of certain death looming over you. But then you smile at him in bed, so tender and pretty and glowing beneath him. “I'm glad I get to be with you both,” you sigh, and then he can't really complain. After all, you're his beautiful wife. Jiji is ridiculously in love with you. Of course he wants you to be happy.
If it really ever comes down to it, if you really ever wanted to leave—Jiji knows he'd have himself exorcised. He'd rather die than hurt you. But the possibility seems so distant right now, with how you're studying the stone monument before you. You seem peaceful, tranquil, a calm figure cut against a placid, blue sky. Jiji guesses that's appropriate: cemeteries are meant to be resting places.
This plot of gravesoil belongs to the Enjoji family, and there is a spot carved out for you, right next to the space reserved for him. You bear his surname now, so when the two of you pass, you’ll be allowed to rest side-by-side. He already knows what the Evil Eye would say to that: you'll live in a House together and make babies together and eventually die together and be buried together. And if Jiji could talk to him, if he could for once directly speak with the monster inhabiting him, he'd beam at him and say yeah, we sure are.
But the Evil Eye would miss one thing, and it's that he'd also be buried with you. He'd be buried with both of you.
In your hands is an urn, plain but dignified. It carries the ashes of a waif hundreds of years old, the remnants of a brutal sacrifice. The last step of a ghost marriage is to bury the bones of the bride with the remains of the groom, but you're an Enjoji now, and Jiji’s family does cremations, not burials. When the time comes, you'll be burned, and your ashes will be mixed with those belonging to Jashi. He’ll go before either of you: by the end of the day, his remains will be in the crypt, though Jiji doubts his spirit is going anywhere.
“We’ll be interred with each other, someday,” you say to the ashes, tender. “But first we’ll spend a lifetime together.”
Then you turn to Jiji, your smile sunlit. It's shy, because you're always shy around Jiji—even though he's now your husband and you’ve married him in front of five hundred people and he's made love to you every which way on every piece of furniture in the house since then—and you add, “And we’ll spend a lifetime together too.”
Jiji laughs. “I guess you're stuck with me,” he says, and a frown briefly overtakes your face.
“We’re all stuck with each other,” you correct him. “You're cursed as much as I am.”
“I guess.” He scratches his cheek, sheepish. “Sorry you ended up with a husband who’s possessed by a ghost.”
“I wasn’t talking about Jashi,” you say, and you seem a little uncertain, but Jiji can't help but smile. Partly because he appreciates it when you're earnest with him, but mostly just because he loves you.
“You're so beautiful,” he says, “did you know that?”
You huff at him, turning around. “You’re too much,” you chide, but he hears the fondness in your tone. Jiji grins, and—in the privacy of the cemetery—takes the opportunity to loop his arms around you. You giggle when he squeezes you, and then your voice goes quiet.
“I love you,” you say, “did you know that?”
“Uh huh.” He spins you around so he can waggle his brows and give you his most reassuring look. You snort violently at his expression. “It’s super obvious. You can't resist my charms.”
When your laughter passes, you look down at the ashes in your arms—the child that you carried out of the House.
“Do you think,” you ask, voice odd, “he knows that?”
Jiji’s eyes soften. Because he shares dreams with the Evil Eye, and sometimes he shares thoughts with him too—like the pain in his chest that's been aching ever since he found his parents hanging side-by-side from the second floor, the one that grew every time he found the body of a spirit medium, the one that choked him when his relatives called him cursed and slammed the door in his face. He slept on the ground in front of their house after that—he didn't want to go back to the place where his parents nearly died—and called Auntie Seiko the next day, when he realised that they truly didn't want him around.
Sometimes he shares dreams with the ghost haunting him, and when he screams in his sleep he can't tell if the voice in his throat is truly his or if it actually belongs to the Evil Eye. But no matter its origin, it goes quiet when you hold him in bed and kiss his forehead. Just like how it went quiet when you carried that skeleton out of the House.
Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?
“Yeah,” Jiji says. “Yeah, he does.”
END
some general notes:
this was a weird fic to write. ordinarily I would write the evil eye as having a childish and immature narrative voice; however, I (1) had to balance it with an aged up characterization, and (2) did not want to get cancelled, so I instead ended up with something in-between that feels a little awkward
there is jiji-focused companion fic that is like 50% done about him fucking you nasty after he switches places with the evil on your wedding night. I will probably finish it and post it when s2 comes out LOL
i know this is not my best writing rip please forgive me
some cultural notes:
taoism has real-life sex magic practices and places a lot of significance on, err, certain bodily fluids in terms of spiritual energy. none of these beliefs have anything to do with getting cursed via freaky ghost marital sex, but they served as the general inspiration for the curse in the fic (alongside dandadan canon, which coincidentally also places a lot of spiritual significance in sex and sexual organs lol)
the vows recited by the reader are a modification of standard japanese wedding vows (found on Google, take with a grain of salt). incidentally, western-style weddings are apparently quite popular in Japan, hence the decision for the bridal dress.
a lot of the wedding details are inspired by chinese funerary practices in addition to actual taoist ghost marriages. I took a lot of creative liberties with the wedding scene in general; real-life ghost marriages are quite different (from my understanding; I have never attended one)
Mydeimos and you are husband and wife. In ancient China, where the heavens and earth exist in the same dimension, your husband slays beasts and demons to protect the Emperor and the Holy Nation. You, yourself, are closely related to divinity, though it is a relationship you wish to abandon, because the heavenly forces have only wished the worst upon you. And it seems nothing has changed, when the divine wants to destroy your and Mydei's relationship.
mydei x afab!f!reader, chinese mythology!au, nsfw
word count: ~17,400
cw: angst/slight comfort, minor character death, religious/spiritual imagery/themes/depictions, graphic descriptions of violence/blood/death, unprotected sex, marking kink, a singular instance of a blood kink, undertones of codependency, unintended phainon slander (truly just for the plot)
notes: to my beloved beta, @staraxiaa, i love you. truly. you have such a beautiful mind and an unmatched cadence to your words. thank you for all that you do for me, and this piece would not have come out of the vault without your encouragement and advice.
to readers, would soo appreciate reblogs, comments, and tags on this piece! i always put a bit of my soul in my writing, but truly, as a chinese person myself, this fic is especially special in my heart. i may post an author's note, but for now, i hope you are able to walk away from this piece knowing a bit about my heritage, culture, and mythology, though there may be several historical inaccuracies LOL
Everyone in the village knows Mydeimos loves you and you love Mydeimos. In particular, the elders, those who often sit under the weeping willows at noon and fan themselves with their cheap linen imitations of the gongshan, laugh amongst themselves about the blush that had blossomed on Mydeimos’ face with your first appearance and has never left since, until the faint outlines of their grandchildren appear on the border between the horizon and the flat earth. Because who could believe that their village chief, a figure of authority and demand – though a son he will forever be remembered as in the villagers’ eyes and memories – would ever look so pathetically adorable. But at this point, it is not a question anymore, moreso a teasing remark the people make in the presence of their adored chief.
And you, a girl of an unknown origin, from another collective li and li away, have also become a beloved member of this village. Even if you were not Mydeimos’ wife, your kindly manner, speaking always with a warming wisp of a smile, and the gentle curve of your upturned palm have won over the hearts of the villagers here.
It is clear to everyone that, by the decree of the heavenly gods above and their kindred spirits down on this earth in the forms of the water, leaves, wind, and destiny, that you and Mydeimos are for each other, to always be intertwined and inseparable in this vast, vast universe.
–
My love.
Mydei – just Mydei in your presence – twitches in his sleep, the magnetic pull of your voice coming from somewhere between the depths of his half-conscious, sleepy haze and the echoes from the four sun-stricken brick walls of your shared bedroom. You tantalize him already, when he has so much to do, so much to worry, so much to protect. After all, being one of the Emperor’s generals is no casual title, and one can tell because all he can boast about is the long hours of never-ending work and the deplorably large number of men he had to send to the infirmary the other day for they all lacked strength comparable to his. Indeed, he has much to be concerned about, yet in the spare moments of tranquility he is granted in the early morning, he allows himself to bask in both the warmth from the dawn sunlight that streams through the bamboo folding screens and radiates from your lulling tone.
Mydei.
He blinks awake, your silhouette discerned with more clarity with each closing and opening. You are holding the blanket up to your chest with one arm, while your other reaches over to stroke his hair, straightening out strands that have splayed themselves across his forehead, intermingling with the lengths of his eyelashes and paralleling the cut of his jawline.
You will be late.
Displeased at your reminder, he grunts and leans into your palm, the shape of it meant to caress and cradle his cheek. You do not make any noticeable reaction, except for the slight lifts at the corners of your lips. And you let him assume control of your hand, relinquish your time as well, so that you can connect with him before he sets off for another long day at work. Though work is never just work for someone as noble as Mydei, as even the trek to the Palace is fraught with danger, where assassins and mercenaries can be prowling in the shadows, waiting for the right timing to strike, attack, kill your lover, the chief of a village a slight ways away from the Capital, a general to the Emperor and this Holy Nation.
Mydei then cups one of his hands over yours, and sits up with your fingers interlaced. With a quick glance, he is sated and actually smirks at the marks that bruise, bloom, and flourish across the delicate skin of your shoulders and neck. He leans over to kiss a spot that is undoubtedly the most stubborn of them all, the last that will fade from remembrance.
I know. I am on my way now.
And, without another word, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and gets up to stride over to the washroom. You watch from your position, eyes lingering over the hardened and muscled build of his legs, the jagged scars that etch themselves into the broad scope of his back and sides, and the tanned lines that have begun to form on his arms, a sign that the height of spring has arrived. You wait until he has left the room to release a pleased hum before you, too, stretch and prepare yourself for your day.
In the courtyard, it is more than obvious that spring has fully encompassed the Holy Nation. The magnolia buds are green, hurried and eager in their pursuit for growth, and the scent of damp soil has begun to dissipate from the lack of overnight snow and frost. A young female servant, a recent addition to your handful of helpers, speaks in rapid, excited breaths as she serves you powdered cakes in bite-sized pieces and pours oolong tea into a brown porcelain cup, reciting news about the Emperor’s several princes she had overheard when she went to the market earlier today. You cannot help but chuckle as the servant takes a seat beside you, her arms propped up on the table with her face resting on her fist, humming as any young girl in love would. It just so happens that your head maid comes over at this moment and scolds the younger one.
Get up! Where are your manners? Apologize!
You simply wave them both off and ask the young servant to continue her relay. After all, she is not of age yet, so she can only daydream, and who are you to not indulge in such whimsies. She tells you of the second youngest prince, one of three in her generation, and she fantasizes of colliding into him in the streets as he makes an escape from the Capital. It is no surprise that the prince, along with all nine of his royal brothers, are mischievous, something that many Daoist priestesses have foretold as they ventured in and out of the Palace, prophecies that trace back even before the births of many of the Emperor’s sons. Yet the young servant’s fantasies are far too exaggerated and dependent on coincidence to ever materialize, so after a while, you begin to ask her other questions.
How are this season’s harvests? Are there murmurings of strife and conflict along the Northern border? Are the rabbits back?
She responds accordingly: seasonal goods, such as green peas and plums, seem to be more expensive and sparse than last year; no outbreaks so far, and people are anticipating a peaceful year ahead; the rabbits have begun to leave their burrows! In fact, regarding that last point, the servant urges you to finish your tea faster so you can visit the babies, and despite the exasperated protests from your head lady-in-waiting, you gulp the last dregs of your drink, bits of loose tea leaves included, before gathering your dress into your fists and rushing out of the pavilion.
Rabbits are cautious creatures. They are aware of their disadvantages and their being on the bottom of the food chain. And while this village that you have become a part of and that Mydei grew up in has long taken root in this region of the Holy Nation, the local flora and fauna have yet to fully adapt to the presence and caprices of humans. Where you are from, it is quite the opposite, in that the people of your origin have learned to assimilate with this earth, rather than the other way around. Where you are from, the rabbits are not afraid to come out of their burrows and shallow mounds to peer curiously – fearlessly – at their human neighbors.
As you and the young servant approach a lush corner of the courtyard, your steps decrease in stride and bumbling excitement. Instead, the two of you tread with silent passes, almost as if you were rabbits yourselves. And when the two of you make it to the edge of the walkway, you stand still and hold your breaths, waiting earnestly for even the most fleeting of a glimpse of the animals.
Since your youth, you have had a talent for disappearing, in the most neutral sense possible. With ease that a person of ego cannot bear to imagine or replicate, you are capable of shedding off all and any attachments you have to your person and melding into the sways of the wind, the humming of the bees, the thrums of the soil beneath your feet. You showed this ability of yours to Mydei before, albeit unintentionally. It was happenstance, something you had done out of habit when he had taken you out for a stroll along a manmade pond near the east end of the Capital and you were trying to feed a pair of restless magpies. You were only shaken out of your illusory state from the grounding pressure of his hand against your shoulder blade.
With an ability like that, you could easily conceal yourself and become an assassin.
You shrugged in response because, unlike him, there is no obligation for you to pursue the art or administration of death, and you figure you will never have to either.
This is all to say that, had it not been for the chirp of excitement from your lady-in-waiting, the rabbits would have approached you out of sheer intrigue. And as quickly as they shuffled out of their home, their grey and white whiskers and fluff ruffling in the breeze, their beady eyes take note of you and your servant before they recede back to safety. Your lady-in-waiting sighs with palpable adoration and lovesickness, and you promise her that there will be another chance tomorrow.
For the rest of the morning, you eat a quick breakfast under a pagoda, admiring the jasmine blossoms that flourish around the circumference, before making way to your fitting. Fittings only occur when special occasions are imminent, and with a banquet at the Palace in celebration of the fourth prince’s birthday occurring in two weeks, your other ladies-in-waiting have brought back several robes from the market for you to try on, no doubt on Mydei’s orders. There is a generous collection of blush, cream, and sunshine brocade and linen that await you, and as you dress and undress, tie and untie, spin and spin, it is unanimously agreed upon by all of your attendants that nothing will be returned. There is also a tray that holds various accessories, most notably a tasteful amalgamation of embroidered fans and gold-accented jinbu, and those are all kept as well. Of course, upon realizing that all of these valuables are yours and yours only, you pass on a message to one of Mydei’s servants to also visit the market with expectations of purchasing new cords for your husband’s hair, as well as a replacement for his worn yudai.
Then, it is lunch, but you tend to spend this time with the other villagers. With a parasol in one hand and a basket of tangerines and dried dates in the other, you head to the edge of the village, accompanied by two guards for formality’s sake. At the perimeter, where brick walls intercept a wide, trodden path, there are several benches and tables so that both residents and travelers alike can rest. When you first arrived, you, too, sat down here, gulping down a flask of water as you observed the hustle and bustle – not as busy as the Capital, but festive enough to indicate decent business and progress.
The elders and a few mothers already present greet you with dips of their chin. Usually, citizens are to greet those of nobility or high-ranking government positions with strict curtsies and bows, and while Mydei insists on the custom in speech, he does not uphold this rule quite as stringently. The reason for your visits are twofold: to know your people and to gather information. Though you have not yet born descendants of your and Mydei’s own, you have come to realize that children have sharp ears and loose mouths, fervent in their interminable search for entertainment and delight. The village is close enough for children to pursue education in the Capital if their parents so wished, so until many of them return, you pass your time underneath the arching path of the sun exchanging pleasantries and discussing matters.
By the time the little ones return, the sun is bathed in orange gold, half-concealed by the mountains you had once traversed, and there are but a few of the fruits remaining, just enough to quench their parched throats. As children do, they clamor to their respective guardians, complaining about the heat and how they are so sweaty and tired that there is no conceivable way they can continue to study later tonight. They also recognize you, and with a lightheartedness that more often occurs between friends of the same generation, they whine for your treats. You laugh as you hand the last pieces out, as you would when feeding cabbage bits to rabbits.
Upon your return home, the moon already having replaced the sun as the night’s guardian, you dismiss your guards, so you can bathe while the rest of the household eats. You much prefer solitude when you are in a vulnerable state, and your ladies-in-waiting are no exception to this preference, even if they are no stranger to a woman’s body. Sat on a stool, you strip yourself, letting all the layers collapse in a disheveled pile, and remove any pins and beaded strings from your hair. By now, your servants have become familiar with your ways, so there is already steaming water in the bronze bathtub, so you directly step in and submerge yourself up until your neck.
The hot water is not very pleasant against your warm skin, but you stay regardless, as spring evenings can still be unforgiving and biting. You watch as the water sloshes against the solid walls of the tub, causing the steam to waver before resuming its vertical ascendance, and do nothing even when a few splashes escape and drip down the exterior. After all, this time is allotted for you to think, nothing more. Your thoughts are preoccupied with declining trade with farmers outside of the Capital, many citing long-lasting droughts and fires as primary culprits, and there have been a sharp incline of those suffering from heat strokes and asthma. Some have even mentioned hallucinations of more than a single sun in the sky, and while you are not one to be affected by superstitious or mythical stories, you do find it odd that there have been multiple accounts of such a phenomenon from various distinct folks. These are pieces of information you must report to Mydei, though it is too early to draw any actionable conclusions.
You arise from your bath half an hour later, when the water has simmered down to a lukewarm. You dry yourself, adorn a simple beige gown with a matching robe over it, and make your way to the kitchen. By the moon’s position, if all goes smoothly, your husband should return in about two hours, more than enough for you to prepare his dinner.
Although you are not obligated to cook, you have sensed Mydei’s hesitation when it comes to consuming food that is prepared by those he is unfamiliar with. He trusts you and the villagers, but many of your household’s servants are from the Capital or elsewhere. Therefore, for both his sanity and safety, you have taken on the responsibility to provide him meals so that he may eat in peace at home. Besides, it is also an opportunity for the two of you to simply be together.
Just as you have set the last plate onto the dining table, Mydei returns, lamellar plates thunking and chain mail jostling with every heavy step he takes. It is a heaviness that resounds in your heart, for it is a reflection of his fatigue and, more importantly, the weight of the responsibilities he bears.
He does not come to greet you, not yet. He does not like appearing in front of you with his armor still on. He wants to avoid bringing in the stench of blood and grief into this abode he shares with you – does not want to taint you, his person of comfort and solace, with the violence you have no desire to take part in. Though, try as he might, deep down he knows it is to no avail, as his hands, the same ones he uses to touch and feel you, are already stained with death.
In the small shed, surprisingly compact and spare for a master of many weapons, he shrugs everything off with laborious groans. As each weighted iron slab and scratchy sheet of chain mail drops to the ground, Mydei lavishes in the slow regain of freedom in his movement. Lastly, he pulls off his helmet, and with a quick rub of his sleeve against a permanent smudge, he sets it on top of a drawer that contains duplicates of his uniform, first aid, and short daggers. He does not linger, and instead, swivels around to head to where you are.
When Mydei rounds the corner to stand in front of the kitchen entrance, double doors swung wide open, he cannot help but pause in his tracks, just a few paces away from joining you at the table in the center of the room. You peer at him from your seat, your chin resting in a divot formed by your palms, and also observe him, his face shrouded in shadows.
It is not so much a staring contest as it is a reverent yearning for one another. For no reason at all, it seems the two of you have a habit of practicing restraint – hesitation – before allowing yourselves to indulge in each other.
Come sit beside me.
I will. Let me admire you first.
And so you wait.
From Mydei’s perspective, you are the most beautiful at this time of the night. It is not to say that you are not in the morning, when you are still slumbering beside him with your hands splayed across his bare chest, or when you are pinned underneath him, a sinful image of you in your most disheveled state – his stained robe splayed out underneath your figure, your lungs heaving with pitched whines, your knees trembling with indecision as you fail to choose between spreading yourself open so that he can enter deeper or closing, and thereby restricting his movement, because the pleasure is unbearable. You are always his most precious, but he believes you are at your best when you are working towards an objective. And since your marriage, you have honored his same priority in protecting his people, and he will forever admire this determination of yours.
Truthfully, he never required such a sense of responsibility in his wife. In fact, before he met you, he had never imagined shouldering this duty with anyone else, let alone a stranger from somewhere far beyond. But you are no longer a stranger, and now, during your shared dinners, you are able to speak of this place as if you grew up here, alongside him and all the other villagers. You speak with incredible depth and acute intuition, and fortified by the precision and clarity in your words, he cannot help but think that, despite your personal aversions towards leadership and confrontation, you deserve to stand beside him in the ranks.
The oil lamps and candles on the dining table brighten your face with a gentle golden glow. He can see the flames’ flickering in your eyes, and behind you, he can hear the crackle of smoldering wood and charcoal. He walks over and takes a seat beside you, noticing the faint traces of fire and herbs that linger in your hair and at your shoulders. Pressing the side of his thigh against yours, he picks up his chopsticks and begins to eat, a gesture for you to initiate the conversation.
There is noticeable delay. We can no longer ignore the growing connection between the slowdown of trade with the recurring delusions of multiple suns in the sky.
Do you think it could be divine punishment?
If we had incurred the wrath of Tian, we would have long suffered, and the Emperor would have justified the recent happenings. Our deities have no interest or patience for prolonged torture.
We will need to wait then. We need to know more, or else we will be searching in vain.
No.
You set down your bowl and look straight ahead, peering outside at the courtyard – or rather, at a point somewhere beyond the walls of the courtyard. Mydei can feel your presence wax and wane, expand and recede, until it settles down into a light thrum, akin to the tranquil qi of lotus petals and mossy creeks. He can still see you, without a doubt, but he knows that if he had not been in this room with you right now, he would have never been able to find you here without incredible effort.
It is magical, truly, how you can quiet your presence. In his many years of training and fighting, he has met only a handful of incredible soldiers who can do the same. He was only able to gain this ability himself after maturing as a person and facing the near-death consequences of overwhelming, unbound bloodlust in the midst of combat. That is not to claim that you did not learn in the same ways, but he cannot confirm nor deny because, for better or worse, you never speak of the past. Otherwise, outside of the army, he only knows of the high priests and priestesses that can also adopt a kind of otherworldly aura during their rituals and prayers.
He chews slowly, more preoccupied with observing your profile. Your features are unperturbed, essentially blank, and there is an unfocused fog in your eyes, sharply distinct from the ambition burning within your irises at the beginning of dinner. You shiver, probably to your own ignorance, and he places his things down so he can take off his robe and wrap your shoulders with it. To his surprise, and contentment, you instinctively lean over to rest your shoulder against his without disrupting your thoughts. Just as you wait for him, he waits for you.
By the time the shortest of the three candles, once a sixth of its original length, is about to extinguish, you come to, and the light in your eyes returns as well.
Innate divinity – not to be conflated with the ability to call forth divine powers or forces – is only granted to a few select individuals. More than likely, there will be no need to search the common folk.
Let us begin at the Palace.
Will the Emperor take to this idea?
Perhaps he already has conjectures of his own. I shall request an audience.
Divinity is an intricate, mysterious subject. Deeply embedded in the belief systems and cultural underpinnings of this Holy Nation, most people are naturally mesmerized and fearful of Tian’s deities and their abilities. Even those who are born with divine abilities, namely the Emperor and a select few of his children, and those who can invoke divinity through sacred objects and incantations, such as priests, priestesses, and monks, advise all to be cautious of incurring heavenly wrath.
When you first heard of the hallucinations, you thought it to be the aftershocks of severe heatstroke. Then, when many more farmers and traders began to verify the sighting of various suns, it became clear that the divine was involved because, when individuals who have no capacity for divinity are exposed to these mystical forces, their minds and behaviors can be continuously affected. That must mean they must have come in contact with a mythic beast or creature.
The deities are known for having many children and several other distant brethren, some of which exist on the earth, roaming around as Buddhist guardians, such as the regal Dapengs, or man-eating snake monsters, the most infamous being the nine-headed Jiuying that terrorized seafarers for decades until Mydei slayed it. In this case, an immediate possibility was the return of the boar demon Feng Xi who often wreaked havoc upon farmlands. Feng Xi was also subdued by your husband a few years ago, but it would be no surprise if it were to appear again, typical of the inexplicable nature of divine beasts. But upon investigations of the ruined farmlands by their respective prefectural ministers, there were no signs of terrifying waste or death, only the usual symptoms of a long-lasting drought and ashy remains from fires caused by unrelenting dry winds. With further consideration, you also know that it is impossible, from personal observations and experiences, to invoke a heavenly force powerful – brutal – enough to cause a disaster of this magnitude. In other words, by process of elimination, the problem has to either be the direct doing of a human blessed with divinity or, even worse, a creature or deity from Tian themselves.
You can only hope it is not the latter.
Your concern must be showing on your face, as Mydei leans over to rub his thumb firmly against the apple of your cheek.
No more. Come back to me.
You nod, knowing when to be obedient. When Mydei speaks to you in this tone, sympathetic yet earnest, you know he is looking out for you, grounding you before you can fully lose yourself. While you have impressive mental strength and foresight, you lack an attachment to the present, and without supervision, there is a very real risk of you drifting far, far away, disappearing as you once did when you were young.
Your husband takes you by the hand and guides you back to your shared bedroom. The brief walk is silent, save for your footsteps and the occasional greeting from a guard. The two of you part momentarily when you enter the chamber, as Mydei heads to the side to open the window screens to allow streams of moonlight into the room, while you take your seat on the center of the bed. It is not cold even as a slight breeze filters into the room, for his robe still shields your back and shoulders. However, you elect to take it off, and Mydei watches you strip, not just his clothing but also your layers underneath, from where he is standing.
The moon always manages to cast a romantic light on all that it befalls, and through the midst of your moans, his pants, and the joining of your bodies, over and over and over again, it generously extends its rays so that the two of you are able to have a clear view of each other in your otherwise pitch black room. Surprisingly, there is also a warmth to the moonlight, a soothing and comforting quality to it, that makes you feel as if time is passing slower than it actually is. In this prolonged moment, you can pinpoint every single movement and sensation between you and Mydei – his steeled grip around the base of your neck as he presses you tightly against his chest, the curling of your toes with every deep thrust, the crescendo of his heartbeat against yours. In this room, there is only you and him, isolated and ignorant to the rest of the world – the universe, even –, and defying all rules of space and physics, you solely focus on extending the present for as long as you can, while Mydei struggles to convey to you just how deeply obsessed and enamored he is with you. No one can intervene in this proud, unabashed act of intimacy, and if either you or Mydei dared, both of you would even describe your shared bond as sacred. And, especially for you, you know to not use that word so carelessly.
And when Mydei lays you down to peel off your legs and instead press them down, as close to your ears as possible, he goes impossibly harder and deeper. In this space, there are only the two of you, though you are only seeing him, and he is only seeing you. There are no thoughts or even carnal desires, just a fundamental appreciation and unconditional loving for the other. You whimper – my love – as he presses his sweat-stricken forehead against yours, and he responds with a passionate roll of his hips and a scathing bite that draws blood at your left shoulder. With your arms wrapped around his head, you keep him there and leave him with no choice but to continue making love to you until you unravel at your climax with your teeth clenching, thighs shaking, mind spinning, soul soaring. Mydei soon follows, piercing his nails into your hips to mark you on the outside, releasing within you to mark you on the inside, and between labored rasps of your name, he smears his lips and tongue over yours in hopes of memorizing your addictive taste, your delighted sounds, and your passionate touch.
The two of you stay intertwined, even when neither of you are reeling from the impact of your highs. To part would be to abandon this private realm, which would mean returning to your normal tendencies of hesitance and restraint, and even though all of this will repeat once again tomorrow, you lack the patience to wait, still imprisoned in the moon’s warped, elongated trajectories of time and space.
Despite your defiance, the two of you fall asleep, consumed by wariness and longing, and another day of your life passes.
–
The Emperor has ten sons and countless more daughters. Today marks the seventeenth birthday of the fourth prince, and as expected, it is a grand event. Earlier, at the celebration’s reception, there were hundreds of dancers in neat rows, all flicking their sleeves and arching their fingertips to the rhythm of the Capital’s grand orchestra, also perfectly organized and harmonious as a whole. Following the conclusion of the performance, guards, servants, and lower-ranking officials dash back and forth and around the expanse of the Palace to ensure the undeterred progression of the fourth prince’s birthday party, while higher-ranking officials and generals, along with their accompanying guests, mill about before filing to their respective seats along the two columns of tables laid out parallel to the walls of the central courtyard. In the center front, there is a raised stage with a constructed overhang large enough to accommodate the Emperor, the Empress Dowager, and all ten sons. The platform and steps are entirely covered by a luxurious red carpet with golden floral patterns, and from Mydei’s seat, you can marvel at the delicate porcelain dishware set on top of masterfully carved wooden countertops. You are not used to such lavish displays of wealth and luxury because, although Mydei has long been one of the Emperor’s most loyal and trustworthy generals, that does not necessarily mean you are invited to visit the Palace often. Therefore, as the two of you wait for the birthday ceremony to officially begin, you try to sit as still as possible in order to marvel and take in your surroundings.
During this period, many governmental and bureaucratic figures visit your and Mydei’s seat to say their greetings and make elucidating small talk. Despite assuming his role as one of the Holy Nation’s protectors, your husband cannot abandon certain pet peeves of his, and he shuts down all but one of these conversations with dry responses that reveal nothing of his thoughts or opinions. The only official that he properly responds to is the Head of the Security Bureau, a man by the name of Phainon. From past dinner conversations, you remember Mydei mentioning this man but with the questionable nickname “Deliverer” instead. It was in reference to Phainon’s previous position under the Central Secretariat, though the reason behind his transfer to the Security Bureau continues to remain a secret even to your husband. Regardless, it is obvious that Mydei only tolerates this man at best, so you make sure to listen intently to their conversation.
Mydei! Rare to see you so festive!
It is Mydeimos for you, Deliverer.
Ha, yes, of course.
What is the Security Bureau doing here? What happened to keeping a low profile?
No worries, it is only me, and almost everyone here still believes I remain under the Secretariat. I am also here because I have news to share with you.
Hurry, then.
Phainon does not, though. He hums and begins to look around the courtyard. For a moment, you sense his gaze, but it does not linger for more than a full second. With a shake of his head, your husband sighs and takes deep gulps of water to keep himself preoccupied until the Security Head finally carries on.
He will want to speak to you, when it is your turn to congratulate the prince.
Regarding what?
But Phainon shrugs, and this time, there is no hint of evasion or distance. He truly does not know. But he does leave Mydei with one last piece of instruction.
You will be last in line.
After a few more teasing remarks, Phainon bids the two of you farewell, and from your periphery, you watch him disappear from the south gate.
Before dinner, all of the officials present are to line up in terms of rank and nobility, and, one by one, greet the Emperor, Empress Dowager, and the princes, as well as present their gifts. As per military customs, Mydei requested a new sword sheath of untarnished gold be made for the fourth prince, to represent unwavering courage and honorable victory, so that shall be your offering. However, these interactions usually do not last for more than a few minutes, the last ones usually even more rushed, to ensure that everyone gets their turn and are not too irritated by mealtime, so you wonder how exactly the Emperor will relay his message. Furthermore, you find it suspicious that Phainon requested your husband, one of the generals under direct supervision of the Emperor, to place himself last.
Alas, you find yourself in another situation where you cannot draw sound conclusions. But now that Phainon has left and no other officials have the gall to approach Mydei, you can actually enjoy the ongoing celebrations with your husband.
You fill his tea cup and then yours, though you take a sip first. When you look up at him, he nods in affirmation before drinking himself. The walls, you notice, are a rustic red-brown, though much of it has been covered up by the willows and persimmon trees that were moved specifically for tonight’s event. Scattered between the trunks of the trees are gathered shrubs of all kinds, from batches of orange peonies to short stalks of bamboo to clusters of purple asters. You wonder if you could bring back a few roots or seeds with you, but with one sharp glance from Mydei, you discard the idea immediately.
Your husband knows that you are bored, though, so he offers some reprieve.
There are rumors that the fourth prince might not even make it to his own birthday party.
I am not surprised. I have heard the Emperor’s sons are quite rowdy.
I believe Phainon is here to ensure that all of the princes arrive on time and participate through its entirety. I must say, it is quite entertaining to see him chase after a few brats.
Mydei.
Do not worry. The Emperor is understanding. Besides, I am sure he wholeheartedly agrees at the current moment.
Oh?
Mydei raises his chin, staring up at the night sky. It is hard to make out any one star due to the outstanding numbers of torches, lamps, and fires distributed around the courtyard, but it is not like Mydei was looking at the stars in the first place. The two of you are different in this way. You often seek the world when you think, looking outwards for celestial signs, while Mydei often becomes more introspective with his musings. Even when it looks like he is searching for something, he most likely is not, as he believes all of the answers he needs are usually, perhaps with some effort required, within one’s grasp.
Phainon has aided our investigations of the Palace. He is confident that the culprit is not to be found here.
Your fist digs into the sleeves of your gown.
There are not even signs of collusion?
You know the deities would never stoop to that level. They do not need the help of mortal intelligence or treachery. Regardless, the Emperor has been made aware of the situation, and is quite preoccupied with it. His sons’ constant running about and lack of any sort of drive or initiative is certainly not doing him any good either.
Pursing your lips, you glance at your husband, only to find him already staring at you.
Fear not, my wife. I have slain products of the divine before.
His eyes seem to glow with fierce intensity. The red and orange streaks in his eyes are more noticeable, not because of the myriad torches surrounding your table, but rather because his eyes are widening out of enthusiasm. You scowl, disapproving of his evident bloodthirstiness, yet despite your opposing morals, you slip a hand into his hold. By instinct, he begins to press at the pads of your fingertips, while rubbing circles into your palm. If it were any other day, any other moment, his physical affection would soothe and reassure you. Unfortunately, as Mydei has just confirmed the worst of your suspicions, the fear taking root in the pit of your stomach has already begun to sprout and overwhelm the rest of your emotions.
Surely there is no need to jump into a fight.
Huh, you propose a negotiation? Our deities already know what the consequences of their actions are – they do not care to change their ways, even with such knowledge. What makes you think their minds are still susceptible to reconsideration?
Perhaps some of them do care.
Your husband snorts. To be honest, he is a little surprised by your response. Neither of you are particularly devout, and throughout his many years of knowing you at this point, he knows you are not fond of the divine. So for you to defend them, to the extent of betting on their fickle and spare goodwill, is unusual.
It is not up to me, my wife. I act based on what the Emperor asks of me.
Something in you – a gut instinct, a trained intuition – tells you that you will find out the Emperor’s decision by tonight.
After another half hour, composed of more light-hearted conversation and small bites of snacks to whet your appetite, a gong finally sounds, its ringing reverberating throughout the entirety of the Palace. You feel your bones quake with each vibration, and only after its last echoes have died off does your body regain stillness. The Emperor’s secretary makes his way to the center of the stage, and with a deep bow, commands everyone to rise for the Imperial Family. Everyone stands and bows, faces parallel to the floor, until all members of the Imperial Family settle into their seats, which the secretary confirms several minutes later. Afterwards, you all line up.
Other officials have curious looks on their faces as they see you and Mydei turn away from the stage. One even asks where the two of you are headed, wondering if you have lost your minds and are intent on abandoning the ceremony, but neither of you respond and continue toward the back of the line.
You and Mydei do not speak for the entire hour that it takes for your turn to come. The whole time, nervous and intimidated stares are directed your way, but both of you could care less, simply standing side by side, close enough for your sleeves to brush against and overlap each other.
When the rest of the officials have returned to their seats, only you and Mydei remain, standing a few feet away from the steps that lead up to the raised platform. With a nod from the secretary, Mydei leads you forward, always a step ahead, and when the two of you stand level with the Imperial Family, you get on your knees and raise your clasped hands in front of your dipped heads.
Good evening, your Highnesses. Congratulations to the Fourth Prince, for reaching his seventeenth birthday. We hope the prince continues to live a prosperous, fortunate, and long life, and I present this sword sheath, a product of the finest metals and months’ worth of labor, a tool that we hope he will use as he prepares to lead this Holy Nation. We pay our deepest respects to the Imperial Family.
An attendant takes the sheath from Mydei’s outstretched arms. Usually, one would be dismissed shortly after presenting their gift, but the secretary has yet to tell either of you to rise. Instead, you hear the sound of a chair’s legs rubbing against the carpet’s fur, along with padded footsteps that stop right in front of your husband.
General Mydeimos, you have done incredibly in serving me, and ultimately, this Holy Nation. Your loyalty is not to be questioned.
You recognize this voice. It is jaded yet firm, gentle but irrefutable. The Emperor is telling you his decision.
I want to make an announcement to all that are present, to heed my intent and my resolve. This Holy Nation has coexisted with and lived under the guidance of Tian, but it has not always been a harmonious or even peaceful endeavor. As Emperor, it is my sworn duty, an oath I have undertaken since the day of my inauguration, to protect my people, including all of you, and I can promise you that, throughout these many years under my rule, Tian and I are connected and that I have been in constant search to make a more serene coexistence – a symbiosis, if you will – possible. However –
It seems the Palace and everything within it unanimously sucks in a quavering breath.
– it has become apparent that the heavens have no interest in granting us such serenity. Of course, by no means is this speech of mine a declaration of war or defiance. Rather, I believe this burden I am about to share with you is, in fact, a challenge for this Holy Nation, and one that will be undertaken by a representative of my choosing: Mydeimos. General Mydeimos, please rise.
As much as you would love to raise your head and stare at Mydei like everyone else, you have not been granted permission to lift your head, so you can only continue to heed the Emperor’s message carefully, trying to discern any subtle implications while continuing to pay attention to the words that follow.
For the many years that he has served me, General Mydeimos has become a pillar in the Holy Nation’s defenses. He has slain many of Tian’s earthbound descendants, protecting this land from the destruction of loose spirits and evil demons. Under his watchful gaze, he had confirmed the prophetic fragments I was receiving from Tian, that it is part of this Holy Nation’s fate that we are to face our doom if we remain motionless and ignorant. My people, hear me now, and listen to me carefully, as this message of mine is not meant to inflict any unnecessary fear or anxiety. However, the heavens have told me, as I am telling you, that if nothing is done, the entire world will be burned to its core by the manifestation of ten suns. No human, no animal, no plant will survive the onslaught of ten more suns, no ocean or lake or sea can withstand the fire of ten more suns, not even Tian’s earthbound descendants will be spared.
For this most inauspicious prophecy, I must apologize, on behalf of my ten sons, for their continuous mischief and negligence have been deemed the cause of this impending tragedy. Indeed, Tian has whispered as such in my mind. This Holy Nation deeply understands the various attitudes our deities have towards humans. Some are indifferent, some are intensely curious. It seems this impending tragedy has come about from the latter. My ten sons, this Holy Nation’s royal princes, have inspired the same mischief and negligence in ten of Yudi’s sons. They aspire to experience the same carefree play that my sons have gone away with – escaping the Palace, tricking the innocent to satisfy their personal greed, disappearing for extended periods of time. This behavior has never been acceptable in the Imperial Family, yet despite our fervent attempts to curb their behaviors, Yudi’s sons have already seen enough.
There is now more than one sun in the sky, there is no mistake to that. We will continue to see more and more suns appear, and by the tenth, we will all perish. We must not cast doubt on this matter anymore, because the severity of this issue is life-threatening.
But, again, need I remind all that are present that I do not wish to embed an unjustified sense of fear or anxiety in any of you. The reason I have called upon all of you is because I would like all that are present to bear witness to this heavenly oath that General Mydeimos will take.
You cannot help but gasp, a sharp, harsh intake of breath that almost causes you to sputter and cough. But, even when the world feels like it is falling down on you, you manage to bear the pain, and you stifle it with tears gathering in your burning eyes.
General Mydeimos, there is no end to your remarkable feats in the military, and we are grateful for all that you have done. However, this ask of mine is one of a difficulty I can promise you have never faced before, and you must know, it could be the last task you ever undertake. Knowing all of the risks, I still ask you to take the following oath: I, General Mydeimos, under the watchful eye of the people of this Holy Nation, the Emperor, and all of Tian who are interested, I pledge to take down all but one of the suns, even at the cost of my own life.
It feels impossible to breathe. It seems, no matter how you try to escape, how far you run away, or where you disappear to, the divine will always catch up to you, pulling you away from your loved ones, and the other way around. Hot streams of tears pour down your cheeks, and the only way to prevent yourself from making any noise is to bite down on your lower lip, until your jaws are locking and your teeth are piercing through the thin flesh. Your clasped hands shudder violently, not only from the exhaustion of holding them up for so long, but also from how tightly they are gripping onto each other. Your knuckles are without a doubt strained, and your fingernails are digging into the backs of your hands. Your ears ring with deafening silence, while straining to hear Mydei’s response, yet you also do not want to listen, fearful because you know that, even if he had a choice, he would always agree to a brutal fight.
Without a beat of hesitation, your husband, chief of your village, a general of this Holy Nation, speaks.
I, General Mydeimos, under the watchful eye of the people of this Holy Nation, the Emperor, and all of Tian who are interested, I pledge to take down all but one of the suns, even at the cost of my own life.
Despite the crescendo of applause, the drums, the gong, you hear nothing. You are not sure how it is that you manage to bow to the Emperor, make your way down from the stage, and return to your seat alongside Mydei’s, but to be honest, you do not care how you did any of those things. All you can think about is that, once again, your loved one is being separated from you, all because of the heavens and the divine, and even if his hand is clutching onto yours at this moment, so tight that you can no longer feel the tips of your fingers or the center of your palm, he has never felt farther away.
–
There is no more of your routine with Mydei. He is taken away at the end of the birthday party to begin making preparations for his conquest, leaving you to return to the village alone. He does not visit, can only make time to send concise messages, but he does promise you that he will return the night before he is scheduled to leave.
This is not Mydei’s first conquest, but it is his first conquest that you are dreading, to say the least. It is difficult to encapsulate the extent of your mental anguish because the resurfacing of past traumas, of memories you are insistent on forgetting, is a dark, murky sensation. It is asphyxiating, but you do not know that you are being choked until it is too late, past the point of return. You are no different from a sleeping mouse in the coiled chokehold of a starving snake, and there is nothing to save you, not even to witness your death. Part of you knows this is a globalization of an internal anxiety, as Mydei has not been slain. He is well and alive presently, but that does not answer your deepest concern: will he survive? Even if you sought out divine signals as you had once routinely done over a decade ago, you have been taught that it is taboo to seek the fate of an individual. Fate can be consulted for villages, the weather, long-term wealth, but to determine the death of somebody, even an important figure, is strongly discouraged as there is no use in disturbing one’s mind over a matter that has been set in stone since the birth of this universe.
Not that any of that is relevant. You are sure the divine, even the weakest of Tian’s spirits, would not heed your call, would pay no mind to a trivial woman that had, a long time ago, abandoned her position as a high priestess, and in turn, her prolific ability to invoke divinity. Had you remained at the convent and grown into your role as high priestess, perhaps only then would they give you a fraction of their time, but then, in that case, you would not be praying for Mydei’s safety, but rather for the protection of this Holy Nation as a whole.
There is no particular reason for why you have hidden your past from Mydei or the villagers, other than to save face. After all, no one would believe in the loyalty or commitment of a traitor. Regardless, now that there is established trust, you staunchly believe there is no need to share distasteful matters, like your pathetic past. At this moment, everyone should prioritize Mydei, as well as ensuring the operations of the village during his absence.
Mydei finds you not in the dining room, but in his office at his desk, with a candelabra burning away, as if you are prepared to work the whole night. You are combing through a few scrolls that were once shelved, the old texts he used to pore over when he was training to become village chief. It is not that you are a stranger to their contents or to the duties of the village chief. It is simply that, when you are uneasy, you tend to return to the very basics, to instill confidence within yourself that there is a logical rationale behind your actions and decisions. He knocks on the office doors and watches through the parted screen window as you scramble up from your seat from surprise. He chuckles, but had there been any listeners, they would know those were half-hearted at best.
We need to talk.
It is comforting, though, that there remain some things that will never change. Even if you are not honest, Mydei will always face you with a straightforward attitude, and compared to before, he feels more present, confirming that he is, in fact, standing in front of you, when he loops your arm through his. You let him guide you away from the office and to your shared bedroom, where you can, for the last time in a while, immerse yourselves in this space dedicated only to the two of you.
On the bed, he pulls you into a tight, engulfing embrace. With his chest molded against your arched back, his legs spread out to barricade your form, his chin atop your left shoulder where the bite mark once was, the two of you parse through all and any matters.
There will be a caravan arriving in a month’s time.
The north west gate needs to be rebuilt.
We should consider extending trade to some of the towns in the south.
You will miss it when the peaches are in season.
Be sure to visit Grandma Li. She tends to forget to take her medication.
Do not forget to rest your arm. Feng Meng will not take it easy on you, even if you are his general and him your soldier. You will always be his master first.
When you need me, look up at the moon, because I will also be gazing at it. Never forget that we are forever under the same sky.
The moonlight is especially consoling that night. Unlike his usual tendencies to dominate and overwhelm, your husband lets you set the pace, and atop him, he watches you surge up and down, the moon’s beams illuminating your damp skin, your parted lips, and your glossed eyes. Your breasts, hips, thighs ripple with every unforgiving drop of your body onto his, and his cock pierces you deeply in turn, reaching and hitting spots that cause you to see stars. He never fails to make you feel fulfilled, but tonight, you are voracious, and you just want more, more, more of him. You want to embed pieces of yourself into his body, so that throughout his campaign, no matter how long it lasts, he will never once waver when he thinks back to your touch, your scent, your love. As you continue riding him, you run your hands over his sturdy form, letting your fingers trace the divots of his muscles, the fat of his chest, the red streaks of tattoo that paint his arms. It is also so that you will never forget, drawing an illustrative map of his body so that in your times of loneliness, anxiety, and want, you also have something of his to depend upon. Perhaps you have forgotten how to live without your husband, but that is a subject for introspection later. In the present, you decide to accelerate your movements and apply more force with every exerted rise and fall.
Eventually, you collapse forward because by no means do you have as much stamina as your husband, but you urge yourself to push forward nonetheless and resort to more shallow lifts and dramatic swirls of your hips. With your face buried against the underside of his chin, you begin to mouth at his neck and Adam’s apple, the rumble of his groans and hisses traveling and vibrating straight through the thin skin of your lips. When it looks like your husband’s exhibiting a significant amount of restraint, with the way his head keeps shaking side to side and his hands grip onto your thighs with shackling strength, you cannot help but smirk, ready to give him his release that he is so desperately delaying. You litter a line of kisses down to his collarbones, and after a few laves of your tongue, as if to smooth and placate him, you bite down, sinking your teeth into the juncture where his neck and shoulders meet, clamping down so hard with the intent to punish, to instill guilt, to kill his fighting spirit.
Normally, you would never do such a thing. You have no interest in tying your partner down or forcing them to sacrifice the people and things they love and enjoy. But since he has granted you so much selfishness already, you might as well go the full way and make him really understand the state he has put you in. For, even upon reflection, you know it in your bare, raw soul that you will never know life without your husband. Where he goes, you follow. If he is alive, you will be, too. But if he were to die, then your time will also have come.
Your husband cries out loud with a wild shout of your name, arms flying to enclose themselves around your figure out of both surprise and overstimulation, and with a spontaneous jerk of his hip upwards, his cock collides with your core and slams into that spot, the one that always has you ripping apart at the seams and screaming for mercy, pulling you up to your euphoric high with him. Ironically, it feels as if you are falling from Tian, soaring through the sky while being unable to breathe, a coursing pleasure followed by a stinging, bittersweet pang. You do not even realize you are sobbing until your husband muffles your wails with his mouth, swallowing your grief and despair down with his own fears, of which he definitely has but will never voice.
Mydei is not used to seeing you so sentimental. You are more aloof and reserved, so he is not as practiced with handling your outbursts as he should be. But even he knows that this torrential surging of your emotions is really a broken heart personified. You need him to know that your heart is being torn and cracked and smashed by the inevitable reality of his leave, and he knows you are telling him that only he can fix you by coming back in one piece and with a sound mind.
For the remainder of the night, he holds you impossibly closer, one hand always keeping your face to his chest, the other always wound around your waist, his legs always tangled with yours. And before he falls asleep, he looks out the window, gazing up at a sliver of the starry sky, and prays to the moon to cast its gentle, assuring light upon you every dusk he is gone. Despite his personal gripes with the divine, he is convinced that, with the way it has never failed to make you look so mesmerizing and delicate underneath its glow, the moon will continue to bask you with its nurture and protection for as long as it takes for him to return, and he is soothed by that thought, because someone needs to look out for you in his absence.
By the early dawn, he is ready to leave. The two of you stand at the entrance to your abode, and with a chaste kiss to your forehead, he finally parts from you, distancing himself in slow motion. You watch, rooted to your spot, as he gets on his horse, relishes in one last longing gaze, and sets off. He rides away without looking back, and when he is out of sight, you, too, return to your bedroom without even the faintest sign of indecision or doubt.
–
Mydei returns not the following summer, but the summer after, right when the peach blossoms have begun shedding to make way for the green buds that will, in two to three weeks’ time, fruit. There is no fanfare or parade, not even an announcement to notify you of his arrival. In fact, for the little over two years since his departure, you were not informed of any aspect of his campaign from official channels. It did not matter, though, when everyone was able to keep track of his progress with every morning that passed.
Barely a month after his leave, you woke up with sweat soaking through your clothes and blankets, as if you had remained in a bath with your clothes on for several hours. You made it a habit to leave your windows open every night, but had you woken up that morning any later, you would have been sunburnt to the point of permanent scarring from the three suns that were just beginning to rise in the sky, their unrelenting heat scorching everything that happened to soak in its light. You got up and warned everyone in the household to remain indoors, and perilously, you took not one, but two, thickly lined parasols with you as you made your way through the village to issue warnings and usher those that were outside back into their homes. The flowers that you had tended to just the other afternoon were already wilting, dehydrated, and you goaded the rabbits from their hole with a trail of fruits and leaves to another you had haphazardly dug where there was everlasting shade.
Later on, you would hear that Mydei had first tried to negotiate with Yudi’s sons, telling them to fulfill their appetite for mischief with something else, but given the inconsistencies in the rumors, it is not clear whether the sons ignored or denied the general’s demands. It seems that Mydei’s attempt at swaying their minds only further encouraged them to follow through with their plan, and Yudi’s sons began to wreak havoc shortly afterwards. As a result, it became a hunt, one that required Mydei and his troop to race around the Holy Nation in search of each of Yudi’s kin. Mydei and his men could only attack at night, when the sons had left their daytime posts to make way for the moon, but they never came down together, instead settling in different parts of the Holy Nation.
The information you managed to garner, in the form of riveting tales and dubiously trustworthy gossip, either came from the village children’s eavesdropping or the occasional letter from Phainon, which he sent under personal regards. There never was an explanation for why you were kept in the dark, and you never bothered to ask either, because what good would it do for you? Had your husband been slain, you and everyone else in the world would have known already, and you need not entertain excessive hope. All you had to do was see if you could wake to another day.
The worst occurred a year and a half into Mydei’s journey, when there were six suns in the sky at once, their brightness bleeding out even the pure blue of the space beyond. Everybody stayed indoors and covered every possible crack or opening to prevent sunlight from leaking in, but not without the cost of broiling within their own rooms. On days when it was more possible to venture outside, you and your guards had to visit the occasional house to pull out dead bodies, smelling of decaying rot, feces, and steam, and bury them before even their right to a dignified burial was stolen by Yudi’s kin. And this was not a problem exclusive to your village. The Palace began to ring a large gong, three resonating beats, at noon every day to honor the growing number of victims, and there was a national decree for every home to light incense and perform daily prayers during the early evenings to beg for Tian’s interference.
Of course, nobody from Tian ever responded, but it seemed as if Mydei had sensed his people’s tortured cries, and from that point onwards, the suns continue to be felled, one after the other, until only one remained, the same sun that has stood with the earth since the very beginning.
You are in his office when your head lady-in-waiting calls out your title with excited raps against the paneled doors.
My Lady! You must come! Someone has come for you!
You are on your feet immediately, and you almost knock her over when you burst through the doors.
However, you are not greeted by your husband. Rather, it is another familiar face that greets you with a toothy grin and a proud hand saluted at his head.
We have made it back, safe and sound!
You cannot help but throw your arms around the man’s neck, hugging him without reprieve for air. His arms do not reciprocate, for it is inappropriate for a man to demonstrate affection towards a taken woman, but by his hearty laughs, you know he is overjoyed by your reaction.
Where is your master, Feng Meng?
In the Capital, reporting to the Emperor. I have come to fetch you, Madam, to attend his ceremony! You must hurry!
Without another thought, you and your servants rush to dress you. There are flurries of orange sashes, twirling skirts with golden beads sewn at the waist, the clicking of green jade against white jade, and in no later than ten minutes, you are in an oxcart that speeds its way to the Palace.
It is extremely difficult to get to the Palace. First, all entrances to the Capital are at a standstill, bottlenecked by a flood of traffic composed of several donkeys, horses, and merchant carts. The inside of the Capital fares no better – in fact, made worse by all of the pedestrians, street-side shops, and narrow paths. It is only after your cart finally pushes its way through the long lines and leaves the more populated and mercantile neighborhoods that the traffic disperses, and then it is an orderly journey to the Palace. When the guards ask for the purpose of your visit, Feng Meng simply needs to flash the handle of his sword, and you are directed to enter through the back gates, typically only reserved for guests of honor.
You swallow thickly from the infinite, various thoughts swirling in your mind. Will he have scars etching every corner of his body? Will he be several shades tanner? Is his hair an unruly length, or has he cut, or worse, singed it short? Is he a changed person, more violent in demeanor or fatigued from excessive stress? You do not plan on bombarding him with your questions, as he is probably answering plenty from government officials and the Emperor himself, but you also cannot guarantee that you will be able to restrain yourself. Though, the more you think about it, you are not sure how you should react when you see him. Should you wait for him to approach you, or should you take the initiative? Will he want to embrace you or keep you at a distance to give himself some space? How different is he from the man he was more than two years ago, and what will this current version of Mydei think of you when he sees you?
You fail to devise a plan by the time your cart comes to a stop and Feng Meng holds his elbow out to help you jump down. The Palace guards instruct you to wait with the other soldiers' wives, mothers, and fathers in the tea room around the corner, and Feng Meng directs you before he has to leave to prepare for the ceremony himself. You are unsure if Mydei will come to you as you wait in the tea room, so in the case that he does, you find a chair closest to the open entrance, and sit in perfect posture, still and quiet. The other people in the room are frantic, sharing the same questions and concerns you have, but requiring and taking advantage of the comfort of family to alleviate each other’s doubts and fears. You are reminded that neither you or Mydei have other family to turn to, only each other, and oddly enough, you become more optimistic.
All of you are in the tea room for two hours before a Palace guard comes to beckon the entire gathering to follow him. The guard guides all of you to your seats, near the back of the same courtyard you were in for the fourth prince’s seventeenth birthday party. This time, instead of two columns of tables, there are rows upon rows of people kneeling shoulder to shoulder, facing in the direction of the raised center stage. As per usual, the Imperial Family has yet to make their appearance, but they soon will after the highest-ranking officials finish taking their seats.
Finally, with the blaring sound of horns and gongs and drums, the award ceremony begins, and the Emperor, Empress Dowager, and the ten princes ascend their thrones. The secretary comes at the end of the line, and with a nod from the Emperor, the former begins his speech.
Today marks the official end of General Mydeimos’ campaign to defeat ten of Yudi’s sons. General Mydeimos and his men have returned victorious, and so, we host today’s ceremony in tribute to their bravery and success.
The crowd breaks into a clamoring of applause, a little more unruly due to the ecstatic and celebratory atmosphere.
We will present General Mydeimos and his troop of 62 surviving soldiers with honorable military status, in addition to multiple monetary benefits. We will also mourn the loss of the 138 soldiers, whose lives were lost throughout the campaign’s duration, with a funeral procession that will take place the following Saturday and Sunday. Families of the deceased will receive imperial support, and on behalf of this Holy Nation, we are indebted to the sacrifices you and your sons have made. More information regarding the funeral and compensation will be announced and distributed in the coming days. With that, we will begin by awarding the 62 soldiers.
A line of soldiers marches forth from behind you, and you closely observe them as they trod past you. Their faces are set and stern, and they are wearing their tattered armor, rusted and melted swords, bows, and spears held in place on their backs. You also notice several holding onto the solder in front of them, and with a closer look, you realize many of them have either a diminished or total loss of sight. As the line reaches the steps to the stage, the secretary begins calling out each name, handing every person when it is their turn a bronze badge with an engraved solar insignia and a hefty bag of riches. There is no applause, as silence is a way of demonstrating utmost attention and respect, until all the soldiers have been named and awarded. The survivors line up once again and seat themselves along the walls of the courtyard.
Then, an obedient hush falls across the crowd, all in anticipation of the true hero. You, too, suck in your breath, eyes darting around in search of your husband, the chief of your village, a general of this Holy Nation. With a deep breath, the secretary announces his presence in a booming, grand voice.
General Mydeimos, please enter!
Your abilities to speak, breathe, even think are stolen from you. It does not feel like reality when you see Mydei, his hair tied in a clean knot on the top of his head, a velvety black cape billowing behind his broad, intimidating figure, the metal blade of his glaive glinting fiercely underneath the rays of the single sun in the sky. Mydei spares nothing to the crowd, not a prideful smirk or disinterested glance, and simply kneels deeply when he makes his way in front of the Imperial Family.
The Emperor rises from his seat, and the secretary is prompted to narrate.
General Mydeimos, the Emperor would like to personally bestow you your rewards, for your incomparable feat in defeating Yudi’s sons, ten of Tian’s mightiest creations. On behalf of the Imperial Family, he would like to award you a ranking within the nobility and an accompanying northern estate in the Capital. Furthermore, your village will receive recovery aid from the government and many trade benefits. Thank you, once again, for your service.
The Emperor gestures for Mydei to stand, and attaches a noble badge onto the latter’s cloak. Mydei then turns around and bows to the crowd.
General Mydeimos, would you like to say anything, in light of your return and victorious conquest?
He sweeps his eyes across the hundreds of people in front of him before lifting his head and glaring up at the clear blue sky.
My men and I have returned, and the Holy Nation is safe. We are safe, and undefeated.
Through the thundering of applause, cheers, and cries, you tear up at the glorious sight of your husband. He is far away, not as far as he was these past two years, but still a fair distance away such that you cannot make out the features of his face. How blessed it is to live in the same world as him, you think, and it seems your undivided admiration of your husband causes you to accidentally rid yourself of your presence. Mydei’s head snaps to look in your direction, having sensed a change within the audience. He cannot see you individually, but he knows you are somewhere amongst that section of the crowd, and he nods his head, dipping his chin with solemn confidence. Then, he begins to make his way down the steps to take his leave.
That is, until a shiver runs down his spine, a gut instinct alerting him of a formidable presence, and he swivels around to look behind him as his hands reach for his glaive, only to be blinded by a shining white light. What is even more concerning is, as he tries to block the light from his view, he notices that there is no reaction from anyone else present – in fact, there is no sound at all. The light begins to retract on its own, and as Mydei blinks through his stunned vision, he sees that the secretary, the guards lining the bottom of the stairs, the officials sitting in the front rows of the audience – all of them are frozen in place, mouths open in mid-conversation, hands stuck beside their heads in dramatic gestures, eyes wide open, unblinking. The scenery has not changed one bit, aside from the fact that everyone and everything is unmoving, yet he can still sense the formidable presence surrounding him.
Oh, I thought it was just you and me.
A voice, coming from everywhere and nowhere, speaks. Suddenly, a familiar voice – your shout – pierces through the silent space.
Mydei!
He turns to where he once looked in the crowd and spots your standing figure. But before he can sprint to you, or call you over, the voice speaks again.
Forgive me, I do not mean to scare either of you. I had only intended to speak to Mydeimos, however.
With that, your body slumps over and drops onto the ground. Without hesitation, Mydei swings his glaive and, with a snarl, holds it out in front of himself, body poised to attack.
What did you do to my wife!
You cannot fight me, for I will not appear in front of you. As for your wife, I have put her to sleep. I only wish to speak to you.
Concerning what matter?
But the voice does not speak again, and instead, his glaive is replaced, and a ball appears in one hand.
What is this! Answer me!
An elixir of immortality, made of a blade of grass found only in Tian. If you ingest this elixir, it will grant you endless life, and you will become one of us. Take this as a sign of my gratitude.
Before he can respond, there is another flash of that same blinding white light from earlier, and the chaos of the courtyard returns, everything resuming their intended ways. Only the ball in his hand, the lack of his weapon, and your unconscious form indicate that his conversation actually took place.
Following the award ceremony, Mydei is invited to stay as a guest in the Palace, but he declines, not even trying to come up with a reason to justify his need to return to his village immediately.
He returns before you do but only needs to wait for half an hour before he hears you running through the walkways of your estate, approaching your chamber where he is waiting for you. Even though he had encountered Yudi’s sons, all ten of them combined would pale in the face of the omnipotent force that had approached him, and he is sure you are as, if not more, distraught as he is.
When you come rushing in, he rises from the bed and catches you as you leap at him, your trembling body against his.
My love, are you alright!
I need to show you this.
You refuse to separate from him, though, so he squeezes his hand into the crevice between your neck and his chest, and presses the elixir against your skin. That causes you to jump back, and your expression can only be described as one of pure shock.
That cannot be.
Mydei purses his lips.
The voice said it can grant immortality.
That - that voice. Only Yudi and Wang Mu Niang Niang possess access to the elixir of immortality. It - it must have been her! How can this be!
If it is Wang Mu Niang Niang, she said this was a gift out of gratitude.
He watches you take shaky steps back to him. You are trained on the ball in his palm, in disbelief of the existence of it.
W-well… are you going to take it?
Mydei snorts.
Of course not. I would be a fool to separate us from each other for any longer. I also have no intention of becoming a liar or a hypocrite, when I have had little regard for the divine since my birth. Have you forgotten what your husband is like?
His words, mostly tart with a hint of lilting tease, manages to draw a huff of a chuckle from you.
I am home. And I plan to stay for a while.
He scans your face and frame. There are more lines on your face, no doubt a result of your labor and sleepless nights from watching over the village by yourself. Your hair has also gotten quite thin and is a lighter shade, washed out by the suns’ harsh light, and there is both a rigidness and a frailty to your aura, both of which he has never sensed before. You, too, take your time in observing your husband, who has indeed gotten quite tan, and his hair is even longer, reaching down to his hips. There are several patches of his skin that are charred and burned, and you wince at the notion of such extreme pain and beating. Some things remain the same, however, such as the chiseled lines of his muscles and the bold red of his tattoos.
Moreover, this beat of hesitation, of holding each other at an arm’s length away, stays constant as well. But it does not last as long anymore, when Mydei breaks first and draws you into his hold. This embrace is one saturated with warmth, longing, and satisfaction, your first genuine hug since the two of you parted ways over two years ago. You take in his presence, as he does with yours, and in this room, this space just for the two of you, it finally feels complete and whole again.
Later, before the both of you head out for dinner with the rest of the villagers, Mydei decides to hide the elixir in a wooden box that he conceals in the corner of the bedroom. Though neither of you may have a need for it, it may be safer to conceal its existence, especially from potential prying eyes and envious minds.
–
A week later, a Palace messenger arrives at your estate to announce the holding of a banquet that evening in honor of Mydei and his troop. Your husband scoffs at the invitation, but with a stern glare from you, he begrudgingly accepts. These days, Mydei deigns to leave your side, constantly following you about as you resume your village duties and responsibilities. You also make time to bring him around to show him what he has missed out on.
One dawn, you take him to visit Grandma Li’s grave. You bring a basket of pears, homemade rice cakes filled with peanut butter, and incense pillars as offerings, and Mydei kneels for a long time in front of the grave. Another lunchtime, the two of you go to collect peaches, and as it was a Sunday, the children who had no school to attend that day joined you with their parents and siblings. You also show him the rabbits that you raised, the babies now fully grown with fluffy white coats and beady red eyes. And the night before the Palace’s banquet, your village hosts its own at your estate, and many of Mydei’s men come over. Mydei sits with his disciple Feng Meng, while you mill about to pay your respects to the village’s elders and to extend your appreciation to the soldiers present for their loyalty toward your husband.
You pass by a table occupied by a large family of seven. You are especially close to this family’s twins who are both ten-years-old, though not out of personal bias, but because they are relentless in their pursuit for your affection. As so, when the twins notice you, they scream out to you.
Eat with us! Eat with us!
You laugh, shaking your head with a soft smile.
Sorry, little ones, but I must eat with the chief tonight. I will join you for a meal another day.
They huff, crossing their plush arms across their chests. Then, as twins are with their shared thoughts and intuition, they share a cheerful look before turning back to you. The older of the two, a girl, speaks first, before the younger one, a boy, follows up, and the two continue to alternate back and forth.
We heard something interesting at school yesterday!
It is about the chief!
And we heard it from the ninth prince himself!
The prince said the chief had a forbidden medicine –
– a medicine that would make him young forever!
But we read in our books that that kind of medicine only exists in Tian.
Yet the prince looked awfully serious. Is there something wrong with the ninth prince?
Or is the prince right? That the elixir of immortality is real?
You pat their heads while maintaining your expression.
Lower your voices and hush now. If you are caught speaking ill of the Imperial Family, you will lose your tongues. Eat, before dinner gets cold.
You bid your farewell, and head back to your table. As you walk, though, you mull over the twins’ words.
As much as you despise your upbringing as a child of the divine, you find that the hard skills you learned since young have been more helpful than not throughout your life, even after you abandoned your post. Like now, you know not to ignore the signs. Twins are fortuitous, especially boy-girl pairs, and given that they brought up the elixir of all subjects tells you that Wang Mu Niang Niang’s gift is not something that can be so easily forgotten or discarded. You must exercise caution and remain vigilant, all while exhibiting inconspicuousness.
When you return to Mydei’s side, you realize Feng Meng is gone. You ask about the latter’s whereabouts, to which your husband responds that his disciple went to the bathroom. You run your hand through his hair, tracing your fingernail through his braids that you did this morning, before you excuse yourself to change into something warmer.
You pad through the darkened walkways, stopping whenever you run into a guard or a lady-in-waiting. You ask if they have seen Feng Meng, and you follow each of their instructions, until you realize you are navigating towards your husband’s office. Before you make the bend that would allow you to see the office, you wait, extinguishing your presence as you have done when tending to the rabbits and channeling your foresight. When your soul is quiet, everything around gets louder, and though it is faint, there is a vanishing trace of disdain that you can sense that stains the path to Mydei’s office. The flickering nature of the presence tells you there must be another human nearby, one skilled but not yet masterful. But before you can fetch Mydei for help, you must confirm your suspicions.
With quick and light steps, you glide to the old willow that drapes itself over the office building. From behind the trunk, you can peer inside one of the windows, though it does take some effort as it is only wedged open by a fraction and there is no light inside. From what you can tell, there are several unfurled scrolls strewn across his desk, and if you strain your ears, you can hear the shuffling and rearranging of the items on the shelves closest to you. While you do not know who this intruder is, as it could be someone other than Feng Meng, it is clear that someone is there.
You hurry back and try your best to keep up the silencing of your qi, despite the thrumming of anxiety that courses through your blood.
Mydei catches onto your intentions quickly, as he notices your appearance has not changed at all upon your return. You note that Feng Meng’s absence persists. He comes up to you, but instead of directing him to where the intruder is, you loop your arms through his and gently urge him to follow you around the villagers and soldiers. After all, you do not know if the intruder is acting alone, and if not, there could be those watching your husband closely.
As you pace around, you quietly inform him.
Someone is ransacking your office. I believe they are looking for the elixir.
How would they know about it?
Even the children have heard about it. At the very least, it is known that the ninth prince has been talking about its potential existence in the Capital.
How would the ninth prince know about it?
It is a good question, so you ponder it briefly.
I have a hypothesis, if you will entertain me.
Please, go ahead.
Remember how I was awake initially? It could be that the Imperial Family was also awake.
How could I have missed that?
No, not in the same way that you and I were awake. We could move about, even under Wang Mu Niang Niang’s spell. I was most likely able to withstand her spell because of my tolerance to divinity. By that logic, then, it is possible that the Imperial Family and priests were also able to retain their consciousness during her appearance, but were solely limited to that.
That is enough said on your part. The rest, Mydei understands. It is his turn, then, to formulate a strategy.
I will take the direct route to our bedroom. Veil yourself and go from the back, around the washroom. I will leave first, or else they will be suspicious of you.
He rubs his thumb across your cheek, a gesture of reassurance, and he makes some conversation with a few of the elders to his side before he goes on his way. You spend even longer lingering around the villagers, but also with the soldiers, to see if any of them are accomplices. But there is no sense of hostility or hatred from them. The more you investigate, hovering within the soldiers’ presence, the more confident you are that none of them are involved. That leaves you with two options: the intruder is acting alone, confirming their identity as Feng Meng, or alongside members of the Security Bureau.
You sigh. You must go now.
–
Mydei is broiling with anger. There is no need to hide his presence, as he wants to make it known that he is furious. His people have long suffered at the hands of the current empire, the village having been conquered during his incompetent father’s reign, and while he has tried to make peace with the Emperor, he has never once forgiven him and the Holy Nation. Now, he is being targeted for something he did not ask for – if they wanted it, they could have just asked for it! He shakes his head and rolls out his wrists, preparing to draw his blade and kill all that invades his home.
You are too reckless, Mydei.
Mydei swings, but misses.
Deliverer!
The Head of the Security Bureau steps out of the shadow, a black mask covering all but his piercing blue eyes. Had Mydei not worked with the Head before, the latter’s sudden appearance would have startled him.
You fool! You have always been the Emperor’s dog!
Mydei, it is you who is the dog. You need to be subjugated. The Emperor will no longer tolerate defiance from you or your village.
Defiance! How laughable!
This is not a laughing matter.
This is no matter in the first place.
I am afraid, then, that this is not something we can talk through.
Mydei has no doubt that he can defeat Phainon. His only fear is that he will not be fast enough.
–
It seems you were right in following the signs because you are exceptionally lucky. The moon lights your path so that you can navigate your way through your abode with ease and speed. So far, there does not seem to be anybody trailing you, and the intruder is nowhere to be seen, so they are not targeting you either. At this rate, it is likely that the intruder has left Mydei’s office and is searching elsewhere.
You take a deep breath out of relief when you arrive at your chamber and realize that no one else is present. There is only one entrance to your bedroom, so you take extra care to be silent as you come around from behind the building, and when the coast is clear, you sneak into your room. You pay no mind that the inside is dark, as you know the placement of everything by heart. You approach the corner of the room where Mydei hid the wooden box inside a large jar with bamboo planks stacked on top. You remove everything one by one, hurrying but prioritizing the need for silence above all else. But, again, it seems luck is on your side, and you are able to retrieve the elixir without a hitch. You move everything back to their original placements, except for the medicinal ball that you tightly clutch in your fist.
All is well, until you step out of your bedroom.
You cannot help but scream when you see Mydei, bloody and battered, fighting against Phainon, bruised and limping.
No!
Both of them cease their movements, surprised by your presence. But before either of them can come to, something surges up from beneath you, and a hand flies up to grab you by the neck, limiting your ability to breathe without delay.
It hurts. It is an excruciating pain of being crushed under a heavy weight. You have heard that suffocating is akin to drowning, which feels like being roasted and burned from the inside out. You wonder if Mydei has ever experienced pain like this, perhaps when he received those patches of permanently seared skin. In your choking, murky view, you can make out the blurred outline of Feng Meng, his face contorted in an ugly, deceitful frown as he breathes heavily. And through your pounding ears, you barely make out his words.
I know you have it! If you just give it to me, Madam, your life will be spared!
Even if you could talk, you would not answer. However, since you cannot speak anyway, you demonstrate your refusal by flailing, thrashing your legs in every direction possible and beating Feng Meng’s arms with your fists. You know that you are only wasting your energy, but since Feng Meng is not ready to kill you yet, you desperately take in shallow gasps of air as well. You can hear Mydei screaming your name over and over again in between silvery screeches of gold colliding against brass, and by now, you think your guards should be on their way to address the commotion. But even their arrival might be too late for you, and it seems your luck has run out.
Feng Meng’s grip on you tightens, preventing air from entering you entirely. You probably look like a fish out of water, uselessly gaping your mouth and sputtering drool all over.
Madam, I will only ask you once more, or I will take it by force! Please hand over the elixir!
It is no use. You will not give him the elixir, and he needs to retrieve it by any means. With no compromise in sight, the two of you are at a standstill. That means one of you has to take action.
Without another thought, with the last remnants of your fading strength, you bring your shaky fist to your greying lips and release your clutch, dropping the ball into your mouth.
Then you swallow.
It is as if time has stopped, once again. Everyone else, including Mydei, is frozen in the middle of their actions, and only you are able to move for however long you have. You remove Feng Meng’s chokehold on you, and heave in desperate breaths.
Your mind immediately begins to clear, and that is made apparent when you sense her. Now that you know who she is, her omnipresence, preceded by a white light, is less frightening.
That was not intended for your use.
You take another deep, shuddering breath.
My apologies, Wang Mu Niang Niang. But I figured it would be better than handing it over to the likes of Feng Meng. He would have eaten it on the spot.
That was not a call for you to make.
But you knew this would happen. I know the divine are capable of seeing into the future.
You are too powerful for your own good. Perhaps this was the best outcome, after all.
Seeing that you are still on your own, you rush to Mydei’s side, placing a hand on his cheek. His eyes are wide, golden and rouge irises twinkling under the moonlight. His mouth is wide open, as he was probably in the midst of screaming at you to Just hand it over! There are blood splatters that cover his temple and neck, and you use your sleeve to rub those away, before peppering kisses onto the corners of his lips.
Mortal, I will allow you to bring two things from this earth to the moon, where you will join me.
You pause in the middle of your kissing to respond, icily.
If you are pitying me, I will have none of it.
Are you in any position to refuse pity? Regardless, you do not have a choice. This elixir is of my making, so you must obey my commands. On the moon you will reside, and every year on this day, I will grant you the opportunity to see your beloved on this earth.
You leave one last kiss on your husband’s nose before you step back. Although you will be able to see him once a year, it feels… strange. You had promised yourself that, upon Mydei’s return, the two of you would be able to return to your normal routine and only be subjected to a few hours’ worth of separation every day. Even now, as you let your eyes linger over every centimeter of his face, you can tell that much of him has changed throughout his campaign, and before you have the chance to memorize his new contours and creases, it is you who must leave, by divinity’s demand, and you will never be able to know him as well as you once did.
How strange and twisted, you think, but for some reason, there is a distinct sense of acceptance within you. Perhaps the past two years have tested you, and you no longer fear fate’s outcomes because, at the very least, Mydei did the impossible in defeating Tian’s dwellers and survived. It might also be that you know Wang Mu Niang Niang is already demonstrating as much mercy as the heavens will allow, so even if you were to throw a fit or beg for more, the goddess herself would not be able to do anything. Or maybe, at one indistinguishable point, you unconsciously resigned yourself to the divine, and knowing that it will do anything it can to torment you, you have carried that grief along and never once set it down. This sudden unraveling of your life and the way you have known it to be has simply allowed that grief to surface, and you can only shake your head when faced with the darkened, disintegrating state of your heart.
You proceed to shuffle backwards, away from Mydei, until he is barely out of reach. You take the golden cuff that holds his front braid together, before you walk to the nearby courtyard where the rabbits reside. You uncover their burrow, unrooting purple forget-me-nots and creeping buttercups, and reach in to pull out the runt of the newest litter, no different from a solid figurine in your palm.
I am ready.
How strange, your choices. Explain to me, mortal.
There is not much to it. I suppose I find sentimentality in things that keep me going.
How bold of you, to not tell the truth in front of the likes of me.
You could force it out of me, if you so wish.
You watch as a staircase and railing of stardust, moonlight, and cosmic nothingness appear before your eyes in the middle of the courtyard, spiraling upwards and into the sky, ending somewhere far beyond where the moon hangs. You stare at Mydei’s braid cuff and the baby rabbit, which you notice is beginning to shiver, and you tuck both of them in the inside of your robe before ascending the first steps of the staircase.
As you climb, you notice the earth below you gradually resuming its time. A breeze brushes past the tips of your ears, and you delight in the perfume of fresh mint, blooming magnolias, and rose peonies it carries. In the distance, an owl hoots, and a pair of magpies flutter down to a pond you cannot see. You lose yourself to the natural order of the earth because, soon, you will leave this land.
Suddenly, a yell of your name draws you back. You lean over the railing and see that below, Mydei is gazing up at you. You can still make out the expression on his face – one of loss, desperation, and frustration. He is biting on his lower lip, and there are divots between his eyebrows. His eyes appear especially glossy and bright underneath the moon’s light.
Where are you going?
To the moon.
Can you come back down to me?
I cannot.
Your husband takes a few seconds before replying, and as you wait, the sound of grass blades ruffling and bats flying fill the silence.
I see. Then can I come up to you?
Wang Mu Niang Niang intercedes.
No. You will live out the rest of your life and die on this earth.
You and Mydei share a solemn look. Neither of you can say anything, as both of you have begun to weep, quiet tears clumping together eyelashes and rolling down the apples of your cheeks. But Mydei is also aware of the unforgiving reality that you may disappear at sudden, so with a shaky, breaking voice, he attempts to carry on the flow of the conversation, clinging onto any chance to hear his wife’s voice again.
When will I next see you?
Whenever the moon rises.
I will look up at the night sky every evening. And in person?
Every year, on this day, at this time.
I will meet with you every year. I swear.
I look forward to it, my love.
Are you cold? I am sure it is cold on the moon.
Do not worry. I have all that I need.
Wang Mu Niang Niang intercedes once more.
Enough of your idle chatter!
But the two of you carry on, because both of you have realized that Wang Mu Niang Niang is kind, and no longer are the two of you fearful of Tian or the divine or divinity as a whole. Rather, in the last, ticking seconds that you have, it is most important to cherish and express the unyielding, everlasting love you have for each other, as husband and wife. With soft, longing smiles, you utter the same sentence together.
We are forever –
– under the same sky.
Both of you press your fingers to your lips before extending your arms out towards each other, hoping that the full extent of your yearning, love, and devotion will be conveyed and reach the other. Then, with a flash of blinding white light, you disappear from Mydei’s sight.
You, of course, can still see him, but you will yourself to turn your chin away and climb up, up, up so that by tomorrow night, you will have made it to the moon, and Mydei will be able to see you from the window of your shared bedroom.
The world resumes, as if you were never there at all, as if time never stopped flowing. But Mydei knows you were real, are real. He reminds himself he need only survive tonight alone, and tomorrow, he will see you again, for the two of you can never be apart for too long.
And he is right because, by the decree of the heavenly gods above and their kindred spirits down on the earth in the forms of the water, leaves, wind, and destiny, you and Mydeimos are for each other, to always be intertwined and inseparable in this vast, vast universe.
–
“Lao Lao, why do we eat mooncakes during the Mid-Autumn Festival?” A little boy, no more than six- or seven-years-old sits at the dining table, feet kicking back and forth as they dangle off the edge of a chair meant for an adult. On the table, there is an array of emptied pots and plates, evidence of a large and festive meal devoured. Sitting directly across from him on the other side is his maternal grandmother.
“Because the lady on the moon likes them,” the grandma replies, preoccupied with tearing apart the packaging of a mooncake, which she hands to her grandson.
“Why do we care about the lady on the moon?”
The grandma’s eyebrows furrow. “Aye, Duo Duo, watch what you say! It is an important cultural celebration.”
“But why?”
“So many questions! She saved her husband, alright?”
“What happened to her husband?”
The grandson watches his grandma pause before recalling, “He was murdered by his student with a club made out of a peach tree.”
“Woah, that’s oddly specific. Did the husband love the lady on the moon?”
“Of course! Do you know nothing about the Mid-Autumn Festival? Before his death, the husband would burn incense and stare up at the moon every night to see his wife, and every year, today was the only day he could meet his wife in person. That is why we honor our descendants during this festival, because we are closest to them now.”
The grandson shrugs, having lost interest halfway through his grandma’s explanation, romance lost on his inexperienced shoulders. “Sounds weird.”
“Duo Duo!”
The grandson ignores his grandma and pries open his mooncake. “Wait, Lao Lao, can you eat the yolk for me?”
You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.
[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]
part 6: & yet i’ll always choose you.
sero hanta x reader
ch 6/6 | 15.8k words | masterlist | ao3
cw: violence between family members (a singular slap)
notes: ready to run by one direction, shelter by porter robinson & madeon, all the stars by kendrick & sza
(this is not a songfic; i forgot that song existed when i chose the title and then when i properly listened to the lyrics i realized it fit LOL)
you make a decision.
✰.
"How do you help a family miracle? You hug your sister."
- Bruno, in Encanto
Looking back, your life has primarily moved forward through a mixture of obligation and chance. There was never any sort of choosing or clinging, just an acceptance of what needed to be done. Things worked out on their own, oftentimes with you as the stagnant one and the events happening around you—through you. You lived as if life was predetermined, as if a wide length of silk has been wrapped around your chest and tugging you through life.
So it’s hard, when something—someone appears, and you want to choose him.
Silk is slippery. It’s woven water that slides against every surface including itself. With unpracticed hands, every knot will come undone, unraveling before you until it’s a puddle on the floor. You only ever learned how to sew and stitch, to bind fabric with a needle and thread. You’re the opposite of Hanta, who knows the raw silk itself—hanging for him to play an endless game of tangling and escaping. He knows the knots intricately, how to bind or set himself free in an instant.
Hanta is sad when he has to leave. You see it in his watery eyes and hear it in the crack of his voice. But he has some sort of unfathomable trust that things will work out in the end. You should too, given how your life has led so far, but you can’t.
You want him. You want him and Momo and Kendou. You want the circus and the costumes and to see the world together. You want to make beautiful things, impossible things, things that can only be forged in a place where everyone believes in magic with their full being. You want it all.
You don’t know how to chase it.
Maybe it was purposeful—choosing a dream you always thought was out of reach, one you never considered a real possibility. It’s safe here, where the choices are made for you, or never presented in the first place. But now that you finally want something… how do you start?
When the week passes and the circus is gone, in some ways it feels like it was never there. How could something that’s everything to you, everything you want, fizzle into nothing but faded memories in an instant? You cry and you hurt and you long for something that’s gone.
It feels like grieving.
Grieving, you realize, is another thing you haven’t done before.
Abuela is steeped into every detail of your life—her wrinkled hands the ones you always reached for first. She’s the one who taught you to sew, the one who called you her tucán. Abuela is the reason you and Hanta crossed paths for the first time in Quito, the reason you found yourself in Milan and by Midoriya, and ultimately Hoshi no Sākasu.
When you think about it, abuela is the thread that has been pulling you forwards.
But she’s gone—a fact you haven’t come to terms with.
The grief rolls through like a tsunami, a high wall of powerful water that roars forward with the intent to destroy and submerge. Maybe it should have been predictable, the week with the circus your earthquake, the shifting of plates radiating seismic energy through your foundation. But the water comes by surprise and at full force, knocking you off your feet and the breath from your lungs.
You packed your schedule ahead of time with work, the following weeks filled with costumes and gowns and dresses. It distracts you, like you knew it would, your hands and your head focused on nothing but the bounce of a needle stitching fabrics. It keeps you from thinking about the circus in Switzerland, three hours away by train. Life has shifted with the absence of the circus, and you’ve found yourself back into the stagnant routine that existed before.
Except, now you cry while you work.
It happens unknowingly at first, only noticing when dark blotches appear on the fabric between your hands. You pause, lifting the pad of your finger to trace the tears collecting on your waterline, the wetness taking you by surprise. But when it rains it pours, and you have to take a break to let the clouds of your irises clear before forcing yourself to resume sewing.
Normally there's a ghosted feeling of abuela’s hands hovering over yours. They're familiar and faint, kept at a distance and bringing just the twitch of a somber smile to your lips. But now they're firm and dense, like real skin and flesh and blood. The sensation makes you cry harder. Your crying makes them feel more real. Your hurt and your grief brings her closer, brings her to life.
You don't do anything but work and cry the first few days following Hoshi no Sakasu’s departure. You complete one dress through hours of tears.
Your friends find you this way, sobbing with bunches of chiffon in your hands, wiping your eyes and nose with the sleeve of your shirt.
“Oh,” Chiara coos, immediately running a hand through your hair before holding your cheeks.
Davide grimaces behind her as his eyes sweep over you and your desk. “Nuh uh, we are not letting this continue.”
You clutch the fabric tightly when he tries to pry it from you. “I have orders to finish.”
Chiara scoffs. “They can wait.”
But they can't. You busied yourself strategically, so you wouldn't have time to do things like cry.
“You always manage somehow. You can take an hour break.”
It's a struggle, but you end up on your couch cocooned by a blanket and flanked by your friends. You grip the tea they made for you spitefully, the heat of the mug burning your palms. You bite your tongue, too annoyed to respond to their gentle questions, but they're Chia and Davide—eventually you cave.
You speak quietly and nonsensically, unsure how to explain everything that happened in the past couple weeks. Maybe they'll think you're crazy and chalk it up to delusions.
But they're Chia and Davide, so they don't.
“Dammit,” the latter answers. “This guy is stealing you away!”
“Davide,” the other scolds. “Be fair. From what Tucano says, he is not just a guy.”
“Neither of you are helpful,” you grumble.
“We're processing,” Chiara quips.
Davide nods. “Poorly.”
They sigh in unison, but with different tones. Davide's is whiny and tired. Chiara’s is thoughtful.
“Why didn't you say anything?” Davide eventually asks. “It's been days since they left.”
You groan, turning your head to bury into the blanket over your shoulders. Chiara watches you pitifully.
“She's been dead for months,” you eventually spit. You have to separate the words from their meanings to keep a sob at bay. Your eyes water. “I figured it was some weird delayed grief that would go away after a few days.”
Davide looks at you pitifully too now, though on his face it's more akin to disgust. “Babe…”
You avert your eyes.
“You know that's not how this works.”
All you manage is a grunt. You don't care if you're being stupid. You know you are, deep down, but it's easier to play into the ignorance.
Chiara sighs again and leans back against the couch, and then onto you. Her shoulder bumps yours, head tilting to rest in the crook of your padded neck. She speaks softly, “Haven't seen you cry since she first died.”
They're simple words, nothing incredibly deep or metaphorical, but they make your chest hurt. You purse your lips as fresh saltwater pools in your lashes, cascading down your cheeks. Your sob is a broken sound, jolting your body so harshly that Davide takes the mug from your hands at the near spill. Chiara scoots closer to you, body turning to face yours as her arm comes around your waist.
Davide keeps his distance, never the most physically affectionate, but he slides a hand up and down your arm, a soothing assurance that he's here too.
“I miss her,” you choke suddenly. The words spill out. “I think about her every day.”
Chiara hums affirmingly. “We know.”
“I—” you hiccup. “I loved her more than anyone else.”
And it's true. Abuela was your everything, the one you looked up to the most, the one you always wanted to be. You loved her more than you loved anyone. You loved her more than you loved yourself. You loved her… more than anyone else loved her.
The thought sits bitterly in your stomach, like a weight that keeps sinking and sinking and sinking.
“What's that face for?” Davide interjects.
You blink, neutralizing your expression when you realize you were scowling. You groan again. It's an ugly thought, no matter how true it is to you. Ugly thoughts are meant to be kept inside, not spread where they could hurt others or… be disproven.
He pats your leg quickly, a sign he won't let you escape answering. You wince at the thought of vocalizing that part of you: raw and possessive and self entitled. The part of you that justifies never going home, to keep abuela's remains to yourself. Here, in Italy—where she died in your care.
“Nobody else cared about her like I did,” you nearly whisper.
“Oh.”
“Tucano…” Chiara trails off hesitantly. “You don’t know that.”
But you do. You’ve known it for years, eyes always taking in the room and the dynamics between your family members. You think of mamá when she raised her voice, speaking in an uncharacteristic irritation at abuela’s deteriorating mental state. Your sister was the avoidant type, feigning ignorance when she noticed something wrong or conveniently busy when help was needed. Tíos and primeros would chip in, but also hurried to pass abuela to the next person.
They cared when she was in Italy, when she was finally gone and they didn’t have to be the ones looking after her.
They didn’t deserve her, you concluded.
You don’t answer, and your friends don’t press. Chiara stays leaning against your side while Davide rubs your arm. You know the skepticism sitting in their throats. You know Davide wants to ask why you’re only looking through a small lens, through your limited perspective. You know that Chiara wants to ask why they don’t even deserve to see her. You know that you want to ask yourself why you have the right to keep abuela from going home.
Nobody says a word. Instead you all sit there quietly, together.
“You’re going on holiday,” Chiara demands when you try to return to the studio an hour later.
“What? I was just on holiday for a week.”
Davide’s eyebrows nearly fly off his forehead. “You were literally working for the circus and you were in the studio while they were here.”
You try another angle. “I have deadlines! I can’t take time off—it’s unfair to my clients.”
“You always give them longer estimates than it actually takes. Just say you had a death in the family.”
“That happened months ago!”
“Then say you had some suppressed trauma come up in your grief counseling and you need to work through it!”
You stare blankly at Davide. He widens his eyes and flips his palms as if he’s waiting for you to accept the obvious answers he’s offering.
“I can’t do that Davide, they already paid.”
“Then it’s PTO?”
You rub your eyes in annoyance. You’re tempted to claw them out entirely.
Chiara pats your back. “We’ll figure something out. But you need a break, and you can’t deny that.”
Your stomach aches like you might be sick. Maybe you do need a break, for your mind and your heart and to finally get to the grief you’ve been ignoring for months. But you can feel your lips tightening at the thought, your stomach twisting in fear. The sewing helps take you from the real world, to give you something else to focus on.
You’re worried that if you take a break, you won’t be able to start again.
The next weekend you’re hugging Davide and Chiara at the train station. Their arms awkwardly come around the giant backpack latched around your hips.
“Let us know when you get to your hostel,” Chiara demands.
“And when you’re back in range,” Davide adds.
You nod.
The pink line takes you an hour closer to your destination, whizzing north along the industrial and suburban outskirts of the city. Fields and farmlands start to populate along your route, parallel roads of green. Eventually you’re humming along the beginnings of mountains, the forests close enough that you can make out the edges of individual trees. They’re brown trunks and naked branches, fans of grey poking from the earth. But between them are clusters of green—evergreen bunches. The further you go, the taller the peaks rise, dusted with white.
You exit the train in a city situated by a lake, a large pool of blue that lays calm—still. You only see flashes of the water before you’re parked in the station, scanning your ticket and walking out onto black tile streets. The buildings are smaller here than Milan, with more space between their exteriors. A looming mountain pokes through the alleyways, a slab of white limestone erupting from the ground, topped with sparse green and heavy snow. Your heart races at the sight while you speed walk towards the bus stop.
Soon.
It takes the bus an hour to drop you off at your destination, despite covering less than a fourth of the train's mileage. You don’t mind. Instead you sit comfortably with your bag on your lap, staring out the window as the clunky vehicle winds through the mountains. You grin the entire time, already imagining the hot cocoa you’ll make yourself tonight, huddled by the window of your hostel with a scarf around your neck.
It’s exactly what you do, peering up the edge of the mountain the building resides on. You send a message to your friends to let them know you’re fine, a selfie with your drink. Just as your thumb hits send, your phone flashes with a call.
It’s from your sister.
For the first time since abuela died, you hesitate, before eventually turning off your ringer and setting it down to go to voicemail.
You spend one night in the hostel and five in the mountains. You hike up and down summits during the day and tend to fires in the warmth of small cabins at night. The peaks are jagged rocks, granite teeth wedged in the gums of the earth, at first overlooking the northern cities and lakes before you lose the buildings behind shrouds of rocks and trees and snow.
You don’t speak to anyone for three days—in the thick of your hiking. Your only companions are the swifts that fly ahead and the occasional owl in the trees. You curse when one takes flight, spreading glorious spotted wings. You wish you knew more of the birds here. The only other animal you catch is an ibex standing precariously on a cliffside—suspended only by mere chips in the wall. It looks unfazed by the height and the minimal footing, instead at peace, giant horns proud atop its head and sure steps carrying it upwards. You wish you could call out and ask for advice: to ask how you can do the same.
In contrast, you spend your day treading through white crystals up to your knees. It’s exhausting, your body moving slowly and through the entire day to reach your next bed. But it’s good for you; it’s what you need.
Crying comes as natural as walking, tears clumping as ice in your lashes. You huddle your body further under layers of wool and down, face burying into the cloth of your scarf. Every few kilometers you pause, catching your breath and blinking through the sun to see where you stand: high above the rest of the world. The brown of wintery grass rolls beneath you with those spiky leafless trees and clumps of evergreen. The balds are tinted yellow with harsh edges of silver from scattered boulders. You breathe in crisp, cold air—the kind that burns your lungs.
When you turn to continue walking ahead, the snow around you glistens. Sunlight strikes the frozen dust, light refracting in a pile of white sparkles. Millions of sparkles, like every star in the sky was plucked and tossed atop this mountain range—for you to shuffle your boots through and sob while you wander through thoughts and memories of abuela. You’re walking north, in the direction of Switzerland. But by now it’s been over two weeks since Hoshi no Sākasu left. They must be in Austria now. East.
The nights are cold, infinitely colder than the city. The air bites at any exposed skin, rubbing it raw to bloom splotches of red. Even so, you leave the warmth of cabin fires for extended periods of time to stare above you, into that other world in the sky. Stars twinkle in response, shining and winking and falling. They’re abundant, like every grain of sand and every snowflake on earth was scattered into the night.
Your eyes trace the constellations you know: simple ones like Ursa Major and Orion. When you run out, your mind starts to connect the stars on its own, searching for patterns from your life. You see Santi and you see Marco. You see your sister and your mother. You see abuela.
You see Hanta.
In this moment, in all the moments from these days in the mountains, you realize again that you are a speck. You are nothingness and everything, something painfully unknown while entirely familiar. The mountains and lakes and vastness of blue atmosphere remind you that everything you don’t know is waiting for you, patiently, sitting outside of your blood and flesh for you to start heading towards it. The tiny snowflakes and speckled sky and clumps of morning ashes remind you that everything you ever need to know has been within you all along.
By the time you’re back in a hostel, showering and running laundry and packing your bag to take a bus and then the train home, there’s a resolve in your chest. You don’t know what it is quite yet or what it’s pointed towards, but you are determined to do something.
Your phone charges overnight, but you don’t turn it on until you board the bus. Rows of notifications populate your screen when it flickers to life. You clear them all and open your messages.
The most recent one is from Hanta.
You haven’t spoken since he left, not sure what to say or if you want your relationship to unfurl over text. He must feel the same uncertainty, if it’s taken this long to reach out. His message is straightforward—a quick pleasantry followed by a check in, since apparently Momo tried to reach you just after you started your hike. You can sense his apprehension through the little grey bubbles.
You respond with a photo from your third day on the mountain, the endless layers of ridges settled beneath the sky, bluer and bluer as they get further away. There’s a moment of hesitation before you send another, this one a silly selfie you took the day before—sporting icy eyelashes and red cheeks. You quickly add a third message, a brief explanation that you were on holiday without service.
After replying to the other crucial messages you turn your phone off and stare out the window, watching as forests become farmland and farmlands become cities.
Settling back into your work routine comes naturally. Your hands glide through thread and fabric, not without hiccups, but with confidence and security. There’s an ease to your movements, an embodiment of patience and distance from your craft. Navigating the shift of deadlines and compromising with your clients was awkward, but it happened.
Hanta responds to you, a little message that says your trip looks fun—and cold. You give him a short reply, a simple It was. The phone is heavy in your hand as you stare at the screen. Eventually you cave and ask him how Switzerland was, and what he thinks about Austria.
Something opens between you two after the initial hurdle is cleared. You don’t message every day, but you talk often. Hanta sends photos of him at different restaurants and landmarks—mostly with Shouto—and you respond with pictures of your sewing projects. Seeing his face brings an urgency to your chest, one that makes you want to run to the station and board the first train North.
You send a picture of your most recent gown, sheer black fabric that twinkles, sewn with pearls and metal discs. This time you take the photo in your mirror, awkwardly giving the headless mannequin bunny ears with your free hand. You stare at the picture with a furrowed brow, retaking it a couple times before you get one that you look less stupid in. After sending it you grimace.
Your phone pings nearly immediately, several times with messages from Hanta. He says ‘SO PRETTY’ followed by a string of heart emojis. You bite your lip, trying to suppress the idiotic grin you know you’re wearing.
The phone blares your ringtone, nearly making you drop it from surprise. Your heart races, thinking it’s Hanta, so you almost answer it before you check the contact. You freeze when it’s your sister’s name on the screen.
You don’t turn off your ringer and ignore it this time. Instead you stare at it, thumb hovering over the answer button until it eventually goes to voicemail.
You call her three days later.
It doesn’t go through, since you do it in the morning. Back home it must be the middle of the night. That choice may have been purposeful—easier, if you know she won’t pick up.
In the afternoon you get an assault of messages from her: all caps, swearing, littered with typos. She calls you again and again, but you don’t pick up.
You pick up for Hanta.
He calls when you’re settling into bed for the evening. You answer while yawning, drawing out the words of your greeting.
“Sorry,” his voice murmurs through your speaker. “Is this not a good time?”
He sounds tired, the softness of his tone filling you with warmth. You could fall asleep like this, easily.
“It’s perfect,” you reply. A twinge of guilt runs through your stomach. You don’t pick up for your sister like this.
You talk until you fall asleep, mostly hushed conversation about what you two have been up to in the past weeks. He tells you stories about Switzerland and Austria and preparation for Germany. You talk about your current projects and your time in the mountains.
The turmoil you’ve faced regarding abuela and your sister remains unspoken.
You don’t remember falling asleep, but in the morning you find that the call has ended, a morning greeting from Hanta in its place.
You call your sister again. This time it’s at a reasonable hour, but still during her workday. After three rings you think she won’t answer. But she picks up.
“Dio, quiero estrangularte,” she immediately bites through the speaker. The sound of her voice makes your breath catch, her threat completely going over your head.
“Te extraño,” you answer. I miss you.
She yells at you through the phone while you sit and listen. Or, partially listen, mostly basking in the fact that she’s speaking to you at all. The words don’t fully process, but you assume they’re threats and complaints and demands that you come back with abuela and an explanation. The berating lasts several minutes, you biting the inside of your cheeks to keep from smiling the entire time. Her voice cracks towards the end, choked noises separating her words. She’s nearly panting when she finally finishes.
“Lo siento,” you manage to whisper.
“Just—” her breath hitches. “Just shut up.”
You nod, waiting for her to continue.
She doesn’t. It’s silent for minutes. You can imagine her face, her lips parting as if to speak before they close in apprehension, the mix of a pout and glare she wears when she doesn’t know what to say. Normally you would ask her questions to get her started, intuiting what she wants to talk about. You don’t know if that’s something you can still do anymore.
You know she wants answers from you: to ask why you did what you did, how you could stomach making such a decision. But you also know that she knows why you did it. She knows you, knows how you feel towards abuela and towards the rest of your family. She knows how you are, running away when things get hard—running away, but always caving and coming back. There’s no point in asking; you both know this.
“Tía abuela is so mad at you.”
Tía abuela—abuela’s sister and your great aunt. You nod, lips pursed. “I can imagine.”
The huff of your sister’s amusement crackles through the speaker and you feel a confidence that everything will be okay.
You call frequently, every few days at the minimum. It’s awkward for the first few minutes of every call, until someone breaks the ice and eventually you’re laughing and gossiping like you used to. One of your tías is getting a divorce, your primero is newly engaged but his mamá doesn’t like the girl, and a family friend just lost an absurd amount of money in recent investments. You listen intently, eagerly taking in everything you’ve missed these past months.
“You kidnapping abuela is the hottest drama though,” your sister states blankly. “Mamá can’t escape it. People still bring it up every chance they get.”
Your stomach twists with guilt. Mamá’s always been soft to you, a stark contrast to abuela’s quips. “How is she faring?”
“Fine.” You can visualize the roll of her eyes on the other end. “She was sweet on you, but you know she’s ruthless to the others. Tía abuela is giving her a lot of shit, but she’s still the new head of the family.”
There’s a pause. You know what she’s going to say.
“I told her we’ve been calling. You should talk to her.”
You exhale. You should, to at least apologize for stealing her mother and her child all at once.
“Maybe,” you hum, and that’s the end of it.
“I’m moving to Japan,” you blurt the next time you call. It takes you by surprise, not the words you meant to say. You almost drop your phone. Why did you say that? You never came to a decision about whether or not to work for Hoshi no Sākasu.
“What!?” your sister screeches on the other end.
“What?”
She whines, “Ay, Dios mío.” You nod. After a few minutes of silence she asks why.
“I got a job offer,” you explain quietly.
“For…?”
“… A circus.”
You hold your breath during the silence that follows. She laughs. The sound brings a wave of relief through you. You aren’t sure why you were anxious to tell her—why you assumed she wouldn’t understand what it means to you.
She understands; she always does. “How’d you land that?”
You smile. “A miracle.”
The miracles being Hanta and Midoriya. Kendou and Momo. Abuela.
“You taking her with you?”
It’s a jab and you know it—feel it. It’s your sister pleading, Come home.
Later when you hang up, you sit quietly with yourself, phone tucked in your palms. The little rectangle is heavy with the weight of your conversations. It should be heavier, also holding your messages with Hanta and Chiara and Davide, stored with photos of abuela and mamá.
It takes several calls with Kendou before you give her the official acceptance of the position. Despite your confident claims to your sister, a piece of you was anxious the opportunity was no longer available, even with Kendou’s assurance that they could wait. When you finally breathe the words out over the phone, they don’t feel real. You ask her to keep it a secret for a little while, at least until the news settles in your own heart. Right now it’s a riptide, a violent storm within you as you sift through the emails of contracts and information.
You let her tell Momo, so long as she keeps it to herself, and you’re greeted by a warm message welcoming you to the team. Your eyes water while you respond. Your time with Momo isn’t up—there’s no longer a maybe lingering around the thoughts of being able to work together again.
It takes two weeks to tell Hanta.
He’s brushing his teeth while you mumble about your day, his phone propped up against the sink. The circus just landed in France, this being his first night in Paris. You’re on the couch, swaddled in blankets while your eyes linger around the interior on his end—marble walls, white towels, a random photo in a black frame.
“Are you rooming alone?” you ask when you finish your debrief.
He shakes his head, leaning to rinse his mouth before he wipes the residue on the back of his hand. He reaches for you and your heart races, thinking he’ll touch your face—only to jostle the screen while he leads you out of the bathroom. It’s a funny angle, the underside of his chin. It reminds you of looking up towards his face while laying on his chest.
“Nah I’m with ‘Roki. That’s how it usually is,” he answers. The next second the camera falls as if he dropped it, shaking violently with smears of creamy white and black splotches before he bounces into frame, beaming as he lays on his stomach on one of the hotel beds. His grin blooms an ache in your chest. You wish you were there with him.
You hum, saying, “That’s too bad,” before you can stop yourself.
“Huh?”
You pause, realizing where your mind was going. Heat creeps up your cheeks while Hanta stares at you through the camera. “Just—” you stop yourself, not wanting to tell him this way.
But he’s looking at you so curiously.
“I… I was hoping we could room together.”
It’s silent.
Hanta blinks at you, face and body frozen otherwise. You try to read what he’s thinking, if he’s putting it together, but he looks scarily neutral.
Then his head shifts abruptly to look at you dead on. His hand comes to his mouth, fingertips lightly pressing his lips. His expression doesn’t change except the slight widening of his eyes. He speaks quietly. “Are you… Does that mean what I think it does?”
You nod, face carefully neutral to assess his reaction.
He yelps. The camera shakes before falling and going black, but you can hear him scrambling and the bumping of the phone as he tries to pick it back up. You can’t help your smile—the fondness stretching across your face when he finally comes back into view looking like a puppy.
“Is this real?” he asks meekly. It’s almost a whisper. You wish you could hold his face and kiss him.
“Yeah,” you whisper back. “It’s real.”
It’s a precious gift to watch Hanta take in the information, face shifting between emotions rapidly before finally landing on something like a pout. He’s tearing up, eyes like giant marbles as they shine with joy.
“You… you chose—” he pauses. Me, you think he wants to say. “You chose us? The circus?”
Your own eyes are glassy, you can see them glistening in the tiny square in the top corner of the screen. Your lips twitch as you nod. Yes, you’re about to say—that you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. That you chose everyone. But you pause. You’ve been scared to make decisions and declarations, scared to admit to yourself why you make the choices you do, why you pretend they aren’t choices so much as obligations you just fell into. That you had to.
You feel that way with Hanta right now. But choosing to follow what feels like a duty or obligation is still a choice. You smile.“I chose you, Hanta.”
For the next two months, you work and you pack and you say goodbye, your own life rapidly shifting as the weather warms. You decide your time in Italy will come to an end at the start of June, after all your orders are finished. You’ll spend the break period in Costa Rica, tending to the wounds long left behind. Momo offers to hire a moving service that can move your things to her house (or estate, she calls it), to give you peace of mind until it’s time to settle in Japan.
Your stomach twists in knots every time you think about it—about going home.
The moving process starts early with you purging yourself of furniture and decor and clothes you don’t want anymore. Every time you say goodbye to something, your heart feels a little lighter. You sell those costumes you know you’ll never wear again and you argue hotly with the landlady to wiggle out of the lease you signed for the next year. She caves with a scowl when you pull the dead nonna card.
Chiara and Davide assist you, preventing you from taking the decluttering too far.
(“Babe, you still have another month,” Davide protests when you take pictures of your dining table to post online for sale. “Are you planning to eat off the floor?”)
(“Tucano—” Chiara groans when she steps into your studio, feet disappearing under bundles of fabric. “How do you work in this mess?”)
You spend as much time as you can with them, soaking in the final days with your throuple—as Davide puts it. The three of you have weekly gatherings at your place, filled with pastries and fruit and wine. Some days your conversations are a time of laughter. Others, tears.
“I can’t believe I was right after all,” Davide sighs, nursing his third glass of a purplish cabernet.
You make a face. “When you said I would fall in love with one of the performers but then break up and have awkward tension?”
Chiara gasps loudly, nearly a cackle. “What?”
Davide scoffs. “When I said you would leave me for a man.”
You roll your eyes, but Chiara comes to your defense first. “They’re leaving us, first of all. And Italy, and opera dresses. Second, they’re leaving for the circus.”
Teeth scrape against the inside of your cheek as you consider her words. You recall what you told Hanta over the phone, when he asked if you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. Maybe the wine is loosening your tongue, but you find it easier to admit tonight.
“I’m leaving for the circus, but Hanta was a big part of that.”
Davide screeches an, “I knew it!” while Chiara’s face morphs into a frown.
“Hanta,” she repeats back in a mimicking voice. You slap her arm. Her head comes to rest on your shoulder. “You can’t forget about us, okay?”
“Of course I won’t.”
“We should visit! I’ve always wanted to go to Japan.”
Chiara nods quickly, hair brushing your neck. “We should go in the spring. I wanna see the sakura bloom.”
They escalate into making plans to visit, now entirely independent of whether or not you’re in Japan in the spring. You smile to yourself. Chiara was your first friend, who later introduced you to Davide as a client. A couple years passed and now they’re the people in Milan you hold closest. They were friends without you, but became more intertwined when you arrived. You hope they’ll be good friends even after you leave.
Watching and listening to them now tells you that you have nothing to worry about.
They help you load boxes in the van at the end of June. Your last order is finished and the lease comes to its end. The remainder of your things go into a large suitcase and backpack for you to live out of at Chiara’s. You stay with her for one week, idling in your favorite places around Milan in her clothes. It’s a stretched out goodbye, one that has been happening in fragments since you first declared your departure. These days don’t feel real. You can’t fathom that you’ll soon be across the world, walking through familiar streets—ones that have certainly changed in your absence.
You and Hanta talk less as your move gets closer, primarily because the circus has landed in the Americas, the time change an increasing obstacle. Knowing that you’re following their footsteps, soon to be on the same land again, feels special. It feels like a confirmation that you’re making the right choice.
You start listening to basic Japanese lessons and download an app to memorize hiragana. Your finger hesitantly draws the characters, lip jutting in a pout when you get one wrong. When you and Hanta do find pockets of time to talk, he gently corrects your pronunciation of basic phrases.
Chiara has to work the day that you leave, so you have a tearful goodbye at her front door before Davide drives you to the airport later in the afternoon. You wonder if this is the last time you’ll sit in his car, legs against dark leather. The thought triggers other sentimental musings, questions of the next time you’ll sleep over at Chiara’s, or the next time you’ll have a real Italian pasta.
Davide holds you at the terminal, one of the few hugs he’s ever offered. He cries easily—still reading you down, just with red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose. You’re forced to promise that you won’t forget him. When you finally leave him to roll your bag to the check in line and then to security, you turn back once and catch him scowling.
You land in Spain before boarding the eleven hour flight to San José. Floating above the ocean—separated from your friends and soaring to your family—strikes something deep in your heart. It’s a mix of aches and pains and fears swirling together, making your body feel so heavy you think you might start plummeting into the Atlantic. Your feet shuffle to cradle your bag between them, tucked under the seat in front of you. You itch to pull it out and open it, to check that abuela is still resting in her wooden box.
San José is just as you remember. Stepping outside hits you full force with an assault of hot, humid air. Your skin begins to glisten, clothes already clinging to you in the few minutes it takes to walk to the buses. The next one comes in half an hour, so you park yourself on a bench and lean against the backrest. Palm trees tower over you, their grassy leaves fanning between the ground and the sky. A cluster of sparrows floats under their canopies, entering your vision only to leave moments later.
By the time you pull your bag along the sidewalk of your childhood street, the sun has sunk beneath the horizon. You slow your steps as you reach the driveway of your home. The house isn’t in view quiet yet, shrouded behind the trees that gate you from the neighbor. You pause at the corner of the fence, fighting the knots in your stomach and the thrumming in your hands. It should just be your sister and mamá inside. You can handle them.
Despite your incessant self-assurances, several minutes pass before you step down the sidewalk. They’re slow and hesitant. Your head tilts upwards, taking in the canopies of cecropia above. The street lamp illuminates the leaves from below, displaying faded green against the black of the sky. Their shapes are round but segmented, the webbed fingers of a frog. You catch scarring on the thin branches, knots and welts in the wood that take the shape of spiraled eyes, watching you. You can hear the rustling of palm trees, the scrape of leafy hairs as they blow above you—
In front of you.
You bring your chin down, looking ahead to the lemon tree in the yard. You nearly yelp in surprise at the sight of your sister. She blinks while you flinch, hand holding one of the branches so she can clip the fruit with her other.
No greeting passes between you. You demand, “Since when do you take care of the garden?” She’s the type to complain about dirtying her shoes while walking to the car. The dresses feel like a weight in your suitcase. Would she even like them?
She scowls at the accusation in your voice. “Ever since you kidnapped the person who used to.”
You don’t have an answer, still too stunned. Her eyes similarly trace over your form, mouth twisting when she takes in your clothes.
“And you still dress like that?”
You can’t hold back your laugh. You missed her.
You missed home.
Seeing mamá is harder. She’s quiet and soft, always a subdued presence, but now with a new touch of somberness. She looks sad—and easily shattered.
You meet her at the door unexpectedly. She’s waiting when you enter, immediately standing from the sofa to reach for you. Her touch is firm over your arm, hands turning white from the intensity of her grip, like she thinks you might disappear at any moment. Tears spring without warning. You try to blink them away, to keep your face from twisting in a sob, but you cry easily.
“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say. You don’t add more, not sure how to eloquently apologize for stealing her own mother, for leaving, for making life at home and with the family excruciating.
Her dark eyes shine back at you, slightly curved from the twitch of her smile. She looks happy, though a quiet sort of happiness. Not one for words, her reassurance comes from how she reaches for you, pulling you into a hug. Your wet eyes land against her shoulder, steeping into the fabric of her shirt. One of her hands comes to your head, smoothing over your hair as she hums—a content sound, one she makes when things are finally coming together.
You take the box of ashes out shortly and offer them to mamá. Her face tightens when the realization strikes her, and you feel more guilt and regret swirling in your stomach. Should you have waited?
Delicate hands take the box, thumb tracing a band of dark brown towards the bottom of the lid. Her eyes soften before she stretches it back to you.
“Keep her with you,” she nearly whispers. “Until we have the ceremony.”
You swallow. Do you deserve that? To keep holding onto her after all this time? After all that you’ve deprived your family of? Mamá’s eyes don’t waver, holding a command you have never been able to disobey. You take the box.
Your mother fusses over you, helping you carry your bags to your room. She starts fluffing your pillows before offering to bring you some water, and you have to grab her by the arm to get her to stop and listen while you tell her I’m fine and Thank you. She leaves with an anxious expression, you think out of fear that you’ll vanish in the middle of the night. A quiet, “Buenas noches,” filters through just before the door shuts.
You flop onto the bed with a sigh. One of your newly fluffed pillows bounces off and lands on the ground. You sigh again.
Despite the exhaustion deep in your body, you can’t fall asleep. You lay in your childhood bed and stare at the ceiling, your vision no different than if you closed your eyes instead. Even though you’re blind to your surroundings, you can feel the relics of an earlier person littered on bookshelves and tucked into drawers—someone who had their grandmother.
You’re certain that hours pass, but you can’t bring yourself to check the time. An idea comes to mind and you act before thinking it through. You turn so you’re sitting upright on the bed, hand gently waving towards your bedside table until it lands on the wooden box you placed earlier. Once it’s safe in your hold, you rise and leave the room.
You know this journey through the hall to abuela’s room. As a toddler you walked this route nearly every night. You were frequented by nightmares, ones that disappeared as soon as you took refuge with your grandmother.
The floorboards creak under your weight, reminding you to keep to the left to minimize the noise. You take your time, hugging abuela to your chest while your other arm extends to feel for the doorknob. It makes contact immediately. You twist slowly so the latch opens quietly, then push through with your shoulder quickly so the squeak of the hinges aren’t drawn out.
Your feet shuffle forwards, soon pressing your shins against the mattress. There’s the faintest smell of lemons—a scent that tightens your chest. You crawl forwards, bringing the box to rest between the two pillows at the headboard. A wave of exhaustion rolls through you immediately. You don’t bother settling under the covers; as soon as your head touches the pillow, you’re asleep.
Closing your eyes transports you to another world, an older world that you are young within. You’re speaking a language you don’t recognize, but one you understand every word of, conversing back and forth with a boy you’ve never met. He has kind eyes and a soft voice that you want to always say yes to. He has rough hands, but they cradle yours gently. In the next moment you are both older, adults, and he is watching you sadly. You don’t have words to explain his expression, what it invokes in you, but you can tell that he is leaving—not by his own choice.
You are alone and angry and in constant fear, conjuring images in your head of what has happened to him. If you’ll ever see him again. You don’t know this man, but he is everything to you. He has left everything to you, too: a daughter. You look at her face until it becomes your own, staring at a man who is your father by name but not by blood.
The story repeats, this time with a man who gives you meaningful glances. His eyes aren’t as kind but they are entirely on you. He says he’ll give you everything. He takes it back when you learn you’re pregnant, with twins. He leaves without a word.
You’re woken by an assault of light flashing your vision. You squeeze your eyelids shut, trying to block out the blooms of painful red and white static. Turning your head offers some relief, angling yourself from the sun and instead pushing your face into a pillow.
“Get up,” a voice barks. Your sister, you realize, pulling back the curtains.
You groan, drawing it out as if asking a question.
“I’m not letting you sleep past noon,” she continues. “Come help me with the garden.”
You roll over to face her, eyes sticky while you work to hold them open. Your head has the heaviness of a stone. The warmth of the bed lulls your body back under, to whatever lives you were living in your subconscious.
“Kay,” you eventually mumble.
She looks at you skeptically before nodding and leaving, with a promise to return in a few minutes if you don’t appear downstairs.
In the fresh silence of the morning, you turn to lay on your back. Your head brushes something hard. You frown, tilting it back and forth. It scrapes against something with sharp edges. When you turn, you see abuela, her box of ashes still tucked between the pillows. You blink in surprise before going still. The dreams from last night run through your mind. You’ve never had one like that before. You stare at the box, attempting to recall the faces that passed by.
The garden work doesn’t last longer than a couple hours. You pull weeds and harvest the ripened crops—mostly peppers and bananas. The midday sun burns hot and bright and you immediately begin to sweat through the sleeves of your shirt. Your sister doesn’t let you complain, quipping back that it’s your fault for sleeping in.
When you bring the harvest inside, your mother graciously receives it in the kitchen. For the first time today you get a proper look at her face: it’s the older, wrinkled, and saddened features of that first baby in your dream. She looks like a young version of abuela. You halt while several fragmented thoughts abruptly click into place.
Your dream, your abuela and mamá, your sister…
You.
Tears well in your eyes without warning, immediately sliding down your cheeks. Mamá doesn’t question it. She embraces you, rubbing your back carefully.
When you calm she switches topics, not probing what brought on your outburst. Instead she sifts through the vegetables carefully, picking ones to set on the counter for lunch.
“Hopefully we get a lot tomorrow, or else I’ll have to run to the store.”
You hum in question.
She stops rummaging, eyes lifting to you carefully. “Did your sister not tell you?”
You blink. “Tell me what?”
“We're having a big dinner tomorrow.”
You inhale sharply, heart racing. Big dinner is a synonym for family dinner. Tíos and primeros and amigos de la familia. Tía abuela. It was going to happen eventually, an event you can’t avoid. You knew this, you know this. But you didn’t expect it’d be this soon.
You aren’t ready, aren’t sure you’ll ever be ready. You could throw up.
“Who—” your voice cracks as you manage through the words. “Who’s coming?”
Mamá doesn’t answer.
“So everyone,” you respond to her silence. She doesn’t offer any confirmation or denial. You leave the room.
When you enter your bedroom you curl up beside the bed, shielding you from the door. Shaky hands reach for your phone, calling Hanta by instinct. You don’t know what he’s doing today, if he’ll pick up.
It only takes two rings before you hear him greeting you with a dramatic, “Konnichiwa!” before switching to Spanish. “How’s life back home?”
“Hanta,” you say flatly, urgently. He hums, the sound much lower and with a twinge of surprise. “My family’s coming over tomorrow and I only learned five minutes ago.”
There’s a drawn out sigh on the other end while he conjures a response. “How’s that feeling?”
You nearly laugh. “Like I’m going to throw up and then run away.”
He giggles on the other end. The sound makes your heart pang, but your stomach lightens with a sort of relief. “No way,” he insists. “You’ve come too far to run. And there’s no way I’m letting you put this off if it was your main hesitation for joining us.”
You smile, lips pulling tight against your teeth. “I can make my own choices,” you retort.
“Too bad, I know you already signed the contract.”
You sigh, nodding your head solemnly. You did.
He doesn’t say anything more, letting you take your time.
“I’m just…” you start, trying to find the words. You aren’t ready. You’re still processing being back home, in your old bedroom, with mamá and your sister. You’re—
“Scared,” Hanta fills in for you.
You fight the urge to scowl. You fail.
“Yeah,” you huff.
He giggles again, and you know it’s from the tone of your voice. “I’m afraid for you,” he admits. “But you have to do it, yeah? And you’ve already done the hard part of coming home, seeing your mom and sister. And you’re still alive and well after that, right?”
You nod at his words and hum in agreement.
“Was everything okay with them?” he asks.
You explain what happened when you came home: finding your sister by the lemons and your mom waiting by the door, how neither of them properly yelled or expressed being upset with you.
“Woah… That’s incredible,” he says. “Maybe the rest of your family will move on once they see you too.”
“There’s no way. That was mamá and hermana. Tía abuela is an entirely different character, and I’ve already heard that she’s pissed.”
He huffs. “Sounds like my abuelo. Those people love the strongest though.”
Your call continues, you two catching up on the past few days. He speaks excitedly, but his voice lulls you to a calmer state. By the time you hang up, a piece of you thinks everything will be okay. The two of you exchange goodbyes, and then you’re left in the quiet solitude of your room. It only lasts for a minute, before the door slams open.
It’s your sister, standing with a giant grin across her face as she excitedly demands, “Who was that?”
Tía abuela slaps you the moment she enters the room.
Your cheek stings from the contact, a sharp pain that tingles across your skin. It dulls quickly, but you wonder if there will be a bruise. The coppery taste of blood blooms against the side of your tongue. You must have cut the inside of your mouth against your teeth.
These thoughts distract you from the accompanying verbal assault: a string of insults and accusations that you’ve heard before, from yourself. You take it quietly and with a stoic expression. Your eyes trail to the floor, not wanting to meet hers as she berates you in front of your relatives. Nobody speaks when she finishes. The only remaining sound is her ragged breath.
A long pause follows. You don’t raise your eyes, too embarrassed to meet anyone’s gaze.
The silence is eventually broken by your nephew. He cries, yanking his hand from his mother in attempt to run out the door. The room unpauses, relatives rushing after him while loud commotion fills the space. A gentle touch on your cheek brings your attention to your mother. There’s a shine in her eyes, a quirk to her lips. Maybe she finds this funny. You think you would too.
Nobody speaks to you, not willing to take on any part of tía abuela’s wrath. You don’t mind, standing awkwardly to yourself in the corner, and shunning yourself in the kitchen when the others take their plates to the dining and living rooms to eat. Nobody invites you over.
Later there’s another commotion, in the living room with your nephew again. Tía abuela tries to feed him a spoonful of rice, but he refuses. She insists, and he slaps the fork from her hand. Gasps release throughout the room, your cousins immediately going to scold him, but he screams and runs. You can hear his footsteps approach the kitchen. You freeze, not sure what you should do.
He barrels straight for you, short arms coming around your hips while his face buries into your stomach. You grunt at the impact, but stand frozen and wide-eyed. His parents enter—your older cousin and her husband—with tía abuela trailing behind them. Your hands fly to your nephew’s to pull him from you and hand him over. He’s too young to understand, too young to get in trouble. But he fists your shirt tightly and yells, “No!”
You tug him again.
“She hurt you!” he wails. The sentence is partially muffled by your shirt, wetting with his tears and snot, but everyone hears it. Your heart drops. All the adults in the doorway freeze.
You cast one careful glance to them before you make up your mind and grip your nephew by his underarms, hoisting him to your hip. His face is red, with teary eyes and black curls clinging to his temples. You watch him glance at you and then the door, laying his chest against yours as if to offer himself as a shield. Your eyes well with tears.
“I hurt her too,” you say quietly, running a hand over his hair. Your voice is firm, and loud enough that you know the others will hear.
He hiccups, head turning to look at you in shock. “You hit tía abuela?”
“No,” you say with a huff of laughter. “But something worse.”
His eyes widen impossibly, full moons against a dark night. Brown irises drift to your cheek. There must be a mark, still flared and angry. A small hand comes to touch it gently, a tingling sting radiating from the contact. You’re certain there will be a bruise tomorrow.
Tía abuela doesn’t speak to you, but others finally do. Your nephew’s outburst broke the invisible boundary, opening a gap for others to greet you. They don’t say much, eyes still cautiously flitting to tía abuela, but it’s a start. Nobody chides you, but nobody looks excited either.
Everyone but the kids. You watch your nephew whisper with his cousins, giggling as they look towards you and then dart their eyes away when you meet them. One of them approaches you during the goodbyes, gently tugging at your shirt to get your attention. He’s another nephew, this one from a family friend.
“Did you really punch tía abuela?” he asks, eyes wide with wonder.
Yours nearly pop out of your head. A stifled laugh sounds from behind you—your sister’s voice.
“Not…” you don’t know how to respond, what the appropriate explanation is for a seven year old. “Not exactly.”
His eyes stay glued to your face. You feel cornered here, wondering if you said the wrong thing. A voice calls his name. He grins wide before running off. You exhale in relief.
You get small waves and head nods from everyone else. Only when tía abuela is out the door does someone finally pull you for a clumsy, messy hug—your tía, the second eldest of abuela’s children after mamá. She holds you tightly, with the quiet promise that you’ll talk more soon. You feel her sincerity in the hand clutching your wrist.
When the door finally closes, your sister releases the longest breath you’ve ever heard. Mamá appears with an ice pack covered in cloth, motioning to hold it against your cheek. It’s long overdue, but you accept it graciously.
“That went better than I expected,” she says quietly. You agree.
“You totally could have dodged it,” your sister adds.
You agree. You could have, if you wanted to.
The bruise fades after a week, in time for the ceremony to scatter abuela’s ashes. Family members have come and gone by the house, warmed to catching up with you. You see tía abuela again, this time without the slapping and screaming. She ignores you, except for a fair amount of side eyes while conversing with mamá. When she says goodbye, her eyes meet yours for a moment right before slamming the door.
The ceremony takes place on the beach. The sight makes you think of Hanta and that beautiful tent—black sand glitters like the dust of diamonds under moonlight. No words are spoken; the only sounds being the lapping waves trying to reach your family on the shore. Tía abuela lights the candles of the vigil while mamá opens the ashes and pours them into the hands of your relatives. Tía abuela’s sharp eyes watch closely, lingering on you when mamá finally makes her way around.
Abuela’s remains are soft and light—grey ash spotted with clumps of black residue. Her body is the feathery weight of dry sand, and yet you feel like you are cupping the entire world and universe. This is not the dust that sweeps through the air after a fire; you are holding the dust of stars and planets and moons. You are holding the weight of your lineage, the connecting point between the bloodline that lives, and the blood that has passed. If you squint, you can make out shapes and images in abuela’s remains. They’re vague. Dreamlike.
One of your younger tíos begins the music with his Quijongo, the stick thumping steadily against the bowstring. You close your eyes at the sound, akin to the whistling of wind through trees. The airy notes of your cousin on the Ocarina join shortly, and then the gentle shake of Maracas. Their performance draws on for a few moments before tía abuela starts to hum. It fills your body with warmth, a feeling so intense you almost shiver in the summer heat. Her notes are clear and bodied, like her entire soul is unraveling into the air—settling above you like the salty humidity.
She falls into a repeated chorus, the sign for everyone to join. You open your eyes when you begin to hum with her—with everyone. The sound sweeps through the circle around you, tía abuela illuminated in the center by candlelight, orange haze gently fanning to reveal the faces surrounding her in a warm glow. The humming changes when your mother shifts her intonation. Others follow her lead, adding their own twists and slides and delays to the song, pulling a deeper and richer sound through layers of complexity. You try to channel abuela’s energy with your own voice, sharpening the ends of each note and adding a roughness to your tone.
You close your eyes again, letting a warm buzz sweep over you entirely. A charged energy has bloomed within, taken you completely, as if your body has more spirit than it can contain. Your arms burn.
When abuela has been scattered over the sands of your home, everyone falls silent. Your eyes again drift around the circle, taking in the many praying faces of your family, slowly dimming as the flaming wicks reach their end. You lift your gaze to the sky, soaking in the faint moon and sprinkled stars.
A figure flies above, the shape of a large bird. Your heart skips a beat before it races, catching the familiar outline of a macaw. They’re daytime birds, ones that sleep when the sun does.
You wonder what brought this one here, now.
The following month brings new grief. The grief of old relationships as they change and fizzle, the grief of your previous self, the grief of your pride when you say your apologies over and over—understanding the multitudes of ways you hurt your family. You grieve your anger and your spite, coming to terms with the detriments of your self righteous attitude.
There’s a special grief in the pain of being forgiven, too.
There’s a beauty in this sadness and this ache: the beauty of memory. Abuela begins to appear everywhere, and in all of those people you once thought weren’t deserving of her. It hits you the hardest with mamá, a face you see daily and with each moment growing more and more similarities between her and the deceased.
You’re envious that abuela lives in her features, in the slope of her nose and lips. Some were passed down to you and your sister, in matching smiles but otherwise your relationship isn’t apparent. Even you and your sister look nothing alike, only sharing the eyes of a man you don’t know. A man you saw in a dream now weeks ago, one who promised you everything for one brief moment.
He appears one day.
You’re freshly showered from a morning in the garden, heading toward the stairs to meet mamá in the kitchen, passing the square window on the second floor. She stands in the opening, a frame capturing a moment in time: her in the driveway with someone. He’s tall with tanned skin and curly hair—an aged version of the second man from your dream. You watch him smirk at mamá, a sharp sliver of teeth. You can’t hear her, but she waves her arms and her lips move rapidly. Her chest heaves and you think for the first time in your life you’re watching her yell at someone.
The man takes one step closer. Your mom shoves him at the shoulder. He stares at her openly before finally turning away.
His head tilts towards the window, gaze immediately locking onto you. Despite the distance, the shape of his eyes is clear: they’re sharp, intense. For a brief moment you think you’re looking at your sister. You break the stare, turning your head sharply before moving away from the glass.
You stand still for a minute, back against the wall. Your heart pounds in your chest and ears, crawling uncomfortably up your throat.
“I think I saw my dad,” you say abruptly the following day.
You watch Hanta’s face go still. “Huh?”
“He was in the driveway with mamá. I’ve never met him, or seen pictures. But I have his eyes.”
“He must be hot.” You deadpan at his response and he laughs. “Sorry. Did you get to talk to him? Or ask your mamá about it?”
You shake your head. She didn’t say anything when you came downstairs; she’s never said anything before. You’ve never felt a reason to ask, always happy enough with the family you have. If that dream from last month had any indication of the kind of man he is, you’d rather keep things the way they are.
You don’t see him again.
Your second month at home is busier now that you’ve reintegrated with your relatives. You go from spending most days at mamá’s to getting pulled along excursions to other houses and local spots. You’re put on impromptu babysitting duty for your nieces and nephews, shaken awake early in the morning to hike with your cousin, abruptly shoved into a car during the afternoon for a trip to the beach. You find yourself in markets and on the sand and in the jungle. It’s exhausting, but you love it. You missed it.
You still maintain the garden with your sister and call your friends regularly. They ground you into the soil of your home, even across the ocean. Your joint chat with Chiara and Davide populates with pictures, frequently including ones of them smiling together at your usual places. Swiping through them fills you with warmth, and a distant ache.
Hanta is equally diligent with his communication. His responses to your own photos always result in grins that pique the interest of your family members. You learn to wait until you’re alone to read his messages.
(He sends a video one evening, of a recent training session. The phone is still, likely propped on a table or chair, while he moves through an unpracticed routine—a freestyle. It could be mistaken for casual stretching. Even so, every motion is smooth, every transition is seamless. At one point he anchors his legs before leaning back in a bundle of fabric. The camera is close enough to pick up the steady rise and fall of his chest.
You save the video with warm cheeks, watching it again several times throughout the day. He’s so captivating.)
One rare morning when you rise before your sister, you tend to the garden alone. The work is minimal: watering some sections and picking ripened tomatoes. Less than an hour later you step inside with a heavy basket of sweet red, heaving it on the counter. The consecutive thump of footsteps sound down the stairs—your sister must have woken.
You turn to greet her and freeze.
In her arms are dresses, the dresses you made her. Dresses you haven’t shown her. Her eyebrows are arched high into her forehead as she asks, “So tell me why these are exactly my size and style?”
Heat flares up your neck. Instead of explaining, you demand, “Why were you in my room?”
“Why is this my size?”
Several moments of silent glaring pass. You still refuse to answer. She laughs.
“You sap! You are so fake.” The grin on her face stretches wide. Her arm bends to press the garments to her chest while her other one points at you. “This is embarrassing for you.”
You nod, absolutely humiliated. Your plan was to hang the dresses in the back of her closet the day you leave for Japan. At the very least you could avoid her reaction over the phone. But now that she’s found them, more than anything, you’re just relieved that her eyes are shining with glee.
She likes them.
Towards the end of August you’re in regular conversation with Kendou and Momo about moving to Japan. Kendou assists your preparation for work while Momo helps with housing. The latter recommends you visit in person before committing to a lease, and insists you stay with her until you get situated. You attempt to refuse, but she doesn’t relent. When you try suggesting you at least pay her something, she laughs.
“I’ll quit,” you threaten.
She grins, nearly singing, “Too late. Besides, I have your things hostage at my estate.”
You sigh, defeated.
The next day you get a call from Hanta in the evening. His pouting face is the first thing you see when you accept it.
“What?” you ask in amusement.
“Why’d you ask to stay with Momo? Why not me?”
Your jaw nearly drops. Can’t they let you share your own news? And why is he acting like you begged her to host you?
“Hanta, I tried to refuse but she has my stuff already.”
“You should move it to my place.”
You laugh. “You’re crazy.”
He pouts harder, puppy eyes sparkling. “Why not?”
“Hanta—” you sigh. “I thought you wanted to take your time?”
He groans, flopping his head onto a pillow. You grin.
“Yeah,” he exhales. “I just miss you a lot right now.”
The confession strikes your heart, claws an ache through your chest. He’s straightforward with his feelings and his words, sending shivers of giddiness through you.
“I miss you too,” you admit. The busy days with your family have been effective distractions, but that longing always reappears—in the quiet of the nights and mornings, or during these calls when you can hear his voice so clearly. So close. “We have less than two months left.”
He groans again. “That’s so long.”
You agree, and ask him what he plans to do when the tour finishes mid-September. The circus cast has a month break before training in Tokyo resumes.
“Last time I went to Ecuador to see mamá’s family.”
You hum. Maybe you could meet him there and catch the same plane to Japan. Neither of you say anything, but you can tell he’s thinking something similar.
By the time September sweeps in you live everyday with a buzz thrumming beneath your skin. It’s a constant energy, restless anxiety knowing that you’ll be moving soon. You and Hanta have started working out the details of meeting in Ecuador. He tells you that he’ll know his plans in a few days.
You keep yourself busy to ease your agitation, more beaches and mountains and markets. The full days have you exhausted at night, enough to sleep instead of letting your mind race in excitement.
Today you wake early, finishing the garden tasks before the sun arches overhead. You have plans to spend the day in the city with your sister. You already know where you want to eat lunch, and you can guess which bakery she’ll demand you visit afterwards. While you make your way downstairs quickly, she takes her time. The water from her shower stops running just as you reach the living room. You sigh.
After several minutes of listening to pattering footsteps above you, the chime of the doorbell rings. You frown. It deepens when your sister calls, “Can you get that? I invited someone to join.”
You were looking forward to a day of just the two of you, not prepared to have a third presence. Knowing your sister, the guest is your older cousin—who you love, but is usually overwhelming to be around for longer than an hour.
You open the door with a huff, ready to greet her with the most enthusiasm you can muster—
But Hanta is standing at the doorstep.
Your eyes fly open at the sight. Immediately they trace his face—his dark hair and eyes. He’s disheveled, sporting stubble along his lip and jawline. His hair is longer than it was half a year ago, bunched in a knot at the base of his neck. Long wisps fall at the sides of his face, framing him. He’s in warm weather clothes—an unbuttoned tropical shirt with loose shorts and sandals, and a big backpack.
You swallow. He looks good.
He grins immediately, reaching for your hand as he says your name. You’re too stunned to hear it, focused trying to process the fact that he’s here.
“Hanta…?” you eventually ask. Your eyes burn and your nose stings. Tears surface.
His face softens, smile turning gentle. He tugs your arm, encouraging you to step closer. Your heart thumps quickly and loudly in your ears. You think your chest is going to explode.
“Yeah,” he nearly whispers. “Can I hug you now?”
You nod fervently and let him pull you by the waist. His bag prevents you from wrapping your arms around his torso, so instead you loop them over his shoulders. He buries his face into your neck with a sigh, his breath sending shivers down your spine. Your cheek presses into his hair while you inhale the scent of him: sweet oranges. There’s a thrumming against your chest, but you can’t differentiate your heartbeat from his.
“Missed you,” you mumble quietly.
“Yeah.”
Your mind races with questions. How did your sister manage to contact him? Everyone told you the circus still had a few more days before the tour officially ended—did they finish early? Did Hanta leave early?
You don’t ask any, instead squeezing your arms to clutch him harder. His grip tightens in response and a rush of euphoria runs through you—to be held like this, by him.
The shutter of a camera breaks your moment of bliss, immediately prompting you to jerk away. Hanta’s grip doesn’t let you go far, keeping your chests pressed together while you lean your head back to turn to the sound. Mamá fumbles with her phone, grumbling that the ringer was supposed to be off. Your sister stands beside her with a giant smirk. You want to cower away in embarrassment. Hanta doesn’t let you escape him, so you resort to burying your head into his shoulder.
He laughs, a symphony of glee. You peek at his face and see no traces of fluster. He looks happy.
His grip loosens enough to let him step aside and introduce himself, but his hand holds yours tightly. The greeting he offers feels dutifully Japanese—bowing as he states his full name, thanking mamá for the care—but the words come out in Spanish. You blink at his formality and its out of place nature in your family, on him.
Mamá ushers the two of you inside, insisting it’s her pleasure and for him to make himself at home. It occurs to you that she also knew he was coming, already expecting to let him stay. You look at your sister with wide eyes, hoping for an answer, but she continues to grin smugly, widening as she deliberately looks at your intertwined hands.
She interjects before mamá and Hanta can get invested in their conversation. “You should go soon.”
You frown. “Huh?”
“I did invite someone over—for me to hang out with.” The look she gives you says all you need to know: it is your older cousin. “Unless you want everyone to know about your boyfriend today, you should leave before she comes.”
You can feel the headache forming at the thought of your extended family finding out. So you nod, hurrying him to your room to drop off his bag.
“Maybe we should go to the beach,” you tell him quickly. “This city is small and I would really like to wait a couple days before anyone finds out you’re here. The beach will be fine, and we can visit the next city over—”
Hanta leans to press his lips against your own, effectively halting your speech and thoughts. The words die in your throat as you immediately kiss him back, mind melting as his hand cradles your neck. He takes a slow step forward, backing you up to the door. He’s radiant with warmth, his front entirely flush to you, removing any distance.
The kiss is passionate—that searing heat you’ve missed for too long. He smiles against you, softly scraping his stubble against your cheek. An embarrassing noise slips from your throat, originating from somewhere deep inside you.
He hums before pulling away, only long enough to breathe before he’s on you again.
“I missed you,” he whispers after a proper pause.
You swallow. “Yeah.”
He glues himself to you for the entire day. His arms are firm over your waist while he sits on the back of your moped, you speeding along the road to the beach. He pulls you by the hand when you park, grinning wide as his feet sift through the sand. The air and ground are warm, Hanta a thousand times warmer as he holds you on the shore. You lay on your back, him on his side so he can throw an arm over your stomach and stare right into your eyes.
You speak in quiet voices about everything you can. He kisses you often, stealing them between every pause of your words. When you jokingly chide him for it, insisting you need to speak, he settles for grazing his lips over your neck and collarbone, shifting to your knuckle when he wants to see your face.
Sometimes the conversation lulls, and all you do is watch each other with soft smiles and glistening eyes.
In the water, his gaze becomes stronger, too strong for you to handle. When you surface from a wave, he’s the first thing you see, crooked grin and wet hair. You immediately dip back under. There’s a certain weight in his eyes that you can’t handle.
The next time you break for air, he’s out of sight. Before you can turn to look for him, a hand tugs you from behind. It’s Hanta, pulling your back to slot against his chest. His head dips to your shoulder, lips running over the skin, arms snaking around your waist so you can’t disappear again.
You close your eyes at the feeling—his heat and his honest affection. You’re embarrassed by the tender displays in public, susceptible to the gazes and opinions of others. But maybe you deserve to have this moment, to be the annoying couple at the beach.
Couple? you wonder. You shake the thought away. Whatever this… thing you have with Hanta is, you don’t know how to name it. Neither of you have spoken about labels or exclusivity, but… couple feels almost derogatory.
The two of you stay out until the evening, not sure when your home is safe to return to. When hunger settles in you drive with Hanta into the city.
This is his first time in Costa Rica, but he's in a different element in Latin America. Speaking Español brings out facets of his personality that are less noticeable in English or Japanese—a more playful but direct version of him. You wonder what you might learn about him as you continue to study Japanese.
He hugs you tightly on the ride home, arms back around your waist. He tries to tuck his head in the crook of your neck and shoulder, but the clunky helmets enforce a distance. You ride slowly through the night, careful of the winding roads, slow enough to catch the rustle of monkeys darting along the powerline. Every time you come to a stop, your ears flood with the ringing of insects and the soft, steady tone of night birds.
The house is quiet at night. Mamá is the only one present, greeting you with a quiet smile. She offers you dinner, and then some fruit when you decline. Hanta’s lip pouts at the mention of fried plantains, puppy eyes forcing you to agree.
“You can stay in my room,” you tell him afterwards while climbing the stairs. “I just need to grab a couple things.”
He trails curiously when you skip your door to go further down the hall.
“I’ve been sleeping in abuela’s room,” you explain.
He doesn’t follow you into the space, instead waiting by the doorway. You swipe your charger and book from the bedside table before smoothing out the covers and leaving.
Hanta doesn’t ask any questions, and you don’t offer any details. You wonder what he’s thinking, what he wants to know. His eyes linger over you, watching you closely. You wish you knew him better, wish you could take one look at his face and know immediately what’s turning through his heart and mind. Maybe he feels this way towards you, too.
This time when he enters your room, his eyes drift through your shelves and desk. They brighten when he catches a picture frame, nestled with a younger version of you and your sister standing in front of mamá and your grandparents. You don’t remember your abuelo well, only having fragments of memories. The only pieces of him you recall are the ones captured in photos; maybe they aren’t even real memories, just scenes you conjured from your imagination to pretend.
“You look like your abuelo in this one,” Hanta says.
Is this too much? For him to be here, looking through your artifacts of life and smiling fondly over old pictures? Part of you still feels like you’ve only known each other for a week, still chasing him through tents and trying to discover their makers. The other part thinks you’ve been in each other’s arms through your months of separation.
A seed inside you says, He’s been with you before the circus, too.
Hanta’s still smiling when he looks at you again. You swallow, catching that joyful glint in his eyes. For him, this is long overdue.
(This being the intimacy and the affection and the opportunity to learn everything he can—to find his way into every opening of your being and make a home for himself. For both of you.)
In this stillness and quiet of the night, you search your heart for how you really feel—untampered by fears of what’s right or what others may think, what the standard for relationships is supposed to be.
You want him—like this. Forever.
Under soft covers and cocooned in Hanta’s warmth, you manage to fall asleep in your own bed. You enter a dreamless sleep and rise naturally with the sun. Your sister doesn’t barge into your room to wake you, but you still dress for the garden and get to work. She’s there already, clipping the last round of tomatoes.
She gives you a pointed look that you return with your own. Neither of you speak, instead trading glances through the morning as you join her tending. She’s nosy and wants to know the details of how you met, what your relationship is like. You communicate that it’s not her business. You know you’ll fold and tell her eventually.
When you re-enter the house, you’re ambushed by the sight of Hanta in the kitchen helping mamá with breakfast. He wears her floral apron, diligently cutting onions while answering her questions—about his work and how it led you two to meet. His voice stops when he sees you, immediately grinning. He asks if you’re hungry.
After breakfast he insists on washing dishes. Your sister volunteers to dry, so you and mamá clean the table together. You can hear your sister grilling him from the kitchen, Hanta answering every question with ease.
“He’s a good man,” mamá says softly.
You nod.
When you two wiggle into your bed a second time, he asks you to wake him if you rise first. You frown. “Don’t you need your sleep?”
He yawns, punctuating your point. “Maybe,” he slurs. “But I didn’t like waking up alone.”
Your heart pauses while you nod slowly. He hums with satisfaction and promptly falls asleep. You kiss his forehead. His hand tightens over yours.
On the third day, one of your tía’s and multiple cousins show up unexpectedly. You’re showing Hanta the garden, explaining how to hold the clippers, when a car pulls in and you sigh, knowing this will be the end of your peace. Hanta takes the chaos happily. He says he’s excited to meet everyone, albeit nervous.
Your extended family loves him. Everyone does, you start to realize—with his calm but lively energy, his honesty, his charm. Seeing him meet your relatives strikes you with awe, and a new wave of gratitude.
Even tía abuela can’t dislike him. You’re anxious for their introductions, but then you watch Hanta softly bow his head—that Japanese filial piety overtaking him—while he politely says, “Mucho gusto, tía abuela.”
You catch the purse of her lips, the glint in her eye as she takes him in, and you know that he’s won her over already. Her eyes flit to you with the undertones of approval and you want to hug everyone in the room from your relief.
Things don’t fully mend by the time you leave with him for Ecuador. Tía abuela still won’t hold an extended conversation with you, some cousins mention abuela offhandedly to stir tension, and occasionally one of your tíos stare at you with anything but forgiveness. But you came home; you brought abuela home with you. This time when you leave, you’re leaving her behind—scattered along dark sand and blue water.
Mamá weeps when she says goodbye, holding you long in her arms. She says that she’ll miss you, that she loves you, and that she’s happy for you. She just hopes you’ll come back. You promise that you will.
Your sister is sharper with her words, insulting you through tears as she jabs, “You better not die.”
You nod vigorously.
Quito is different than you remember; too many years have passed since your first and last visit. It’s still beautiful and lively, with long markets and silver buses stretched down the roads. You board one, eventually winding your way along jungles and mountains, passing squares of shrimp farms by the coast. Hanta lets you take the window seat, happily holding your hand while you stare outside.
Ecuador is another sort of beast, with more chaotic roads and a harsher sun than Costa Rica. As you approach Hanta’s city along the sea, crumbling concrete buildings make a repeated appearance. The work of earthquakes, he tells you, an unwinnable battle for the poorly constructed towers—salt water and sea sand hiding in their walls, ready to surrender in an instant.
The edge of the shore appears. The sand is white, almost grey like ash. Like your abuela, now scattered along the Pacific. Did she make it down here after the past few months? Will she spread to the shores of Japan—to Musutafu?
When you arrive at the front of his house, you are struck by the familiarity. It takes a moment to remember that you’ve been here before, when Hanta ran with you across the ocean and led you through his home from the back porch. But that was a home from over a decade ago. Now parts are faded and parts are changed, but you still recognize it as if it were your own.
Hanta’s family is lively. His parents aren’t home—still working in Japan—but he opens the door to greet grandparents and avunculi and cousins. You watch his abuela’s face shine as she pulls him into a hug. His slender frame towers over her, awkwardly hunching to average their heights. The sight blooms a pang of something in your chest, the sting of an injury, and you swallow to avoid bursting into tears.
After surviving the introductions he leads you to his room. As soon as the door shuts and you have a moment of quiet, the tears resurface.
“Woah, hey,” Hanta says gently when he notices. His attention immediately fixes on you, hands abandoning his bag half unpacked to cradle your face. “Are you okay? Was that too much? Was someone out of line?”
You nod and then shake your head, trying to answer yes and then no respectively. It must be unconvincing, your face still twisted from holding back sobs.
“I’m okay,” you croak. You’re just overwhelmed, and maybe envious, from watching Hanta with his grandmother. From seeing loving touches and crinkled eyes. Curly white hair and wrinkled hands.
Hanta makes a complicated face. You gauge that he’s unconvinced and worried.
“We can go somewhere else,” he bargains. “Or you can rest here until you’re ready. Or a third option I don’t know right now.”
You nod, trying to agree with the second one. You’re fully crying by now, sniffling and blinking through tears. “I promise I’m okay,” you try to convince him. “I just need to cry, I think.”
He doesn’t question you, instead nodding and gesturing for you to sit on his bed. He lowers with you, carefully hugging you into his side. It’s a mourning cry, a weeping to express a hollowness in your heart, a loss that still hasn’t filled itself. Hanta remains a silent support, rubbing your back soothingly even after your sounds shift to sniffles. You press your face into his chest, tears smearing against his shirt.
He’s warm. He’s always so warm.
You wonder how long you’ll live like this, still crying at random as if abuela’s death was a recent one—not a year in the past. Something tells you it’ll be often.
Maybe you should apologize to Hanta in advance.
But his hold on you—firm while gentle—reminds you of his patience. He would tell you not to be sorry.
The week you have in Ecuador together is a busy one, spent meeting more family and getting yanked to Hanta’s favorite places. This time you’re the one on the back of the moped, leaning into his warmth as he winds up and down the roads. He lives on a small peninsula in the northern coast, where you can watch the sunrise from one beach, and then cross the city to catch the sunset on a different shore.
The water turns red in the evening as the sun dips down, the ocean reflecting the brilliant rosiness of the sky. You and Hanta bob on surfboards in the water—yours long and wide and foam, his narrow and made of resin-coated wood. You soak in the remaining light, that fiery ball of light tucking under the horizon. There’s a tug at your heart when you remember the tent of floating oranges. When you glance at Hanta, he’s already staring at you. He grins.
You only get to see the coast of Ecuador during your stay, not touching mountains or jungle.
“Next time,” Hanta promises.
Next time.
Life doesn’t feel quite real when you board the plane together. Your goodbye to Hanta’s family felt more dramatic than your own, mostly because everyone was weeping and offering hugs all around. Tears pricked your eyes when his abuela pulled you for a hug, asking that you take good care of him. You promised you will.
You slide into the window seat, immediately pulling up the shade to look outside. You’re at the front of the wing, still parked on a giant slab of foundation and surrounded by the tunnels of the airport. Hanta plops down next, immediately snaking his arm around your waist and leaning into your side.
“Excited?” he asks.
Terrified is a more accurate description. “Yeah.”
He hums like he wants to ask more, but he keeps his questions to himself. You turn to look at him, his gentle eyes. They’re dark, dark like the night sky and shimmering with the sparkle of a thousand stars, ready to be plucked and pulled and woven into a timeless tale of love.
He has his abuela’s eyes.
(Is this how it’s going to be—you always searching for meaning and connection to the dead, never able to let them rest entirely, finding ways to make them alive time and time again? Is this who you are—someone who rereads the same book since childhood, clutching it close like a holy scripture that guides you forward?
But they are all you know, all you’ve ever chased, a child watching a display of magic and wanting nothing more than to be part of it.)
The voice of the flight attendant sounds through the speakers. Her voice crackles through the intercom as she reads from the safety brief.
Your eyes drift to Hanta’s skin. It’s darkened considerably since returning to Latin America. His cheeks and nose are splattered with an array of freckles. They’re constellations against his skin, a map of everything you’ve wanted. He leans to press his face against yours, like he can transfer those markings if you touch for long enough.
You turn to the window when the plane starts to roll forwards. Hanta’s chest presses against your shoulder while he leans to watch with you. His hand comes over yours, holding your fingers gently before raising them for a tender kiss.
There’s a jumble of knots in your stomach, like one thread tossed and turned until it became impossible to unravel. You’ve never been to Japan. You’ve never been contracted for a circus company. You don’t know Japanese and you don’t even have your own housing. All you have is a visa and the promise of a job awaiting your arrival. This is different from moving to Italy, fueled by nothing but the hunger for money. This time it’s a hunger for life, a hunger to find something—or, to follow what you’ve already found.
This time when you leave this part of the world, the part with your home, there is no obligation to do anything but what you want. A total freedom, the freedom to chase whimsical childhood dreams. Dreams of stars—The Circus of the Stars—and outrageous costumes and people you love.
The plane starts to dart down the runway, picking up speed to eventually lift and soar into the sky—a white aluminum bird against cerulean blue. Hanta’s lips press into your temple, hand squeezing yours. You grin while staring at the city of Quito below, clusters of buildings fading away with each passing second. The vessel of the plane chugs onwards and upwards, brushing through a mist of clouds—through the clouds, until they’re an ocean below you.
You squeeze Hanta’s hand back, interlocking your fingers like threads on a loom. Despite your fears, you feel ready.
Ready to stretch out your lives like the billions of stars in the sky, and to weave them together in a continuous, unbreakable fabric.
✰.
The circus is coming. And this time, you’re coming with it.
just a note about aerial silks: aerial silks for performance are not made of real silk, they're typically made of like some sort of synthetic fiber like nylon or lycra for safety purposes but i'm pretending like that isn't the case for the ~metaphors~
You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.
[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]
part 5: but yours is my guide.
sero hanta x reader
ch 5/6 | 22.3k words | masterlist | ao3
cw: more smut but it's very mild and also emotional, depictions of racism & microaggressions
notes: meteor shower by owl city, walking in the wind by one direction
sero fell first; sero fell harder.
(my long overdue character study)
✰.
“Perhaps we know each other in the future and you’re only remembering backward.”
- Heartless, by Marissa Meyer
Sero is occasionally struck by a feeling he can’t describe.
At first it occurs because he is a child, not yet able to translate his experiences into words: discomfort, elation, anger, sadness, amusement—they all strike him in various ways, pulling at his chest or his stomach or his skin. He reacts as anyone without a proper vocabulary would, with cries and frowns or grins and laughs. As he grows he learns their labels, remembers how they feel, accepts them and moves on. He learns how to share them with others. He knows that some will never be named, existing only as a cluster of sensations in his body—but that’s okay; he doesn’t always need to know.
However, there’s one in particular that he can never move on from.
It’s a recurring feeling—a special intensity that festers in his chest and radiates through his entire body, all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes—and yet with each visit he finds himself still baffled, still incapable of explaining it to anyone else. He thinks perhaps it’s too special to share, meant for him only, to chase and understand on his own terms.
The first time it strikes him is after he’s gifted a book from his oldest tío for his fifth birthday. Mamá suggests they read it together, since it’s targeted for a couple grades above. For the next few weeks they sit in the evenings and take turns sounding out the paragraphs, mamá helping him through the big words he learns on the spot. Those nights are warm, tender in her lap as they sway in a hammock through the late summer air—cradled by the buzzing of insects and distant howling of monkeys.
There in mamá’s arms is where Hanta meets Santi, Marco, and something burrowing deep deep inside his heart. It’s too much, like something standing over him that he can’t comprehend the size of, making him feel impossibly small, nearly nothing. Nearly dissolved from existence, and therefore everything.
It scares him, sends panic through his chest that he’s never felt before. All he can do is burst into tears. His mother stops reading, closing the book to ask Hanta what’s wrong.
He cries harder.
The second time he meets this terrifying emotion, is when his eyes first land on you.
“Hanta!”
Early December in Ecuador is warm. The sky is clear in Quito, bright blue looming above with a light breeze rolling in, pushing fluffy clouds out of view. They disappear behind the buildings lining the streets, tall and towering over hot pavement, heat that seeps through the soles of Hanta’s thin sandals. He runs towards the street from the sidewalk, into the crowd of bodies, a smattering of colors from umbrellas raised to block the glare of the sun.
He’s suddenly yanked back, shirt bunched in the tight fist of his father. When he’s turned around, back towards the sidewalk, mamá’s hand slips into his.
“Don’t run off like that,” his father says gruffly, every syllable of Japanese roughly punctuated. Hanta nods beneath his gaze, grin not discouraged in the slightest.
The three of them shuffle along, trailing one of his tíos—mamá’s brother—who encouraged them to come spend the weekend at his place to catch parades and markets. It’s Hanta’s first time walking through the capital on his own legs, only knowing the jungle and ocean in the east for the first years of his life. He’s exhilarated to be surrounded by so many people, to see characters strutting through the streets beating drums or twirling in skirts. He gravitates towards it, wants to be part of it too.
But Hanta is five, and after two hours and four llapingachos, he’s on the verge of tears, head fuzzy from the noise and body slumped with exhaustion. He watches the performers with a pout and furrowed brow, admiration turned to jealousy the longer he’s forced to watch—only to watch. Mamá’s grip is stern over his hand, and his legs couldn’t carry him through the parade even if he managed to get there. Wetness pools under his irises, dancers smearing into blobs of white and red against the canvas of grey pavement.
He presses his face into the folds of mamá’s skirt, a soft yellow fabric that blots the water from his lashes. He grasps the cotton, almost ready to tug and whine for home. Then her leg shifts, hand landing against his back to press him close as she takes another step towards the street, and he calms for a second, her touch a balm to his irritation.
He leans with her as she cranes to get a better view, his small frame able to peek through the openings between people and see further down the road. The sight dams his emotions, walled by a newfound curiosity when he sees a group of feathered performers. His hands tighten, gripping the skirt as he waits for the figures to come closer. It’s a small group, only eight or so people in a practiced choreography. He’s able to make out some of the costumes—a parrot and a blue macaw, and what he assumes is a toucan.
The toucan grabs his attention: a small figure wrapped in black, the darkest of the birds. Another child, like him. You’re not the only kid—there’s an even smaller figure dressed in brown and red—but you’re the only dancer moving with nervous motions, or maybe half-hearted ones. You’re watching your abuela’s movements, as if copying them on the spot while you shuffle and wave your arms.
You’re nervous, but you’re out on the street, at the center of everyone’s—his—attention.
His stomach clenches in secondary nerves, rooting for you, hoping you can finish the performance cleanly. Suddenly you spin, arms circling above you and in sync with everyone else, and your gaze tears away from your grandmother. Instead you tilt your head back, face to the sun and fully exposed now that the beak is pulled away. You look excited, at ease.
When you complete the twirl, you’re a different person. A grin splits your face and you move with confident steps in tune with the pounding drums walking behind you. Hanta blinks, stomach unclenching while a new constriction grabs in his chest—one that reminds him of the feeling he has when he tells someone I miss you. His feet itch at the soles, begging to run forwards.
Your head turns, eyes meeting his. His breath catches, taken aback by your intensity. You’re both small in this crowd, less than half the height of everyone else, but under your gaze you’re the only two on this street—the only two in the entire world.
Your hand drifts up to offer a small wave. Hanta inhales, pressing into mamá for just a second before he uncurls one fist and waves back. You smile, wide, and he—
He feels that intense, overwhelming feeling that still has no name. It floods his system without warning, seeping through his heart and stomach and limbs. It’s terrifying, shocking enough to freeze his body as he tries to figure out if he’s dissolving or expanding. It’s neither; it’s both.
And then you’re out of his view, passing further down the pavement to be obscured by the leg of a stranger. Hanta panics, jerking from his mother as he yearns to steal another look, and maybe your attention for one more second. He hears his mother’s voice, a confused call of his name as she reaches to stop him—for the second time that day. The restriction blooms a lump in his throat, heart galloping as he strains against her hold, face stinging with tears as that earlier overstimulation unpauses.
He cries, this time wailing with a face twisted in anger and pain and fear.
Hanta doesn’t see another Fiestas de Quito. The following December he’s in Japan, wrapping up the second term of first grade in Musutafu. Mamá agrees with otōsan that he should receive a Japanese education, where the schools are more competitive.
Hanta’s been to Japan before, on holiday to see his father’s side of the family. He knows festivals and shrines and how to wrap his own kimono just as well as any elementary schooler. Ojiisan and obāchan, his fathers parents, are always kind, their wrinkled hands spoiling him with sliced fruit and new linens. Sometimes his cousins visit, but they’re older than him—old enough that he has to crane his neck to make eye contact. Still, they’ll read with him sometimes, sounding the kanji he doesn’t know. One likes to do crafts, so they fold paper squares and string lanterns together when his parents leave for a nice dinner.
But school here is different. He’s no longer Hanta. In school he becomes Sero-san, an extension of his family—his father.
He’s different from most of the kids in his class, but only slightly. A girl compliments his eyes, the crease in the inner corner that makes them open wide, and the long lashes that frame them. A boy asks him why his parents let him go in the sun so much, pressing his arm against his to compare their skin tones, Hanta’s warmer and darker and speckled from days outside. The boy warns him about wrinkles and dark spots. At lunch the students ogle at his bento, asking about the beans next to his rice, and why his fish smells like that.
Hanta doesn’t mind the changes and the questions too much. He takes the comments in stride, not always able to read between the lines. He answers the best he can, and he moves on.
But sometimes the comments strike him. They hit a softness in his heart, bruises that he wants to curl inwards to shield.
“Sero-san, you shouldn’t ask things like that,” the class representative scolds.
Hanta frowns in confusion. “What? It’s just a question.” He probed about a classmate's mother—if she works at the conbini by his place. Mamá told him about it yesterday.
The girl—and alleged victim of his rudeness—watches him with a grimace. Is she embarrassed?
Another girl chimes in, with nicely curled hair. “Hey! He’s not from here, remember? Maybe he doesn’t know that it’s wrong yet.”
He frowns. What?
“Yeah, he’s just a foreigner.”
The comment is a punch to his stomach, leaving him breathless and nauseous. A foreigner? A gaijin: a word said with a particular tone, a connotation of annoyance. People who shouldn’t be here, inconveniences that clog the orderly busy cities.
“I’m Japanese,” he retorts. “My otōsan is from here. I—I’m speaking Japanese!”
Curly hair rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but you’re not really Japanese. You’re from Ecuador.”
Hanta has never had his identity pitted against itself like this before. In Sudamerica, the most he gets is a curious question, usually easily explained when he says his dad’s from Japan. Here it’s always side eyes, a whisper to a friend, never a confrontation, always something lingering around him unspoken. The questions and comments dancing around the topic of where he’s from, his eyes and his skin and his advantage in English class.
Hanta doesn’t know what to do.
So he does what he’s learned is failsafe for any situation. He turns to the first girl involved—his victim—and he bows at the hip, a flat apology on his tongue. It does the trick, like he knew it would, and he leaves to sit at his desk.
That night in his room, under a brightly striped duvet, he frowns while staring at the ceiling. He longs for misty evenings and howling monkeys, and then he scowls at himself for his yearning—another reason his peers see him as different, not even as a hāfu—half japanese—but a gaijin. A foreigner entirely. An alien. He shifts, turning on his shoulder with sigh. Now he’s facing his bookshelf, the spine of his favorite book staring back at him. His face crumples, and he turns to lay on his opposite side.
He decides to bite his tongue moving forwards.
It only lasts a week.
The next time he gets scolded, it’s for speaking his mind unprompted, annoyed by another passing comment about his lunch. He can admit it was harsh, but the edge to his voice was compensation for the lack of reaction he gave comments earlier in the week. The boy across from him makes a face of surprise and then annoyance, and Hanta’s chest bubbles with an irritation he doesn’t feel often. In this moment he decides it’s even an Ecuadorian thing, this need to respond to people’s behavior when he doesn’t want to hear it. It’s a Sero-san thing. A Hanta thing.
Aside from the cultural tensions, he adjusts fairly easily, life pushed forwards by assignments and expectations. Sometimes he misses the ocean and the rainforest, but he sees them on holiday, and for most of summer break. In the meantime he searches for peace between his two worlds, split across the vastness of the Pacific. He finds it through that little black book tío gave him last year.
He doesn’t make it to another Fiestas de Quito, but you never leave his mind. On especially melancholy nights, when the cicadas buzz in sync through his window, he opens the spine under warm lamplight and whispers the story to himself. It takes him back, momentarily, to the warmth of Sudamerica and the starry sky of the remote coast. A faint brush of that overwhelming feeling sweeps over him in microdoses.
When he reads he thinks of you, wrapped in night-dark fabric that frames piercing eyes—only piercing for a moment between uncertainty and glee. He finds that when he reads, he reads from Santi’s view, Marco’s figure in the pond taking your eyes and smile. When Santi stretches the stars and weaves them together to pull himself through, Hanta feels that Marco’s touch is cool, like the water he lives in. He imagines Marco’s world is full of birds and bright colors, an adventure of flight and magic and memories.
He wonders if he’ll ever get to see you again.
That feeling carries him forwards, a compass through life. It leads him to the dancing club, where he starts to learn the boundaries of his own body. At the start of middle school he sees an advertisement for a circus show, flashing on the wall of the large department store his grandparents take him on weekends. His eyes turn to saucers, heart racing at the three figures on the screen—in sparkling bird costumes. He tugs at obāchan’s hand, begging to go, saying with his wide eyes that he doesn’t want any clothes or shoes or toys. He just wants to see that.
Grandparents cave in easily, discipline leaving them when the child isn’t their own. So they agree, buying the clothes and shoes and toys too. When a few weekends pass, he sits starry-eyed in his seat at the story before him, the closest thing to magic he’s ever seen. For a few minutes, long silks fall from the ceiling, a white fabric that turns purple under the darklight, and that gut wrenching, full force, overwhelming feeling slams straight into his chest.
Grandparents cave in easily, so when Hanta asks to start lessons and his dad coldly disagrees, they’re the ones to respond to his teary eyes and sniffles. Obāchan coos and turns to her son sternly, asking why he has to be so harsh to a child. They argue, above Hanta, as he sits sadly and quietly. Mamá takes him to the kitchen and peels a mandarin to help calm him down, placing the little slices in his palm. They’re tangy, flavor slightly different from the green-peeled oranges in Ecuador. He likes them a little more.
When ojiisan and obāchan say goodbye, warm hands cup Hanta’s cheeks. Obāchan leans to say goodbye with a cheeky smile that Hanta doesn’t feel like returning.
The next weekend he’s still subdued, quiet when the grandparents drop by. They tell him to get in the car, but Hanta doesn’t want to go out today. He says he doesn’t want anything, that he’d rather stay at home and read or fold those little paper cranes. Ojiisan smiles, and says they’re going somewhere new—a surprise.
It’s a half hour drive, to a building that looks like a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Hanta frowns in confusion, from the car to the bare, grey front. Ojiisan pulls him along by the hand, gently pushing the door so Hanta can enter first. There’s a person standing behind a counter, adjacent to a wall of square lockers and a wide doorway to the next room. Through the opening he can see unfinished walls, scaffolding stretching tall, a concrete floor.
Hanta runs forward when his eye catches a tall armature, long metal poles extended at an angle, a small bar at the top where a long length of silk is rigged. Ojiisan laughs at his reaction, a sweet and light sound, hand holding him back from making his way into the other room. Hanta turns to his grandfather, his sweet and wrinkled face, and grins happily. He turns around, small arms wrapping around one of the old man’s legs, face pressing into the outside of his thigh. Hanta feels warm, and small.
The Saturday visits with the grandparents become weekly aerial lessons, easily what Hanta looks forward to the most every week. His teacher—Saeko-sensei—says he’s tall for his age, normally a disadvantage in acrobatics, but he has a head start with his flexibility from the dancing club. She says he’s strong too, likely from his time in the ocean.
Every Saturday at these lessons, that special feeling returns. He feels at home in the warehouse, surrounded by other acts and students—ranging from his age to mamá’s—but he rarely has the chance to talk to them. The most he gets is a passing hello, or an encouraging compliment from the older crowd. Regardless they liven the space, populate the other props: a spinning lyra, a set of springboards, the bars and blocks of a handstand table, trapeze bars with a net that spans the back of the room. Hanta has the chance to play around on the other acts, but his attention doesn’t hold, returning shortly to the wide strings hanging above the mat. The brush of silk against his fingers and wrists ignites a tingle across his skin. Every movement fans the flames in his chest, both in fear and awe, from suspending himself at heights he’s never known before.
He improves quickly according to Saeko-sensei. He learns how to hold himself securely while stalking up the fabric, and then to wrap himself and unravel. It’s a slow process, only once a week. But Hanta does what he can at home, taking his stretches seriously and practicing wraps with one of mamá’s forgotten scarves.
After a couple months, he exchanges his first words with the other kid his age: a quiet, very Japanese boy. His hair is two different colors, reminding Sero of a candy cane, and a scar marks his face, the deep red of only recent healing. He normally practices with a boy sporting similar features—just no scar and two blue eyes, and hair mixed red and white in a different way—on the springboards, timing their soaring jumps and falls so the other can twist and spin in the air from the momentum. Hanta watches them and wishes he had a partner sometimes, too. He looks up the length of silk and wonders who might be on the other end. If it’s Marco, or the Marco he imagines—who looks like you.It’s only a passing exchange, a sorry when Hanta accidentally bumps into him by the lockers. The boy only grunts in response. Hanta brims with questions, wanting to ask for his name, about his scar, if that other boy is his brother. He’s about to open his mouth, to ask the first question, when he walks away. Hanta deflates.
The boy talks to him eventually. It happens at the start of second year when Hanta’s at the gym for the first time in months, having been in Ecuador for the summer.
“You should quit,” are his first words.
Hanta frowns. “Why?”
“You’re not gonna get good fast enough if you can only come once a week,” he reasons bluntly. Sero blinks at the words, not used to this confrontation in Japan. “You should tell whoever’s making you do this that it’s a waste of time.”
He blinks and tilts his head as he takes in the words. Good? Hanta just wants to do it; there’s no question of whether he’s good or bad. “I like it,” is his only response.
The boy frowns. “You like it?”
Hanta nods happily. “Yeah. Do you not like it?”
Mismatched eyes—one a stormcloud and one the sky—avert from his, looking towards the springboards. “Not really.”
“Oh,” he doesn’t know what to say. “You should try another one, then.”
He shakes his head. “I already have. Springboards are on the weekend but I have to do staff on Monday and Wednesday, and balancing on—”
“You get to practice every day?” Hanta asks, bewildered. And extremely envious, a feeling that claws at his chest and stomach.
But the boy frowns, eyes sharpening into a glare. Hanta thinks he asked too much again. He quiets, jealousy pooling in the silence. No scolding comes his way.
He lets his gaze slip back to the half-colored boy, saying before he can stop himself, “I’m Sero.”
Blue and grey eyes stare intensely, almost piercing right through him. He’s reminded of a gaze shrouded in black, a parade in the clear blue sky on hot pavement. A tingle of that mysterious feeling buzzes in his chest. He thinks it means that he needs to hold onto this boy and keep him close.
“Todoroki.”
Sero grins.
Hanta learns that Todoroki is actually very sweet and a good friend. He just has trouble talking to kids his age, something about his dad never letting him have friends. But he and Hanta talk when they can at practice, small flurries of conversation on break—ones that bring a mutual twinkle to their eyes. Hanta learns that the other boy is Touya, that they’re brothers, and that Shouto wishes they could be normal brothers. Instead they train together, against each other, every day. Touya has more natural talent for the staff, an act Shouto hates. But the older eldest’s body is fragile, and especially can’t handle the other training their dad forces on them. At least, not as well as Shouto can.
Hanta wishes they could hang out after practice like other kids get to do. He wants to have a sleepover, the kind he hears snippets of when he tunes into his peers’ conversations. Instead he brings manga he thinks Shouto would like, for him to enjoy in secret. They talk about the books quietly and just for minutes each practice, but Hanta thinks it’s enough.
And when Shouto gives his volume back one day with a timid and unexpected, “Gracias,” Hanta grins so wide his vision blurs.
It’s enough.
Over a decade later, Hanta has trouble fathoming how his life came to be: here, with Hoshi no Sākasu and ‘Roki and Touya. It’s a commonly asked question—What brought you here?—an easy icebreaker, a way to give common ground to everyone in the show. When Hanta is probed, he doesn’t have an answer. All he can think is that he lived. He lived day to day doing what needed to get done, and then left the rest to that funny feeling in his heart.
“You’re kind of a strange one, huh?” the pink haired girl asks—Mina, he remembers.
The comment feels a little like being in grade school, questions about his eyes and his skin and his lunch. He doesn’t feel strange, he just feels like himself.
Mina trails on before he can say anything. “Good thing you ended up here!” It’s punctuated with a laugh, and that’s the end of it.
He finds a home in the circus. It’s a place where people embrace making a spectacle of themselves—an outlet for their differences that are also their strengths—all the while charging admission. People are themselves here, not blanketed by social norms and the mainstream. There’s a guy with ashen blond hair who speaks more abrasive than Hanta ever has, yet most responses are laughs or teasing words. And when Sero sighs and makes a return comment before he can stop himself, another blond—bright blond, electric—cackles and slaps his back as if to say good one.
Hanta feels warm with these people, welcomed.
The circus, however, is also sort of unusual—more magic than it isn’t. The acts people here can pull off are beyond anything he ever thought possible. He squints in disbelief when he hears about the sequences planned, that the main tent only needs a night to be assembled. But he believes in magic, or some principle parallel to it. He learns to trust himself and those around him and their shared vision to make something beautiful, together.
The first show he’s a part of is an adapted retelling of The Tale of Genji. It’s a dramatized, overtly mystified version where the silk aerialists are meant to mimic the swirling strokes of calligraphy, him and Tokoyami strung one in front of the other so when they move, the audience can catch brief moments where kanji is legible through their stacked bodies. Tokoyami asks if it’s actually possible. Hanta just hopes he doesn’t have to hold poses the whole time.
“Man, your style is really something.”
Sero blinks at the words as he untangles himself at the end of a practice session. He turns to Kirishima. “Huh?”
The redhead grins. “It’s like, so different from the typical performances, y’know? Usually it’s about speed or drops or poses, but—dude the way you move is insane.”
He wouldn’t know. There was only one rig at the gym, only one person performing at a time, so all he knew was his own practice sessions. Saeko pushed him when it came to technical skills, the speed and drops and poses he assumes Kirishima alludes to. But when he eventually wrangled rides with Shouto during the week, he would rent the rig without coaching. Most of his time was spent freestyle, learning the intricacies of how the silk and his body could improvise together rather than learning new skills. Shouto calls it a flow, the same thing Touya can achieve with his staff. Sero doesn’t understand the distinction.
Their next show is a story about birds.
When Hanta hears the news he freezes, body and mind on pause while he tries to digest the words.
“Birds?” he finally croaks out carefully.
Todoroki remains deadpan at his tone. “Yeah, the animals.”
Hanta splutters, “I know what birds are.”
Todoroki’s face doesn’t change.
He pouts. “I’m just… I guess I’m surprised.”
“It is different from our current show, but it makes sense; we have a lot of aerial acts.” Shouto continues when Hanta doesn’t reply, “They want to include a short opera performance. I think it’s going to be a European-focused tour. Kendou’s talking about commissioning a dress.”
Sero’s used to this, getting the details early from Shouto, since his dad is the lead executive of the company.
“Kendou proposed commissioning someone else?” He can’t imagine it—she’s normally one of the most protective over the Hoshi no Sākasu identity.
“No. It was suggested by the marketing team.”
Hanta hums. That makes more sense. Suggestions from the marketing team are orders.
“They plan to put Midoriya on the research team, since he keeps coming to training.”
“Sounds like him.” Their friend is supposed to be on break for the week, for his strained arms. Instead he’s come in extra to train on the springboards. Hanta can sympathize, his daily practices a necessary part of staying sane. “Do you think it’ll work?”
Shouto shakes his head. “He’s going to be tired on top of overtraining, from staying up all night.”
Hanta laughs. He can picture it easily, Midoriya furiously typing and scrolling through articles. It’s a common joke that his roommates on tour are the poor victims of relentless fanboying—whether it’s watching old shows, scrolling through acrobats’ social media, or endless muttering, whoever shares a room with him either has to be a deep sleeper or equally obsessive.
Sero bunked with him once, before understanding he should never do it again. He prefers a quiet space where he can read in silence. Shouto is his usual choice—sometimes they’ll bring the same manga and discuss it in low voices—but he also appreciates the unpredicted peace that comes with sharing a room with Bakugou, or the steady darkness of Tokoyami’s presence when they’re alone. It’s part of the profession—one that forces people closer than comfortable for extended lengths of time—to constantly be confronted by unexpected knowledge of the cast. He’s also sometimes met with surprising information about his already friends—Shouto who happily lays beside Midoriya as they watch performances through the night, adding his own remarks.
Hanta grins as he thinks about his friend—how he’s changed and grown throughout the years. He’s still blunt and honest Shouto, but one who leans easily into his friends, opens up when things are hard. He’s Shouto who pays attention to others, so he can take care of them. He’s Shouto, voice trailing on quietly with unwavering faith in Midoriya, to find a way to make it work in the end.
Hanta is stepping into an early iteration of his costume when Midoriya bursts in. Kendou pulls the zipper up the back as the curly haired boy exclaims, “I think I found someone!”
“Already?” she asks.
Midoriya sets his computer on one of the dressing tables, sifting through a window with endless tabs.
“I found a designer! Someone who goes by Verde and specializes in opera gowns, but has a background in parade costumes. They’re from Latin America originally, but are now based in Milan—it’s too perfect! They say they’re a huge fan of the circus and take a lot of inspiration from Cirque du Soleil, so their style is suitable. I haven’t found many interviews, but it looks like most of their personal projects are birds. And they’re incredible. The way they use fabric is so interesting, and they’re an expert at sewing—their work is very detailed—”
He flicks through the tabs as he talks, showing works ranging from classy gowns to chaotic costumes. Hanta notices a lot of green. There’s an inexplicable feeling blooming in his chest, familiar.
“Wow Midoriya, you’re really good at this,” Kendou muses.
He grins sheepishly, lifting a hand to rub the back of his reddening neck. “Aha yeah, I got lost in the research. This artist just seems so cool! I think if we contact them soon we could definitely have a chance. They work independently at the moment, so we wouldn’t be fighting a company for their time.”
Midoriya steps aside as Kendou flickers through the tabs, eyes lingering on the costume images. Hanta’s follow, and he can’t help but note that they’re different from what he remembers seeing in Quito. These costumes focus on silhouette, shapes carving through the air in deliberate angles and curves. The details are more particular, and they have a grittiness when you look close, despite reading as regal and opulent from a distance.
When Kendou lands on a social media page, she drags her fingers against the mousepad to look through the posts. It’s primarily a mixture of long gowns and occasional feathered costumes. She clicks on the thumbnail of two birds—one red and one green. The sight causes that tingle in Hanta’s chest and arms to intensify. They look familiar somehow, not just because they’re clearly macaws, but their shapes—or maybe the details ring somewhere in his memory. The caption is in Spanish, and Kendou hits the translate button before he can intervene, roman letters becoming a mix of Hiragana and Kanji.
“Where in Latin America are they from?” he asks.
“Costa Rica.”
Hanta hums, ignoring the stroke of disappointment in his chest.
That disappointment is long gone when only an hour later he’s blinking at Shouto, in surprise and excitement. “You want to read Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda?”
Shouto nods, a curt gesture. “I’d like to make more of an effort to practice my Spanish.” He pauses, mismatched eyes narrowing. “And I’d like to get to know that part of you, even if it’s quite delayed.”
Hanta could cry from the gesture. An earnest grin crosses his face. “‘Roki, that—I really appreciate that, thanks. I’d love to read it with you, I… I love reading that book out loud, with others.”
Shouto only nods in response.
Sero hums. “It’d probably help to practice some more first, so you have the vocabulary. I mean, I can explain as we read, but it’d probably be more enjoyable to not be interrupted so much.” He recalls sitting in mamá’s lap and sounding out the words as a child. “Well, it’ll be fun either way. But we should do it when we have the free time.”
Shouto hums, eyes darting in thought. “What if we waited until the start of the tour? We will have plenty of time while traveling.”
“Oh! That’s a good idea,” Hanta says, brightening. “Are you okay waiting that long? That’s more than half a year out. It’ll be more than enough time for you to practice, though.”
The edges of Shouto’s lips quirk upwards. “It would be most fitting, to read it on tour.”
Hanta recognizes this tone, a playful jab referencing the many late nights before a show flipping through a book he’s read dozens of times. He can’t help reaching for it, safely tucking it in his bag, when Hoshi no Sākasu leaves Japan. It gives him a similar feeling to the circus, of magic and impossibility.
Hanta smiles. His cousins and friends never understood his attachment, why he still clings to the book like a lifeline. Shouto won’t either, most likely, but he and Hanta have been trading books for years—enough to understand each other and how they think about their favorite media. Hanta trusts Shouto with this, to take it seriously and recognize what it means to him. To attempt to genuinely understand him.
For the first time in years, Hanta reads Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda aloud—in the Tokyo Haneda airport. He and Shouto sit against the wall, switching readers every few pages. Hanta gets to introduce the story and the setting of Colombia, while Shouto is the one who meets Santi’s family.
“Wait,” Sero stops him after reading the mother’s dialogue. “You aren’t gonna do a little voice for her?”
“Huh?”
“You know, like make your voice high pitched or something, so we know it’s mamá.”
Red and white eyebrows furrow. “It says who spoke in the text afterwards. Why do I need to do a voice?”
Hanta hums, leaning his head against the wall. “Nevermind, it was just part of the fun when I was a kid.”
Shouto trains his eyes on Sero for another moment before picking up where he left off. The next line of quotes is Santi’s father. He clears his throat before speaking, attempting to lower his voice several pitches.
Hanta immediately bursts into laughter, mostly from surprise. He has to breathe deeply, to calm himself.
“Did I not do it right?”
“Wait no—” another fit of giggles rushes through him. “No, that was pretty good. I didn’t expect that.”
Shouto just nods, and continues with a stern face. Hanta bites down the next fit of laughs that threaten to surface. He relishes this bubbly feeling in his chest as he listens to Shouto read, raising and lowering his voice as he personifies Santi and his family. Hanta feels warm, on the floor of the Tokyo Haneda airport.
Milan is cold, similar to Japan at the beginning of the year. The city has an old, historic feeling, one that deeply contrasts the modern jungle of Tokyo. Half the streets are laid with black cobblestone, patterned in arches, or the scales of a fish. The buildings are ornate, beige and plastered with divots and curls, corinthian columns next to the spires of cathedrals. The language is reminiscent of home in Ecuador, with a slight shift in pronunciation and words that he nearly understands. When he tunes into the conversations of others he can intuit what they’re saying, but he has no idea how to construct his own response.
The show top stands tall the next day and no one bats an eye. The crew runs through the show in full, smoothing out the timing for transitions and props. Shinsou takes Aizawa’s place when he leaves to pick up the costume designer.
Near the end of their session, the producer passes through the curtain, Momo and Kendou trailing behind him. There are several rounds of reactions, cooing and praise as everyone takes in Momo’s appearance. Hanta blinks at the sight, deep red against pale skin, the array of feathers that line the shape of her head. She twirls to show off the mechanics of the dress, that dark fabric lifting to expose bright white beneath.
“Aw! You’re so pretty Momo!” Mina exclaims, running to give her an excited hug.
Hanta doesn’t register the conversation that follows, eyes trained on the ruffles and the beak and the beads sewn into the bust and torso. He hasn’t seen this style of costume before, one uniquely yours, but it makes him feel that special way, tingles all over his body. The way Santi and the parade and Shouto make him feel.
“Where’s the designer?” Shouto’s question jostles him from his thoughts.
“And Midoriya,” Kirishima adds.
Kendou grins. “Lunch! We sent them away.”
“Man, why does Midoriya get to skip all this stuff?” Denki whines, then darts nervous eyes to Aizawa.
“Midoriya deserves his fanboy moment after all his help. Besides, we’re willing to do anything to keep him from straining himself before the show.”
Sero has to reign himself in as he listens to them talk. A tightness clenches his chest and stomach, a mix of jealousy and urgency. Jealousy? He wonders, unsure why he would be envious. It’s a possessive jealousy, one focused on the fact that Midoriya’s with you—where Hanta should be instead. He frowns to himself; what gives him the justification to feel this way? He doesn’t even know you.
But that feeling doesn’t leave him. His eyes trail back to Momo’s dress. He wonders if it has to do with the earlier tingling in his being—at the sight of the gown.
“Fuck this. Why’s mine the most fuckin’ stupid?”
Kaminari laughs, a loud and bubbly sound. His shoulders shake as he wheezes and clutches his stomach. “Who did that? Kendou? God, I hope she gets a raise.”
The angry blond grunts, almost growls as he reaches for the other, hands aiming for Denki’s neck. The movement jostles the ends of his hat, lengths that stretch out around him in floppy cones topped with bells. The jingling probes more laughter, harder laughter, the blond swaying out the way just in time to miss Bakugou’s fists.
“Why’s it so… bright?” Kirishima adds, eyes trailing the saturated green and orange stripes along Bakugou’s hat, the purple on his ruffled collar, the patchwork of his shirt.
“Yeah, and why’d Hanta get an actual color palette?”
Sero frowns in confusion. “It’s just black?”
“Exactly!” Kaminari exclaims. “Kacchan looks like he’s auditioning for Beetlejuice and I look like I drew my clothes out of a hat.”
“I guess he does have a strange mix of clothing styles,” Kirishima muses, eyes trailing from Hanta’s pants to his shirt.
“Everyone shut the fuck up,” Bakugou interjects, pulling the hat from his head and tossing it on the ground. “I’m not fuckin’ wearin’ this. Tell ‘em extras someone else can ‘ave that shit.” He storms off.
“Katuski!” The redhead calls, following dutifully and leaving Kaminari and Sero behind.
The taller grins, watching the redhead try to stop the blond. Denki giggles again, recalling the sight and sound of Bakugou in costume.
They leave as a pair, bumping into Shouto by the exit. He’s sporting a clown collar similar to Bakugou’s, swallowing his shoulders. It’s topped with a rounded woven hat for rice farming. Kaminari complains that he makes it work—even with the addition of Akado pants, flared at the thighs and wrapped around his calves. Sero invites him to join, but his friend declines in favor of waiting for Touya.
So Denki and Hanta roam the markets together, a pair of clowns in uniform. They mostly wave and smile at curious passersby, and occasionally take a photo or talk about the show starting tomorrow.
“Italians are nice,” Kaminari comments as they turn through another column of stalls. “But kind of intense… and loud.”
Hanta hums noncommittally, eyes trailing tables and shelves with products and food on display. His finger draws along a length of satin, lost in bright turquoise with swirls of yellow. The humming of strings waves through his ears, letting him phase out of the busyness of the festival for a brief moment. When he tunes back to his surroundings, Denki is gone. Hanta glances around unhurriedly, curious to where his friend wandered. Instead of looking for him, he continues down the line of vendors.
He turns through the next row, approaching the rattling of a tambourine, paired with fast notes on the accordion. They hum through the alley of tents, pulling him closer like a tug on his chest. He succumbs happily, gliding towards the open plaza. People walk by, holding street food and drinks and bags, and he weaves through their bodies as best he can. He's stopped for a picture that he happily accepts, crouching to match the height of the older woman. She holds her phone out to take a selfie, and the shake of the camera prompts Sero to take it instead. He holds it further away, steadily and smiling as his eyes return to the screen as he presses the button and—
You. You're standing in his periphery.
Hanta doesn't know how the picture turns out, distracted as he returns the phone and waves goodbye. Instead his eyes float to you: a smear of green in his vision, dancing merrily by the musicians. Your hand is holding a young girl—for a moment he wonders if she's yours—and you're stepping rhythmically from side to side, at a beat that doesn't match the music at all.
The scene lights something inside of his chest—something intense and overwhelming as it radiates down his torso and arms. The costume you're wearing… surely it’s you, the designer for Momo's dress. That bright chartreuse with feathers and swoops of fabric, they’re unmistakable even if he's only seen the glimpses from your social media. And your dancing—he knows that pattern, the forwards and backwards steps of salsa, obvious when paired with the sway of your hips. They only last a moment before you're matching the girl's movements, eventually coming to a still when the song ends. He watches as the kid scurries off, and suddenly he's stalking forwards, entering your path as you take a step and bump into him.
His heart constricts at the proximity, the brush of your bodies in contact, and then it squeezes again when you tell him, “Sorry.”
But that special, indescribable feeling is still there, growing stronger in his chest. He wants to dance with you, to see you move with someone who can match your steps. When he slides against you in the sensual glide of bachata, there are no nerves plaguing his heart—just glee.
Your skin has a chill, the breeze of winter air. But it warms him, ignites fire in the hand clutching yours, prickles of heat raining down his shoulder when you grasp it. He notices your fingers are calloused, a rough bump on your thumb and index finger. The detail makes you feel real. Hanta feels so light he thinks he’ll start floating to the stars.
You move with him, fluid steps and rolls of your hips. It's perfectly timed, completely in sync despite the syncopation of the music. Your laughter is another instrument, another melody to guide him. Hanta’s warm, alive, in this moment. His hands trail to your shoulders experimentally to see if you’ll catch his signal.
You do.
When you drop into his touch, letting him hold your shoulders while you spin, a spark runs through his chest—a new feeling. This one is a pool in his stomach, a flaming heat that takes over his face. He wants to be closer, to pull you into his chest and run his hand down your spine, slotting your head against his heart and your legs entangled in his own. He wants to hold you there forever.
You laugh again, head tilted to the sky while your mouth splits your face beneath your beak and the black night, and Hanta thinks he’s six again, watching a show that expands the edges of everything he knew, making him feel so small and impossibly infinite all at once. Hanta is six again, watching you bring your head back down and twirl, this time with a hand in yours as it trails to press into your neck. He wants to cup his hand around it and pull you in, to press his face against yours—and maybe even your lips.
It’s you, right? Hanta is new to this desire running through him, but this other feeling… he knows this buzzing, knows it deeply and intimately even if he’ll never be able to name it. He wants to ask you, wants to indulge the many questions bubbling in his throat. Was it you in Quito? Surely—you as the toucan with your dancing and your smile. The words sit there, waiting against his tongue as his body lulls with the music. His heart hammers in his chest, face heating while he fishes for the words. What should he do? What should he say? What should—
“Yo! Hanta!!”
Sero grimaces, eyes begrudgingly tear from you to Denki. His heart skips a beat as it continues to race. You take a step back and he thinks no, no, no. An urgency floods his veins, one that finds himself clutching onto you as you try to part from him. Your face is twisted in confusion and he wants to let everything out somehow. There are no words he can muster, only a silent plea trying to communicate itself through his eyes trained on yours. Can you feel what he feels? Do you understand?
Denki waves him over. He has to go, but he doesn't want to let you go. Not when he feels like he's finally found something he's been unknowingly searching for.
Not when you’re still looking at him like he’s a stranger.
He holds your hand for one more moment, between both of his as his mind wanders briefly. You’ll be back, he’s sure of it. There’s no need to rush. The night has only started; he can come back to you. His heart hurts when he finally releases your hand.
So he lets you go without asking anything—just a quiet thank you. His eyes bounce back to Denki, the blond waiting with a mirthful grin. Your hand falls to your side, eyes curiously trained on him. Good, he thinks. Please remember me.
When you barely whisper that you’ll see him around, that special feeling grows, blooms from deep within him, compounded by this aching desire. He knows that your paths will cross again.
Denki’s still grinning when Sero finally meets him. “Dude, I did not know you could dance. What the hell!?”
“What? I’ve invited you to social dancing at least ten times.”
The blond pouts. “I didn’t know you were working like that. Can I come next time? Please? Why do you never pull those moves when we go out?”
Sero rolls his eyes. “Because bars and clubs don’t play the right music? What’d you call me for?”
“Oh! We’re rounding up at Satou's stall. Kendou said it’d only be a minute, so you can go back to serenading your stranger.”
While Denki drags him by the wrist, Hanta takes a final look back. He only catches your back, the feathered shoulders and cape-like wings. You don’t turn to meet his gaze.
When the short debriefing with the staff is over and he hurries back to the cluster of musicians, you’ve disappeared.
“Illusion tents?” Momo asks the next morning.
Hanta nods, eyes wide with hope. He couldn’t sleep last night, mind racing with thoughts of you—thinking of ways to get your attention, to notice him. “Yeah like… a space where someone could walk in and experience a whole story laid out for them. Maybe something based on memories, something to try and trigger a connection.”
He wants to make something special—for you.
Dark eyebrows raise in confusion. “That’s… quite vague.”
He frowns. “I don’t have the full picture myself, but I have some ideas.”
“Sero… Who is this for?”
A long pause settles between them before he answers. “I think… I think I know the costume designer. But I’m not sure. I just—I want to see if they know me too. And… I want to do something for them. Something beautiful and meaningful, even if they aren’t who I think they are.”
Momo blinks, and then nods. “If you can come up with a clear design, I’ll do it.”
His face brightens. “Really? Thank you Momo, so much. I can come back in a couple hours with some ideas?”
She grins. “I should thank you—I’ve been wanting the chance to do something in return for them. Besides, we want them—for Hoshi no Sākasu. Maybe we can sway them with a personal show.”
Hanta’s eyes grow with surprise. He hadn’t heard about that. Was Shouto aware? “Wait—they’re joining us?” he asks, voice heavy with anticipation.
She grunts in denial. “Kendou asked yesterday; they seem interested but unsure. I haven’t heard the details, so I don’t know what their reservations are.”
You, traveling with them and working on the costumes back in Japan—the thought brings a twitch to Hanta’s lips. He presses his fist against them in an effort to contain his reaction. His chest is tight at the idea of seeing you almost daily, getting to work beside you. You and Shouto and the silks.
An hour before the show he stalks into Momo’s trailer. Kendou is there too, already filled in on the situation. She watches eagerly as Sero hurries through the door and approaches the table, pulling out a few pieces of paper folded in his pocket. They’re sketches, marked with crude and unsure strokes, but clear enough to get the main ideas across. Momo nods and hums as she listens to him explain his visions for the next few days.
“I can work with that, and the time we have,” she says. Sero exhales gently with relief. “They’ll be on the spot, and any gaps will be naturally filled in with my own imagination.”
“That’s fine, I’m sure anything you can execute will be perfect.”
Kendou hums in agreement. “These sound really interesting,” she adds. “There are still two more days of the festival, though.”
Hanta nods. “I have some ideas, but want to think about them a little longer.”
“It’s fine,” Momo interjects, waving dismissively. “As long as you tell me the day before and give me visuals like these, I can make it work.”
A lifesaver, Sero thinks. And a genius. “You’re the best,” he says. “Truly.”
She laughs. “I know, I know. Now put those away and leave unless you want to spoil the surprise.”
He glances at the time, realizing you must be coming any minute, and folds the papers back into his pocket. One final gratitude slips from him as he stands to leave.
There’s a knock on the door.
A matching knock thumps through his chest, heart racing at the assumption that you’re on the other end—Aoyama would have simply burst in. His wide eyes dart to Momo’s in surprise. She gives him a look, one that asks him what he’s waiting for. He steps forward slowly, hand hovering over the knob.
Knowing that it’s you doesn’t prepare him for actually seeing you: you with a giant fluff of feathers wrapped around your neck—black and soft and breezing against your skin. Little clumps of snow stick to the edges, and against your hair. He wants to pluck them out and runs his hands through the strands, pulling your face close. He stands tall, a few steps above you, unable to withhold whatever embarrassing expressions are likely flashing across his face. You’re cute, and you look happy to be waiting there, clutching a paper bag against your chest.
When you speak he has to reel himself back in. Yes, you’re seeing each other again—already. He wants to say something, anything, but the words don’t come out. Kendou intervenes for him, introducing you after you brush by to enter. He nearly shivers at the contact, you and cool air wafting in. His shoulder tingles, a familiar feeling overwhelming him. He grins at the sight of you, not fighting the joy as he finally says something.
“Nice to meet you properly.” Is that lame? Shouldn’t he say something… more?
“Sero was just about to get ready,” Momo interjects before you respond.
His face falls, not wanting to go when you only just arrived. He pouts at the longing in his chest, a sinking weight, but Momo’s commanding expression is persistent—eyes not faltering as they glance from him to Kendou. He sighs.
“Yeah, I was on my way out,” he manages honestly. He doesn’t know what face he’s making as he leaves, too honest to contain it.
You send him off with a wave and an offering of one of your little sandwiches. It’s a small gesture, one he takes greedily. He pulls a tramezzini with prosciutto, lips tugging into a frown as the door closes behind him. He’s not a fan of cured meat. He eats it anyway.
He closes his eyes when he reaches the bottom of the steps, inhaling sharp cold air into his lungs. He holds the breath in his cheeks, palms cradling his own face. Enough time passes for Aoyama to appear, bumping Hanta aside to enter the trailer. He moves to let the holographic blond pass, shoving his hands into his pockets as he cranes his neck to the sky.
Snowflakes dot his vision, slowly falling through muted blue. When they touch the skin of his face, feather-light, they’re akin to hesitant fingertips tracing curiously. He thinks of you and your cold skin, callused hand in his.
“Sero-kun?”
Midnight eyes fall to the horizon, then the freckled man before him. Hanta hums.
“Is everything okay? You’re… I’ve never seen you cry before.”
Hanta blinks in surprise, the wetness along his lashes not noticeable before. He gently wipes the skin, smearing the rapidly cooling tears against his cheeks.
“Yeah,” he manages, voice tinged with a rasp. “I’m just overwhelmed, I think. And a little confused.”
He grins at Midoriya, an earnest smile. His friend looks at him skeptically. Hanta laughs and walks toward the main tent, where Midoriya will be getting ready soon.
“You never get weird before a performance,” his friend persists. He follows Sero closely as they reach the entrance.
Hanta doesn’t have a response, settling for a shrug. He urges Midoriya to get on with his costume and makeup, assuring that he’s fine despite his unusual behavior. Curious green eyes don’t leave him, darting back to Sero even after the show starts and he begins his warm up.
Hanta doesn’t get nervous before a show, usually one of the most calm of the cast, all relaxed smiles. Going on stage is no different than entangling himself in practice—it’s just him and the silks, always.
Except for now, because you are in the audience. There’s a new tightness in his chest at the thought of you watching him, seeing him. But he’s learned to trust himself—himself and those around him and their shared vision. This is the first show for Gōyoku, but it will be beautiful and magical and everything Hanta’s ever chased.
Something in his stomach clenches when he sees Monoma strut backstage. His neck is wrapped in the fluff of black feathers, grin stretched wide as he proclaims he’s already stolen the show. Hanta’s mind races. Did Monoma touch you—take it without your permission? An ugliness burrows inside him, the one that first appeared when he heard of your lunch with Midoriya. His chest flares with the claim that he should be the one to with your boa, to have something from you.
Hanta speaks his mind, but he can also recognize that this is different from the honest nature within him. This is something irrational and possessive and ugly. The words don’t surface, a tamed righteousness. His fist tightens from the need to redirect his anger. He exhales.
When he finally enters the stage and sits under bright lights, he returns to confidence and ease. He scans through the crowd, meaning only to do a quick survey, but his eyes are drawn to you. Even without the boa he knows it’s you—it has to be. You’re a speck of white in the crowd, tinted purple from the blacklights. His heart tightens as your eyes stare back. Will you watch him? Will you see him?
Black silk falls—his blanket of safety—and he nearly smiles as he reaches for it.
This performance, he is entirely in his element. The silk wraps around him perfectly, smooth fabric that works as an extension of his body. He’s entirely unrushed, in euphoric focus as he wraps and unravels himself, gliding through his routine. He is nearly swimming through it—through air and threads and the darkness of the night, swimming through stars and dust and everything there ever was. He feels closer to you, held right against you, completely taken by that incredibly overwhelming sensation—that buzzing in his entire body.
You watch him the whole time, really watch him. He knows without having to check, but everytime his eyes drift to yours, they are trained on him. A deep satisfaction roots into his chest at the end, at knowing he was able to show you something beautiful.
He nearly skips backstage when the act concludes, despite the fatigue.
“Midoriya told me that you cried earlier.”
He groans at Shouto’s voice, steps faltering. “Dude, at least let me sit first.”
Shouto’s eyes widen as he pauses and nods. Blue and grey watch closely as Sero grabs his water before sinking into one of the cushions.
“You cried earlier,” he repeats.
Hanta laughs this time, tilting his head against the seat. “Not really. I just got lost in thought.”
“Thoughts that make you cry?”
He smiles gently. “I’m okay. Sometimes it just happens.”
Shouto pauses. He stands quietly before saying, “You know you can talk to me, if you need.”
Hanta nods. “Of course I do.”
Shouto nods back, a curt gesture.
Hanta can’t withhold his grin, ever appreciative of his friend’s straightforward care. He catches the slight quirk of Shouto’s lips—and knows exactly what it means.
He excitedly debriefs with the others after the show—animated conversation with Mina and Monoma, Bakugou standing with a scowl to the side. Monoma is just beginning a monologue about the details of his enthralling performance, prompting Bakugou to leave, when Mina’s eyes light as she points excitedly.
“Oh, cutie spotted! With Deku!”
Hanta turns towards her gesture, eyes locking onto your form. His heart races with surprise, not realizing you would be coming backstage. But then that possession seeps back inside his chest, claws piercing right through it. You’re standing with Midoriya—closely, and talking with excited gestures. Your eyes are shining with delight and Midoriya matches your energy with his rapid speech. The envy catches him by surprise, layered with a twinge of doubt. Suddenly Hanta wishes he asked more questions, to Midoriya and Momo and Kendou—to have learned more about you in any capacity.
“Oh? Looks like my cue,” Monoma answers, reaching to untangle the boa from his neck.
Hanta moves before he can process his actions, slender fingers gently prying the garment from the blond.
“I’ll do it,” he says, uncharacteristically stern before starting forwards.
By the time he’s behind you, all tension in his body has evaporated, instead replaced by childlike giddiness. He catches you by surprise, draping the scarf over your neck. His grin is easy and lazy when you turn to him. The attention fills him with warmth.
And then you openly sing praise, shining eyes now locked on him.
“You were incredible,” you breathe. “I’ve never seen someone move that way—”
Oh.
This… this is unusual for Hanta. He’s never been the main character or even had a true solo for Hoshi no Sākasu, but you’re here noticing him, telling him he’s one of a kind. The attention is an embarrassing ambush, flooding head through his chest and face. It prompts him to be shy, to hide himself and hold this warmth carefully in his hands.
But it’s you, with excited eyes that are opened so wide, so focused—all on him. You want to know more about him, greedily soaking in his answers. More heat overtakes him until he feels like he’s buried in it. It’s a new type of feeling, a flush he’s never experienced before—something beyond nerves or self-consciousness. Maybe it’s the heat of being known; the heat of being seen. The heat of being special to someone.
He thinks you deserve to feel this way, too.
He feels a little betrayed then, when Midoriya butts in, pulling a laugh from some sort of inside joke you share. Momo shortly after steals your attention, the two of you trading special glances and tenderly touching hands. Hanta has the urge to pout as others join, continuously whisking away your attention.
His antsiness grows from the waiting. By the time he can have your attention again, he doesn’t have anything meaningful to say. In a moment of desperation, he makes a comment about the orecchiette—tiny and wobbly bowls pooling meaty sauce. He blinks in surprise when you answer defensively.
He finds himself grinning stupidly as he probes further. “What about fettuccine?”
“With this sauce?” you ask aghast. His grin grows. He can tell it’s a crooked one, tugging to the side with delight. “I don’t even know much about Italian food, but that would be a six out of ten at best.”
It’s stupid, this conversation, but he can’t help beaming from your responses—at the way your presence alone fills him with a special feeling of intensity. He's seven years old again, talking to Shouto for the first time and knowing instantly that he should keep him close. He wants to reach for you, hold your hand or even just your sleeve.
A question rests in the back of the throat, something like is this you? You: the one at the parade, in Quito.
“Are… Do you—”
It makes him a stumbling, clumsy version of himself when he tries to ask. He can only say the beginning of the question, rephrased over and over again. Are you the one I'm thinking of? Do you remember me?
Can I be special to you even if you don't?—If you aren't who I think you are?
In his periphery he can see Shouto approaching. It’s either right now, in these mere seconds of privacy, that Hanta can ask. Can he stand to wait another moment, another day?
“Hey ‘Roki,” he says instead. In his imagination, another Hanta appears to grab him by the throat and shake him—for being a coward.
“I wanted to tell you that we’re about halfway through the book. We just finished the chapter where Santi is pulled into Marco’s world.”
Hanta’s heart drops.
You… you know about the book? His book. One he’s clutched to his heart since he was just a boy, taken everywhere and practically memorized. How does Shouto know you know? How does everyone seem to capture these stray details about you—everyone except for him? That ugliness in his chest returns, this time a harsh squeeze of spite. One that runs down his arms with the need to act.
It’s a squeeze that immediately releases when you grin, teeth on full display. Suddenly he’s light again, your excitement a source of peace. The change is like whiplash; he’s not used to his feelings being this volatile—rapidly changing, without warning, pitting him against his closest friends. All the while you’re standing and smiling as you say that you read his favorite book every night as a child. That you made a dress based on one of his favorite scenes.
“You know the book he’s reading?” He has to ask, to confirm this is real.
Suddenly you’re giving in easily, sharing tidbits of information while probing ones from him. You tell him you’re from the western shores of Costa Rica and he delights in this information, knowing that even on different continents you two shared an ocean, a connection through water and salt and currents and wind. Maybe there were times you were in the water at the same time. Did the water that held him hold you too? The thought sends a buzz through his body and the warmth of summer saltwater.
Even when Shouto interjects, Hanta happily soaks in the details. Despite your attention no longer focused on him alone, there’s a specialness in this moment—the sight of you and his best friend, trading thoughts about his most treasured book.
The idea comes to him during his second performance, nearly lasered directly into his brain. While he’s weaving through the lengths of silk from the ceiling, he suddenly imagines pulling them from the water himself, stardust strings that bridge his world to yours—a bridge you know—where he can hopefully translate that special feeling in his heart and stomach and entire being.
When his act finishes he rushes to scribble every detail that surfaces. He sits in one of the trailers, not risking you looking over his shoulder despite his yearning for your attention. The ideas pour out of him and through graphite, trailing along a stack of papers. It leaves lines of black and grey dust, glittering under the lamplight—like stars, or specks of dark sand.
Kendou grabs him when the show ends, pulling him aside to say, “We got your tent set up in the last row. Verde won’t be around long tonight, but Momo thinks they’ll find it in time. They’ll be here tomorrow during the first show, to talk about work.”
Hanta nods, thanking her. He’s not worried; he trusts that things will work out as they need, because he trusts himself and his friends to make something that will reel you in. And he trusts you, to gravitate towards his offering and to find it.
You do.
The next morning he has everything pictured perfectly in his mind. Momo can’t meet until close to showtime, leaving Hanta antsily waiting. It manifests as a weight in his stomach and a distracted mind. In the meantime, he and Shouto work through another chapter while eating breakfast. Or rather, Hanta continuously loses himself in thought while Shouto reads, receiving a nudge when they’re supposed to switch.
“You’re distracted today,” Shouto says bluntly.
Hanta sighs. “Sorry, we should probably call it after this chapter.”
He tilts the book to read the last couple pages, but Shouto interjects. “Does it have to do with why you cried yesterday?”
“‘Roki,” he huffs. “It’s really—” he stops. He was going to say nothing, that it’s really nothing. But it’s not nothing.
“It’s…?”
It’s you.
“It’s complicated,” Hanta decides.
Shouto’s eyes narrow, intense swathes of a storming sky that don’t budge when Hanta tries to dismiss himself. He caves.
“I think… I know them—” you. The admission is scary, to turn thoughts into words and tell them to someone else.
But Shouto is nothing if not serious. He takes everything Hanta has ever said with full consideration, even if he doesn’t understand. Because they’re friends, and they trust one another. “Verde?”
Hanta nods. “Well, not know them, or even of them. But I think we’ve… met before. Not formally—but I think we saw each other at a parade when I was little.”
“A parade?”
“Yeah.” He smiles while recounting the memory. “They were dressed as a bird, at the Fiestas de Quito. A toucan, I think.”
“Oh.” Shouto watches his friend carefully. Hanta recognizes that he’s thinking, gears shifting and spinning behind an intense stare. “Do you want to tell them?”
Hanta pauses. Does he want to tell you? When he thinks about it, he doesn’t think that part matters so much. “Not necessarily. I think it’s more that they make me feel a certain way… and I want to get to know them better because of it.”
“I see. I understand.”
Sero’s eyebrows lift in surprise. A smile tugs at his lips. “You do?”
His friend nods curtly. “Yes. You perplexed me when I first saw you. It always made me very irritated at practice, because I wanted to ask you questions.”
Hanta laughs, a bright sound. “Because I wasn’t very good? And I was wasting my time?”
“Yes.”
Another laugh rings, this one releasing the weight in his stomach. He smiles for himself, at Shouto’s presence grounding him in this moment.
“I think you should tell them you feel that way,” his friend continues.
“I have some ideas.”
“For what to say?”
Hanta shakes his head. “No. I want to show them my feelings, since they’re hard to explain.”
Shouto’s eyes linger on his friend’s face, searching dark irises. He glances at the book between them, lips twitching in a suppressed smile as he says, “I understand.”
After finishing his act, Hanta grabs the papers from his bag before rushing to the trailers. He’s eager to share with Momo, to finalize his plans for you. As soon as the door opens he’s announcing, “Momo, I have the rest of my ideas for the—”
tents, he almost finishes before he spots you.
His mouth shuts in an instant, with enough force to hear his teeth clack. You’re surprised to see him, eyes blown open. He swallows, not expecting to see you either—you with your curious gaze and unbroken attention. He could blush from the eye contact alone, if there wasn’t a thick fog of tension in the room; if you didn’t look so uncomfortable. Suddenly he wants to ask what’s going on. He wants to know about this conversation and everything you’re thinking.
“Next one over,” Kendou grits through her teeth.
It snaps him out of his thoughts, nodding on instinct as he fumbles backwards through the door. “Shit,” did he fuck something up by coming in? “Sorry. I—sorry, thanks.”
He chews on his lip while walking to the next trailer. Suddenly he’s nervous. He timidly knocks, waiting for Momo’s invitation before opening the door. He lacks his earlier confidence when he sets the papers down to start explaining his concepts for the remaining tents.
“Sero?” Momo interrupts. “Are you okay?”
His shoulders feel heavy, hunched over the desk. He’s not sure. “I accidently went in Kendou’s trailer.”
Momo’s face morphs into one of understanding. “Don’t worry about that,” she reassures. “As long as you didn’t give anything away, we’re fine.”
He shakes his head. “No, I just… it was kind of tense in there.”
“Oh,” her face blanks. “You mean the conversation they’re having.”
He nods.
“It’ll be fine,” she repeats, then nearly scoffs. “Designers.”
He doesn’t know much about designers and their habits. Does the air around them normally feel like a storm approaching? But he nods, trusting her judgment.
Hanta is part of the working crew for the festival that evening. He keeps himself towards the back where he can spot the red-coated tent. You’re absent, he assumes inside already and sifting through the many memories of the circus. He’s curious about whose you open, what you see. He wants to peek inside for himself—to see how Momo executed his thoughts. He wonders if you’ll come to know the others better than he does.
It feels a little like being on patrol, wandering through the same paths and having the same conversations, occasionally smiling for a photo. His steps slow every time he passes the tent, waiting on edge throughout the night.
When he rounds the corner to the last row, walking towards the red stall once again, he catches a flutter of the entrance flaps. His heart races as your hand parts through them, slicing your way out and into the chilly air. He paces forwards, hoping to catch you, but then freezes when you stumble out in full.
There is no pause between your exit from the tent and your dash to leave the festival. Hanta watches with guilty curiosity as you sprint away. Your face is twisted, grimacing and tear-stained, while your hand is clenched by your heart. You dart the opposite way from him, not even spotting him, before suddenly you are gone. Vanished. Like a ghost, or the wind.
His stomach drops like he’s going to be sick. It aches—a painful guilt he’s never felt before. Did he try too much too fast? Did he ruin something that hasn’t even had the proper chance to start?
He’s not sure how long he stands there, when a clattering of jingles stomps up behind him.
“Oi! The hell r’ya standin’ around for? Yer in everyone’s fuckin’ way!”
Hanta doesn’t respond or react, still frozen and staring. A rough hand grabs his bicep. It yanks him from the center of the path and forces him to turn to Bakugou.
“Sero! Y’fuckin’ deaf?” Red eyes glare at him, but they’re focused—concentrated. Thoughtful, even. They stare at the bottom of Hanta’s eyes, the waterline where tears have unknowingly clumped in his lower lashes.
“I—” he can hardly get out. His voice is shaky, wavering.
Bakugou grunts, tugging Hanta’s arm down the row of markets, past the red tent. Sero swallows as the crimson blurs away. His feet follow obediently, stepping in time with his friend’s as the bells on his hat jingle in matching rhythm. He would laugh, if he had the mind for it.
The blond doesn’t speak when they’re finally out of the congested path. Instead he looks at Hanta expectantly. Impatiently, but still waiting nonetheless.
“Fuck,” is the first word he releases. It’s a breathy, broken sound. His face crumples, that guilt in stomach rolling upwards to his chest and his shoulders and pooling heat in his face.
“Fuck, I—did I mess things up?” What was he thinking? Projecting all those hopes onto you, as if you were some fated soulmate of his. Did he subject you to something awful? How could he think to use memories like that—as some sort of game to play with between you two. How could he leave something so delicate in the hands of something so unpredictable?
“The hell r’ya goin’ on about?” Bakugou’s quip pulls him from his spiraling.
Hanta shakes his head. It’s too much to explain, something Bakugou wouldn’t understand. He should go find you, or Momo, to get a sense what you might’ve seen and to start on a way to repair—
“What’s this? Are we hiding from our responsibilities?” the bubbly voice of Kaminari chirps behind him. Hanta grimaces, not wanting to deal with more obstacles.
But Bakugou is already making it everyone’s problem, demanding, “Icyhot, the hell is wrong with yer extra?”
“Hanta?”
Shouto’s deep voice grabs his attention, turning to see him and Denki. They must have passed while doing rounds near the music together. To help Shouto socialize, Kaminari had explained before splitting up.
The firebreather steps forward quickly, breaking from Kaminari to assess his friend. The blond puffs his cheeks in a pout.
The conversation is a mess—Sero attempting to explain what happened and why he’s upset—but Shouto takes it in stride, nodding in understanding. The blonds stand to the side, watching with confusion and annoyance, respectively.
“Do you want to talk to Momo?” Shouto asks. “We can go look for her.” Bakugou makes a face at the implied inclusion in ‘we’. Kaminari looks greedy for more drama.
Hanta shakes his head. “No, it’s—I’ll try to talk to her in the morning instead. I just assumed it would be harmless, I didn’t think about the potential stress this could cause.”
“It sounds like you were trying to show them something beautiful,” Shouto replies. His voice is strong, stern. “It will be okay.”
In the morning, Momo explains that the setup was a collection of tables with marbles scattered over their surfaces, strung to look like bottles in the contained space of the tent. They were labelled based on shape and color—for the type of memory, and whose. “Anything intense would be more of an abstract feeling or experience, and not a fully cohesive scene.”
Hanta purses his lips as he thinks. Is an abstract experience of something painful any better than the entire experience in full? Could it even be worse—to only know the fragments of trauma, lacking proper understanding to process the bits you’re given?
Momo watches carefully as his expression shifts in thought. She adds, “It’s comparable to reading a book—it allows you to experience something in a safe and controlled environment when you can end it at any time. If they experienced something unpleasant, it wouldn’t be traumatizing, just unpleasant.”
Hanta understands what she’s trying to say, but the words don’t properly infiltrate. Momo didn’t see the way you left, how sad and troubled your face was. But he thanks her for the information.
“Should we not go through with the rest?” he asks.
Momo hums in surprise. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t. They’re very well thought out, and none of them run the same risk as last night’s.”
He stays quiet, looking at her skeptically.
“I think the one you planned for tonight is good,” she asserts. “I think they would appreciate seeing it.”
Hanta’s gut is still uncertain, and his ability to differentiate his nerves from his gut is out of touch. But he trusts his friend.
He’s still troubled by the time the show starts, especially when you haven’t made an appearance, since Kendou assumed you would visit every day. Hanta hopes he didn’t push you away.
You still don’t appear when he dresses and begins his warm up. Bakugou is standing by the high bars when Hanta ambles over to stretch. The blond eyes him while he hangs, letting his shoulders loosen before he gently rocks them.
“Ya done tweakin’?”
Hanta laughs, already more relaxed with his body in the air. He stretches each shoulder individually, pulling one arm off the bar at a time to sink into the feeling. It feels familiar—good.
“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’m better than last night.”
He doesn’t get a response, just sharp red eyes that watch him closely. Bakugou doesn’t leave.
“Hanta!” He hears a voice call behind him. “I got your drink! And a special someone.”
He turns with a frown, confused by the cheeky edge of Denki’s words. Then he blinks in surprise. You’re there with him, eyes trained on ahead. You look fine—good, and he nearly flushes when the words register, the implication that Denki brought you for him.
He paces over quickly, drawn to you even while nervous.
Should he ask about last night? To be upfront and apologize, even if it ruins the surprise? It might be overwhelming for you—
“Hanta,” you whisper. It’s quiet and breathy, like a prayer—or a plea. You say it like you meant it for yourself. A secret.
His body flares with tingles at the sound of you calling his name. They fester in his chest and through his shoulders and arms, prickles that migrate down to his stomach and his legs. His hands feel weak. His knees almost give out.
“Huh?” His voice is small, nearly choking on his breath. He presses his knuckles to his lips, knowing his face must be beet red.
You make a face, a cute face of confusion and then embarrassment. You’re quick to apologize, trying to explain your realization about the pronunciation. He nearly laughs, but bites his tongue. If he makes a sound right now, it’ll be a whine or something infinitely more embarrassing. He swallows and inhales before he answers:
“I prefer it anyways.” From you. He wants to add. Always from you.
You’re still embarrassed even after he assures you of it. Meanwhile he’s still tingling—recovering from your initial ambush.
“Stop flirting in front of us,” Denki pouts in Japanese as he slides Hanta’s drink across the table.
Dark eyes point at his blond friend. A warning, or a plea, to stop. Even if you can’t understand what they’re saying, it makes him nervous. He lifts his drink, hand still tingling and weak, to uncap his order and breathe it in. The scent is dark and rich, a less volatile sort of warmth that soothes him from the inside out.
When the others join to collect their drinks, Hanta takes the opportunity to step away from you. He’s overwhelmed by your presence, trying to will away the buzz and heat radiating along his skin—but he still steals glances when you aren’t looking his way. You look happy and excited, but also tense. Is he imagining it? He frowns, frustrated at his inability to assess clearly.
Your eyes suddenly meet his. They’re piercing, and they make his heart jump. He looks away immediately, hand splaying across his face to hide his overwhelming fluster.
By the time you’re standing with Momo to send her on stage, he’s decided that he’ll talk to you. He’s Hanta: always honest and upfront, and he thinks it’s worth spoiling the surprises in exchange for knowing that you’re okay, that he didn’t hurt you somehow. After Momo disappears through the curtain he waits for you, even when it takes a moment for you to turn around, fiddling with something in your pocket.
He feels a wave of guilt when you start backstage and he scares you, your body nearly flinching from his presence. There’s a sharp clink of something hitting the ground, barely audible over your noise of surprise.
He apologizes immediately, crouching for the little object you dropped. When his eyes land on it, he pauses. Something in his stomach tightens painfully, before releasing completely.
A marble.
It’s a small clump of glass, with a crescent of a glare against the dark floor. Hanta’s memory drifts back to Momo’s words this morning. Marbles, she said, scattered across the tables in the tent—elongated into bottles in the small space she can control.
“I found it yesterday,” you explain when he hands it back to you. Your palm is cool against his fingertips. “In the festival.”
“It’s pretty,” he manages, breathless.
You took the marble from the tent—a bottle, a green one: one of your own. He recalls the fist you held to your chest as you rushed outside. Were you holding it there, against your heart? Was that something you wanted?
He watches you tuck the marble back into your pocket, shoulders dropping in relief. That knot in his stomach, the guilt and the worry, unravels in an instant. You smile. It’s small and soft, but he can’t help beaming in response, grin widening across his face. It prompts yours to grow, brightening further.
He should’ve trusted himself, he thinks. Trusted himself, his friends, and you.
Sero is off duty with Shouto that evening. They wander through the nightlife of Milan, stepping into a bar Kaminari demands they must see where a robot arm prepares their drinks. After one cocktail, Hanta’s had enough. He slips away, leaving his friends to enjoy themselves.
The streets are busy as he strolls through chilly winter air. The sky is dark, but the ground is bright, illuminated by the orange glow of street lamps. He watches a flock of pigeons chirp and peck at the ground, where a to-go container was dropped. He sidesteps the congregation, toeing along the curb of the sidewalk before recentering. His phone buzzes after a couple more steps.
It’s a text from Momo that reads: Success! I don’t think you have anything to worry about :-)
He pauses, standing in the middle of the sidewalk as he tries to calm his heart now racing again. A man grumbles as he brushes by, pushing his shoulder into Sero’s. He falters, stumbling towards the edge and out of the way. He wants to ask questions, to probe for details. But he trusts Momo, so he sends an Okay, thanks in return.
When he lays in bed and drifts to sleep, his dreams take him to the sky as a green-feathered bird. His wings slice through the air like a malleable knife, giving him the mobility to spin and dip and glide. Beneath him is the vibrant blue of the sea, rapidly transitioning into lush green canopies. There’s another bird up ahead, below him. He chirps before swooping down to meet it.
When he wakes the next day he feels light. Soaring.
You don’t come backstage.
It puts him on edge, breeds nerves in his body. Not from the fear that he’s done something wrong, but with worry that you’ll miss the tent Momo has for you tonight. This one is special—they’re all special. He hopes that you’ll see it. He reminds himself to trust you.
He’s soaking in the music when you bump into him. He’s delighted by your appearance, simultaneously wrecked with nerves.
“Hi Sero,” you say. It’s a quiet, private greeting. He warms immediately, then flushes when you correct yourself. “Hanta.”
His body threatens to shiver from the tingles in his shoulders and chest. He’s breathless when he responds. “Hi.”
You look calm next to him, peaceful. You’re enjoying your night, you say; it’s been really good. The affirmation puts Hanta at ease.
A reminder to trust you.
He stands with you in the quiet, your proximity enough. But with the lull of the musicians—acoustic guitar and violin and stand up bass—he also wants to move. After a moment of hesitation he asks you to dance. You tell him only if he has the courage to handle your shoes. The response has him beaming, heart warm as he takes your hand—a cool and callused thing—to guide you through an improvised waltz. You don’t know the steps, your clunky shoes stomping on his toes through the sweeping gestures. They’re hardly noticeable when he gets to hold you close, when he has your hand in his. Your face is nearly pressed into his chest, right at his rapidly beating heart. A tingling and yearning heart.
He cherishes this night and the ease you seem to have with him. He wishes it could be like this, always.
Forever.
“They’ll be watching the last show,” Momo tells him.
He finds you immediately, partially because you’re conveniently seated in the same spot but also because you’re you. He’ll always find you.
He is not prepared to see you in your dress.
In the crowd it’s not noticeable, covered by the people sitting in front of you. But when you step backstage wrapped in loose dark fabric, silken and sheer swathes draping elegantly across your arms and waist and legs, it’s all he can see. You, with stars smeared over your skirt, trailing light strings as you move, like meteors over a still pond in the night.
It takes time to compose himself before he speaks to you, taking a moment to face the wall with shaky breaths. It isn’t until you’re left alone by even your friend—Chia, you call her—that he has the composure to speak to you. You start complimenting him again, and he’s weak in the knees, unraveling under your attention. He presses his fist to his face again, hoping it can help transfer away the heat in his cheeks. You must know what you’re doing to him—you in your beautiful self-made gown, singing him praise.
“Smash. But without the shoes.”
Hanta’s swooning is halted at Touya’s sneering Japanese, immediately replaced by heated irritation. He knows Touya’s games, that the words are meant to rile him up in front of you. He luckily tampers his anger quickly, but not before shooting the elder Todoroki a glare. He only receives a wide smirk in response.
Shouto intercepts, pulling a musical laugh from you. Before you can ask for a translation, Hanta’s asking questions about your dress again, redirecting your attention.
You eventually introduce him to your friend, someone direct and sharp but who you scold easily and make faces of displeasure at. He hasn’t seen this side of you.
“Tucano?” she calls, and his stomach drops.
You hum in response, like it’s a name you’re called often. Hanta knows he’s making the most absurd face—eyes wide, jaw agape, cheeks probably flaming. He doesn’t catch your response, only able to hear the thumping of his heart and too focused on not throwing up right there.
It is you, after all. Right?
He leaves. He can’t handle standing near you for another moment, no matter how much his heart yearns for it. He’ll know tonight. You’ll see for yourself and then he’ll know everything he needs.
“Dude, you aren’t working tonight,” Kirishima’s voice sounds from behind him.
Hanta turns around, jester’s hat in hand while his clothes are switched to his festival costume. He realizes he didn’t have to put the costume on. “Oh…” he doesn’t know what to say. “I guess muscle memory took over. I’m going to the festival tonight anyway.”
He doesn’t change.
When he steps into the tent, minutes after you, the first thing he thinks is that he owes Momo everything. The illusion is so real, a tangible, living story that brings to life everything he could have imagined. It’s immersive, it’s beautiful, it’s perfect. When he stares into the pond and sees your form on the other end, pulling you into his arms to fall through the galaxy and land on a beach made of stars, you on top of him in a gown that matches, he knows that he will forever be indebted to his friend.
Pulling you across the water is like a dream. Leading you through his childhood home is like a secret. Seeing you in the parade again, reliving his memory—this time entangled with yours—is something he can’t put words to, something too precious for metaphor.
This time, with your imagination working with his, he sees more details—new details—like the way you look to the woman beside you as a guide, how you reach for her. She’s a macaw, a mix of blue and gold, with a silhouette akin to the one you wore the night before the first show.
(That’s where he knows that shape from—what struck familiarity in him when he saw the costume for the first time.)
This time he can also see that you’re nervous. It’s an aching feeling, an apprehension clearly displayed across your face. The old woman calms you, encouraging and assuring that everything will be alright.
It feels like a gift, to have this moment one more time. And it is a gift, for it to be saturated with new colors, inks bleeding through a page and running together, swirling perspectives and memories. It’s beautiful, in its own messy, inexplicable—inseparable—way.
You meet his eyes and wave like the first time, watching as he grins with new recognition. Then in a flash the two of you are in the piazza, standing on opposite ends of a crowd. He watches you nervously. Was he able to reach you?
You run to him.
Everything will be okay.
He steps forward to meet you, revels in the way you cling to his shirt. Your eyes are teary and your voice is hoarse. He wants to kiss you, your eyes and your lips. He wants to tell you everything will be alright, that he's here for you.
It's more to reassure himself—that you're here. For him.
You're asking him broken questions and he's trying his best to answer, waiting with bated breath to hear what you think—if it all came together like he hoped. You say they were everything, everything you were missing, and he nearly floats from the relief, melting and then evaporating from the heat that flares inside him. All he can do is grip your waist and tell himself you’re here. All he can do is whisk you away, so he can finally have you to himself.
“Gracias, Hanta. Para mostrarme,” you whisper under the canopies.
“It's you,” he tells you. It’s you. It’s always been you.
Even before it was you giving him that special feeling, it was the precious book that would lead him to you anyways. It was always you, only ever you, your essence infused in everything he ever reached for. It was you who guided him to Hoshi no Sākasu and it was you he was bound to cross again.
Here in the dark, in the quiet of the garden away from the noise of the festival, Hanta finally feels like he has you. He has your attention and your acknowledgment. You know who he is and what you mean to him. He feels unhurried, simply happy to hold your face in gentle hands and murmur sweet things back and forth. He wants to take his time with you.
But then you call him beautiful, and he needs you now.
Kissing you shoots a buzz through his body, nearly vibrating from the intimacy. You’re close, so close, pressed into him at the hip where he can feel a heat stirring from within. You try to pull him closer and all he can think is that he wants that—whatever you want. He wants to be as close as you’ll let him. He takes everything you offer, and croons when you give into his every initiation.
You want him too.
The thought alone has him burning, aching, but then you start saying his name—chanting it with need—“Hanta, Hanta, Hanta—” and he whines into your skin: secrets that can’t find proper words. But he trusts that you receive them, that you can understand.
When you’re finally in his room he’s thrumming with want, fully guided by the tightness of his pants, the carnal desire to have you. He wants to feel everything—your warmth and your skin and the reassurance that you’re here. With him. You make choked sounds while he presses you against the wall, gasps and whines that ring as chiming bells. He wants more, so much more. He wants everything from you until you have nothing to give.
“Lo siento,” he tells you, because he truly is sorry to move at this pace. Only his heart means it.
But you groan, like you need him now too. It’s enough to shrink any hesitation into a sliver in his chest. He lifts you towards the bed, fingers working your dress to fall down your chest. It pools at your waist, sliding down your arms like liquid coals, a woven night sky. He nearly chokes, overwhelmed by the sight of you. His heart is stuttering, rapidly thumping against his sternum while he repeats this is real in his mind like a mantra.
When he leans to press his lips to your chest, kissing and biting and sucking at the skin your heart is buried beneath, he finally feels an inkling of relief. He feels close to you, pulling you closer with a hand on your ass as your hips stutter into him. His own hardness grinds against the mattress, shooting a buzz up his torso, burning his body from the inside. He groans into your neck as he encourages you to continue. He wants you to feel good, for him to make you feel good.
(To make you feel so good that the decision for whether to stay or go becomes obvious.)
Your hands bury in his hair when he brings you over the edge. It sends shivers through him, pulling him through another type of euphoria, one that originates in his chest and dissolves his body through the air. Maybe he can seep into you, into every part of your being—so you can hold him close forever.
When your grip finally relents, releasing him back to earth and letting him prop above you, he watches attentively. Your eyes open slowly, blinking at him in disbelief. He can’t help grinning, even while cautious at your delicate state. His next touches are gentle, traces along your thigh to ask for permission, skimming further along when you don’t protest.
There’s an ache in his stomach and between his legs, his desire for you, for another level of closeness. But the thought of going further—to fulfill that—brings a hollowness in his chest.
He halts. It’s a this moment of clarity, realizing that he’s not dictating his own actions consciously. What is he being propelled by? What does he actually want? His firm cock pulses with an obvious desire, but his chest is heavy—with a conflict he’s never felt before.
This possession and this urgency—is this how he wants to be with you? Acting out of fear and panic, to have you now, as if there is no future to look forward to. This isn’t him; this isn’t the way he acts.
You’re watching curiously, expecting him to continue. He swallows the lump in his throat.
“Hanta?”
Will it disappoint you, if he ended things here? If all he really wanted was to lay against your chest again. He felt closest to you there, where he could feel the drumming of your warm heart. There’s a knot in his stomach, an uncertainty. That apprehension earlier reduced to a sliver in his chest is now surrounding him.
He should trust you.
He’s honest when you ask if he’s okay, through both his shaking voice and his words as he confesses what he’s thinking. How he doesn’t want to rush.
You tell him it’s okay. He’s okay.
Estás bien.
At the sound of your assurance, your insistent, “Hanta, it’s okay,” he exhales a long breath and drops his forehead against your shoulder. You hold him, your hand threading through his hair in a delicate cradle. His eyes sting with fresh tears, though he’s not sure why: whether it’s guilt or fear or some third thing. You trace your fingers over him, down his neck and along his spine—a balm against his bruising.
“Lo siento,” he says, though he still doesn’t know why—if he’s sorry for rushing things, or for not following through. Maybe he’s sorry for not trusting you to begin with. Maybe he’s sorry for something to come later.
You don’t seem bothered, or even surprised. You simply whisper, “Yo también,” as you continue to hold him carefully.
Hanta can’t imagine what you would need to be sorry for.
Waking next to you is something like a dream. He returns to reality pressed against your chest, face buried in sleep-warmed skin. His own chest feels light while flush to your stomach. He exhales carefully against you, taking in the buzz that coats his skin.
It gets too overwhelming, so much that he has to untangle himself. He rolls carefully onto his back, welcoming the coolness of the morning air as it rushes against the dampness of his—and maybe your—sweat. He tears off the blankets and bunches them against you as a replacement for his form. A sliver of light runs down the length of his body from the curtains, bending as his chest raises from a deep inhale. He lays like that, collecting himself as the minutes pass. Eventually the buzzing in his heart becomes steady and familiar, enough that he feels normal again.
Reading distracts him from watching you sleep, worried he’ll fall apart if he looks at you for too long. He props himself on his elbows while his eyes glide through the chapter he lived last night. They pause when Santi begins pulling stars from the surface of the pond. He reminds himself that he needs to thank Momo, again. Forever.
He glances at you every few paragraphs, normally at the bottom of each page. After a few pages he finds that you’re awake. He tenses, as if he was caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, until you grin sleepily, encouraging him to smile back.
You’re quiet in the morning, all whispers and low voices. Touchy too, the featherlight brush of fingertips and lips. You’re also more open, he thinks, a little easier to read when you’ve just woken in his bed. Or at least your face is: an honest display of curiosity that you won’t verbalize. Instead of asking for anything you say your thanks again.
There’s a pang in Hanta’s chest. He tries to explain himself and how the tents worked, what he wanted from them. You look uncertain, like you can’t stomach real answers—or at least ask the questions to find them—so he speaks vaguely. You don’t respond and he finds himself apologizing, for last night, and for any of the previous ones that may have gone awry. You hold his face and tell him it’s okay.
You let him read to you, starting over from the beginning of the page in front of him. Reading to you is different from reading to Shouto. There’s something deep and familiar here, not the excitement of showing a friend his precious treasure for the first time. You know these words and this story by heart, rooted in your soul and in your life, its essence carried through your actions. He wonders if your copy has the same empty promise of a sequel buried in the back.
It doesn’t.
There’s a particular sort of excitement that overtakes him at your surprised face—something about having the privilege to be the one to tell you new information about a shared love. He watches carefully as you read the description, wonders what you’re thinking when you lay on your back. He’s curious if you see yourself as Santi, too. He wants to know if he’s worth wanting to be together, forever.
Things don’t change the way Hanta hoped they would, after his confession and your realization of how intertwined your lives have been. You let him come with you, to spend the day by your side while you work, but there’s a distance wedge in the gap between you. He marvels at your studio and all your old costumes, some known to him but most unseen. Watching you piece together fabric, running hands under a whirring needle, is sort of thrilling. Your fingers move quickly, expertly, as they transform big sheets of fabric into a beautifully layered skirt.
But he feels a little like he’s in grade school again, wanting to ask too many questions that others won’t answer—questions that will make the room tense, because he wasn’t supposed to ask. He wants to know about your sister you make dresses for, if she’s the one in your contact with a matching last name, whose calls you fervently dismissed. He wants to ask about the woman next to you in the parade, the blue and gold macaw that you looked to whenever you seemed uncertain. He wants to probe about the empanadas in the freezer, why they’re a month old, who made them. He wants to know why you respond to him in English, why you cried leaving the memory tent, what you saw in that little green marble.
He wants to learn about you, he wants to know the answers to these questions. He wants more.
He wants to reach for you and hold you like he did last night. He wants to wrap his arms around your waist, press his head into your neck, kiss your forehead. He wants to hold your hand or brush his leg against yours beneath the table.
But there’s a delicate dance the two of you are doing, skirting the edges of the conversations and touches he wants most. It’s still fun and fulfilling to be with you like this, and he wonders if maybe he should take his time getting to know you too. Maybe this is how these relationships develop, at their own pace.
You tell him that you’ll meet at the station after dinner, but he’s nearly pacing with anticipation. He doesn’t want to ask Momo or Kendou where they’re eating, disrupting their time with you, so he tries Bakugou—likely the one who gave them the recommendation if they didn’t ask you.
His phone pings only moments later, twice. The first response says Fuck should I know? and the second is a link to a map pin.
Knowing Momo and Kendou, he waits outside the restaurant an hour after your reservation. The host appears after a few minutes, asking if he has a table for tonight.
Sero smiles with embarrassment, only understanding a few words. “I’m waiting for someone,” he tries in English. The host nods and goes back inside.
A quarter hour passes of him huddling by the door until Momo appears. He’s uncharacteristically nervous. Something about meeting you in the night, stripped of costumes to hide behind, frightens him. In an instant the two of you are alone and awkwardly trailing through responses to one another. You nod after his, “Yeah,” and he almost feels the urge to run away. But he stands persistently, even as your eyes trail him sharply, like you’re assessing him.
You laugh, and he’s reminded that everything will be okay.
He just has to be honest, and trust that you will be too.
The gelato gives him something to busy his hands so they don't yearn for yours. He picks the orange flavor, though its color is closer to red. It has a sour and floral taste—blood orange, he realizes after taking the first bite.
You eat yours much faster, and then rest your hands by your sides. He wants to scoot closer to you, so your arms might brush.
“I was trying to put off our serious conversation until tomorrow… But I get the sense that it’s making you nervous. So, sorry. For being selfish.”
He doesn’t know how to answer, spoon still in his mouth and sweet tang on his tongue. You tell him that you haven’t made a decision about joining the circus yet. You haven’t made a decision about him. You want it, you say, but it’s not the right time.
Your words are pangs in his chest, an ache from disappointment and raw hurt. Hanta would choose you in an instant; he’s been choosing you his whole life. For you to have any uncertainties or reservations… Does he not mean to you what you mean to him?
He’s forgotten, or maybe never acknowledged, that you didn’t know who he was until a week ago.
“The timing?” he encourages.
You mention your abuela, the need to return home before you can go anywhere else. An image of the blue and gold macaw flashes through his mind, dancing next to you in the parade. He sees the dress on your costume rack that looks like the ocean. He sees your phone screen from over your shoulder, with missed calls from someone with your last name. Another pang strikes through him, this time his stomach, and with guilt. You have your own life you’ve been living, a life outside of him, without him. He should have considered that—not assumed you would leave everything behind for him.
But it still hurts. And he still wants you.
Your eyes are teary, tugging at his heart. His hand moves before he can stop himself, for the smallest touch. His heart jumps at the contact. He thinks he understands this talk about timing when he realizes he can’t stay for you either. He’s bound to Hoshi no Sākasu for the next two years. You call him insane, but he wants you to listen, to understand everything you mean to him—that he would choose you over and over again, because that’s all he’s ever done. You are the reason he’s here now. You are enough of a reason to stay.
You look at him like you’re going to bolt. Fuck, he’s not guilting you, right? He just wants to be understood, even if it hurts him that your decision will take time, that you might stay after all. It’s okay if it doesn’t work out the way he imagined, with you and him and endless time to get to know one another. The thought makes his eyes and heart sting, leaving the pains of flame on his skin.
Is this his fault, always somehow getting what he wanted? Never learning how to accept when things don’t go his way, when it comes to this special unnamable feeling in his body?
“I’m sorry,” you say, and he feels defeated.
His chest hurts. It hurts so much, like a weight crushing through it. You shouldn’t be sorry for him and his disappointment. The fault is with him, for having expectations in the first place. It’s enough, in the end, if you two simply find space for each other in distant lives. You start blinking tearily and it’s like another stab to his chest.
Hugging you is a relief. He holds you tightly, body on edge as you cry into him. It makes him feel powerless, builds a sadness inside him that requires your closeness even after you finish crying. You don’t make him let go.
The conversation is painful, and there’s still a dull ache afterwards, but Hanta feels better after it happens. You let him come home with you, your hand wound in his as you guide him forwards this time. Your touch is chilly, like the night air. He rubs his thumb over the back of your hand, feeling as the skin slowly warms.
You let him into your bed. You let him hold you close. You let him ask questions he was scared to ask earlier in the day.
“Mi abuela,” you answer, when he asks what you saw in the little green marble, who made the empanadas from lunch.
He gets explanations that, while short, broaden his understanding.
“I ghosted my family, after she died.” It’s a whisper of a confession. “Her ashes are in my living room.”
His heart drops as he sits up, nearly snapping his neck at the force. The movement pulls him over the edge of the bed but he flails his arms and legs in time to barely catch himself. “Que!?” he yells, hands lowering from the air to grasp the roots of his hair. He tugs harshly, an attempt to focus on something other than his heart about to explode. “You—you what? Ay Dios mío, asaste a tu abuela.” Is that… legal? No wonder you need to go home first, what else were you planning to do—take her to Japan with you? Hanta squeezes his eyes shut while he inhales. His face is burning. This can’t be real.
When he takes a nervous glance your way you’re still laying in the bed, watching him with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. Too calm.
“Cremation is common in Costa Rica,” you tell him. He pulls his lips tight, grimacing while wanting to believe you. “We’ve done it for other relatives and were planning it for her. But, you know, back home. She died here after getting surgery, and… I couldn’t bring myself to face everyone.”
Hanta thinks of his own abuela, the giant flowers spread over her coffin when they lowered her. She has a cross over her grave where he and his relatives stuff bouquets before spreading dinner out on the grass.
“Do they know?”
You nod, a small shake of your head. “I called my sister when she passed, but haven’t talked to her since.”
“Do your parents?”
You don’t nod. “My sister told mamá, I’m sure. But I haven’t spoken to her myself.”
His heart races with fear—for you. Just imagining being in your position floods his veins with ice. He nearly shivers, body tense and curled.
He's afraid to ask, “How… How long has it been?”
“A few months.”
He blows out a breath, not sure if that’s better or worse than what he assumed. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. You’re still watching him with a complicated expression, but too calm for his liking. He thinks you look sad.
Your lips purse before asking, “Did I ruin your fantasy?”
He frowns. “Huh?” The noise brings a twitch of a smile to your face.
“I guess… I wonder what kind of person you thought you were chasing,” you muse. “I wonder how good I was in your head.”
Oh… Hanta hadn’t thought about that before: neither the kind of person he would ultimately find, nor how knowing he was looking for you would make you feel. He never imagined beyond what he saw, had no assumptions of the kind of person you were, because it didn't matter to him. All that mattered was how he felt. All that mattered was that he wanted to meet you.
He leans forward carefully to lay beside you again. His hand reaches for your face, thumb gently running under your eye.
“I didn't imagine,” he says softly. “I just remembered.”
You hum and lean into his touch. He’s soft; his heart clenches and buzzes, a tingle that runs from his shoulder down his arm and to his palm against your cheek. He presses kisses over your eyes and you grab his wrist to press your own over his hand.
Even with his earlier resolve and understanding, he still wishes it could be like this. Forever.
Leaving in the morning is a painful process. After a final kiss to your forehead he’s out in the cool air and aching to run back into bed with you, but he returns to the hotel to get his things and friends for the parade. The piazza is crowded early, filled with costumes and floats scattered everywhere. Hanta is surprised to find himself overwhelmed, heart racing like he’s a child overstimulated from the sounds and the sun.
Hoshi no Sākasu’s preparations run smoothly—minus Kaminari’s disappearance after Hatsume checks the mechanics of his puppet, along with Bakugou who was supposed to keep an eye on him.
“Where are the blond goons?” Shinsou asks after a headcount. His lips are pursed tight.
Kirishima bites his lip, checking his phone with the shake of his head.
“How do you lose a giant mechanical bird?” Shigaraki asks plainly.
“My baby is missing!?” Hatsume yelps, looking up from the mass of wiring in Tetsutetsu’s costume.
“Or lost,” Shinsou huffs. “It’s hard to get through the crowd. Ugh—this is why I needed everyone here. And to stay here.”
“That’s what Bakugou was for!” Kirishima whines.
Hanta’s eyes glaze between everyone speaking, not fully absorbing the conversation. He wonders where you are and when you’re supposed to arrive. He wishes he asked before he left this morning.
Luckily he soon hears the sigh of a relieved Kirishima.
“Oh thank god!”
Hanta turns to the sound, spotting the bright yellow bird above the sea of people. Bakugou appears a moment later with a twist of annoyance on his face.
“I got’im headin’ over,” he says gruffly. “That bird freak is with ‘im.”
Bird freak? Hanta’s eyes widen. You?
“You left them to get here on their own?” Hanta asks. There’s an edge of accusation he doesn’t mean. His face softens in surprise at his own tone.
Bakugou catches it, grunting. “No. ‘M gonna go back.”
Hanta swallows with a nod, eyes apologizing. Bakugou gives him a curt nod back before disappearing through the crowd again. The yellow bird lets him track your progress, a buoy on the sea. Kirishima is the first to greet Kaminari, immediately pointing him to check with Shinsou.
The blond grins cheekily, eyeing Hanta while saying, “Just had to pick up a delivery, is all!”
His breath catches.
His heart might explode at the sight of you wrapped in black and yellow, a matching beak in your hand. You don’t notice him until he calls your name, but you immediately smile, only indicated by the crescent slivers of your eyes uncovered by the fabric concealing your nose and mouth. He swallows at the sight.
A toucan, you confirm. Like the first time. All he can think is that it’s you, it’s you, it’s you. He knew this already, but now you’re here in front of him, for real. He’s no longer in the crowd, unknown to you except for that split second. This time he’ll be in the parade, with you. He wants to hold you at the waist and lift you above him to spin in circles.
“Please go make heart eyes somewhere else, I’m begging you.”
Hanta rolls his eyes at Denki’s whine, but abides his plea. He whisks to the edge of the piazza where the crowd thins. This time when his friends briefly stop you, momentarily stealing your attention, he’s unrushed—filled with ease. This time he is secure, sure of himself and the unique relationship you have together.
Standing next to you, hand in yours, he feels like everything will work out—even if it costs more time, and it’s not the future he expected.
The parade is perfect.
The weather is cold, but the costumes are warm enough, especially under the shining sun in the blue of the sky. Hanta is giddy and warm from the excitement, from getting to stand next to you as everyone floats down Milan in costume. He can’t tear his eyes from you for more than a couple minutes, always glancing your way in hopes that you’re looking at him too. After a couple blocks you start to wave frantically, blowing kisses from your beak overdramatically towards the crowd.
He turns and squints, eyes landing on a pair your age waving back dramatically. One is the match to your green macaw, only red. He thinks it’s your friend Chia, noticing how she blows kisses back by waving both her arms at you. The other is a woman in a costume of its own theme—a giant Renaissance dress with shimmering pink fabric and swirls of white. There’s lace and layered sleeves and a dramatic mass of curls done up on her head, matching pink to the fabric and glitter along her eyes. She catches your kiss and pulls it to her heart, pretending to swoon. Hanta hears you laugh, a melody ringing beside him.
“Chia’s in the red macaw,” you say to him loudly, fighting the sound of the music and the crowd. “My friend next to her is Davide—the one in Renaissance drag.”
Hanta offers them a wave. Chiara smirks at him while raising her hands to make a heart while the man responds with a thumbs down. You yell in response—a string of enunciated Italian that he doesn’t understand, but based on your tone and the few recognizable words, he can infer it’s a scolding.
Everything goes smoothly—minus Denki accidentally brushing a powerline with his puppet at the end, almost collapsing from the shock. Touya grabs his arm to help him stand, only to scowl when the electricity buzzes through him too. He immediately runs to Keigo, slapping him on the back between his costume wings and pulling a yelp from the blond.
You offer to help them tear down, hovering around the puppets and float to lend your hands. Hanta smiles as he watches, eventually stalking over. He gently holds you by the waist, turning you to look at him. A necessary kiss is placed against your forehead before he grins and insists they’ll take care of things. You try to protest.
“Employees only,” he says while shaking his head. “How else will we keep the magic a secret?”
He wishes he could see the entirety of your face. Your eyebrows are furrowed, as if angry, but are you pouting? He brings one hand to your cheek, brushing his thumb over your lips. They are pouting, but soften from his touch. He feels tender holding you this way, an overwhelming rush of warmth through his chest. He can’t stop himself from leaning to kiss you through the cloth. It’s soft, his lips barely brushing over yours. He leaves his forehead pressed to yours when he pulls away, eyes trained on you as they slowly open.
“I’ll come see you when we’re done,” he promises. He doesn’t even know if you’re available.
Your eyes crinkle while you nod. “I’ll be home.”
An elbow juts into his side before he responds. He frowns from being torn from you, turning to glare at Monoma smirking beside him.
“Please—if you’re going to be unhelpful, at least get out of the way.”
Hanta huffs and rolls his eyes, reaching for you to step further away from the others. Your goodbye is a soft promise to see him again.
Hanta knocks on your door. There’s no click of a lock before the knob turns, revealing you in long, loose clothing. The room is dimmed by the approaching evening, none of the lights illuminating the space. He steps inside slowly, shrugging off his shoes while he lets the warmth run over him. It smells good, familiar, and his eyes dart to a paper bag on the counter. It’s printed with the name of the empanada place you mentioned the day before.
The scenario feels like coming home.
He kisses you by the entrance, hand against your neck and body slotted into yours. It’s long and slow and sweet. He takes in the press of your chests, the warmth that flows between you two. Your arms reach for his sides, igniting tingles down his spine. His hands slithers around your waist to hold you closer, longer.
Your face buries into his neck when you part, his hand sliding to cradle your head. His eyes lift, taking in the room—your living room—and he remembers what you whispered to him last night.
Her ashes are in my living room.
“Can I meet your abuela?”
The words fall from his lips before he can think them through. His eyes widen when they register. It’s too soon, right? Of course it’s too soon. Your own family hasn’t seen her in this state.
It’s quiet. A tension sits in the air. But he doesn’t retract the question.
You break from his arms slowly, nodding when you’re a full step back. He feels his breath catch.
It takes a while. You move slowly to the table and take your time opening the drawer to reveal the box where she rests. It takes even longer for you to open it.
When you do, you tell him it’s the first time you’ve looked inside for yourself.
Hanta gets two blissful days of Carnival with you. Two days of you in costume, leading him down the streets of Milan to watch performers and buy rounds of chiacchiere and tortelli di Milano—sugar-dusted and puffy treats. You pull him to your favorite attractions, to the squares where your favorite performers usually gather. He catched live storytelling and other circus acts from the Clown Festival. Your friend Chiara joins one morning, not so subtly asking Hanta of Shigaraki’s whereabouts. At some point you meet with Denki and Shouto and Midoriya, all graciously enjoying your expertise on what food trucks to stop by. Momo and Kendou and Aoyama follow along your favorite streets of market stalls.
The festivals and costumes remind him of Ecuador while the climate feels more akin to Japan. It’s weird, like being both connected and out of place—both home and homesick. But he’s beside you: a personified piece of home that keeps the discomfort at ease.
And you look happy to be that for him. You pull his arm the way he pulled mamá through the streets of Fiestas de Quito. You pull his arm the way he pulled you along the Pacific, from black sand beaches to the back porch of tío’s house.
Hanta gets two blissful days with you, where everything feels as it should be. They’re so blissful, so perfect, he nearly forgets that there are only two. That he has to leave.
He invites you to dinner with the cast on the last day. It’s routine, a group goodbye to the city. He wants you there, to see you for as long as he can. It’s a reality he’s ignored until the last minute, stomach tight on this final day when he realizes he won’t be waking up next to you tomorrow morning.
“How fancy is the dress code?” you mumble sleepily in the morning.
“Does that matter to you?”
You hum. “Just wanna know the energy.”
Hanta smooths his palm over your forehead, brushing away baby hairs. “There’s no dress code.”
You laugh sharply. He grins.
“What?”
You shake your head. “Where’s the dinner?”
He rolls over to grab his phone, scrolling through his messages with Shinsou to find the name and read it to you.
“Mmm… so classic Milanese…”
You look concentrated, like you’re thinking hard. But you won’t budge when he asks, curious to know what’s running through your mind. You just giggle to yourself when he pulls you close and buries his head into your neck. He watches you stand in front of your closet with an intense expression, demeanor much more serious than he’s used to seeing from you. He wants to know what you’re thinking as you skim through garments and costumes. You try to kick him out so you can piece a final outfit in peace, but he pouts.
“I haven’t seen you get ready before,” he nearly whines.
You pause, considering his point. It takes more coaxing, but you fold and let him sit on the bed and watch while you rummage through the options. He doesn’t bother containing his grin, happily staring at the focus on your face—the manifestation of your churning mind as you silently set aside a variety of pieces. Hanta thinks it’s fascinating, the same intensity you have while working. It’s a different side of you, one he wishes he had more chances to get to know.
The thought tightens his stomach. His grin falters.
He convinces you to let him stay while you assemble your outfit. You raise your eyebrows skeptically when he insists he doesn’t need to go back to his hotel, that he can wear his clothes from yesterday. You mutter something about letting him borrow something of yours. He just grins.
He leaves your home and enters the metro with a hand in yours. You’re dressed in several layers, a transparent dress over a suit and covered with a coat and scarf and hat and gloves and—
and Hanta walks happily beside you in his simple linens, swinging your hands while you step into the station. Nobody looks your way, heads down and absorbed in their own worlds.
When you two arrive, Aoyama is the first to greet you. “You look fabulous.”
“Thanks,” Hanta immediately responds with a grin.
You huff a laugh while he tugs you inside, immediately pull off your hat and loosen your scarf. He guides through the crowded room, neck craning to assess the tables. Only half or so people are present, but he sees Kendou sitting with Ibara and steers you over.
Dinner with his team is energized as always, loud chatting flitting through the room and crossing tables. People switch seats on impulse, and once dessert makes its way around, clusters of standing conversations form. Hanta freely grabs your hand at random, right on top of the tablecloth. You blink at him questioningly the first time, blooming a warmth and an ache in his chest that makes him squeeze it tighter. He stays by your side when others come to talk to him, and he follows you when you point towards Momo.
Bakugou is standing nearby, swirling his drink. His eyes are narrow when he looks over your clothes as you speak animatedly with the singer.
“They know their brands,” he mumbles to Hanta, trailing the length of your dress.
Hanta lips twitch at the comment, responding to the strike of pride that goes through his heart. It happens again when Shouto strides over, talking easily with the two of you. Momo squeezes your hand with a promise to talk again before stepping aside to greet someone else.
You look comfortable, like you belong here. And the cast has already adopted you, ready to take you in—whenever you’re ready too.
His grin falters, again.
Watching you say goodbye is sweet. It’s all tender touches and sorry eyes between you and Momo and Kendou, whispers of wishes and maybe’s and apologies that you won’t accept from one another. You say a special thanks to Midoriya, for discovering you—this one a conversation of red cheeks and mumbling. You have awkward, incomplete farewells with Shouto and Uraraka and Kaminari. Bakugou hardly spares you a glance. Touya gives you a sneer that makes Hanta roll his eyes and Shigaraki couldn’t be less subtle in trying to ignore you.
Saying goodbye is painful.
It happens outside, away from the entrance in a quiet side street. He has to go with the others. Hoshi no Sākasu leaves tonight. Hanta gathers you knew this early on when Momo relayed the schedule. The look in your eyes—intense and faraway—tells him enough.
Tonight is the coldest he’s experienced in Milan, a nipping chill that flushes your cheeks while you’re buried back in your scarf and hat. His heart stings at the sight, an ache that bites like ice against skin. He wants more time with you, more running through streets with hands full of desserts. He wishes things were different and you knew what you wanted, too. Will it end here? When will you know what you’ve chosen?
Maybe these questions are splayed on his face, one that can’t hide his feelings. You’re the first to break the silence, with a quiet, “I’m sorry.”
His heart tightens at that, already feeling the sting behind his eyes and nose—tears, pooling along his waterline. He breathes slowly, trying to calm himself while he shakes his head. It’s not your fault, he’s trying to say.
“Kendou’s giving me until June to decide.”
He exhales. June? June as in over three months from now? The deadline is a comfort, to know that things will be decided eventually. But he grimaces at the thought of waiting in that grey space for months. Usually he knows these things for himself. Easily, instantaneously. He’s not used to waiting for others.
“Okay,” he breathes.
“Okay.”
His hand reaches for yours, fingers sliding down the fabric of your glove. He wishes they were uncovered, so he could touch your skin instead. The other hand comes to your cheek, taking in the coolness of your face. You lean into it, eyes fluttering closed. Hanta wants to cry.
There are too many things he wants to say, wants to acknowledge. But how can he speak on everything that’s happened in the past couple weeks? The days were earth shattering. His time with you was everything. Should he talk about the costume? The show and the tents? Everything you shared with him, about home and your family?
“Thank you,” is all he manages to say in the end. “For letting me reach you.”
You swallow, lips pursing as your own eyes water. “Thank you,” you whisper back. “For reaching for me.”
Your lips are salty, covered in both of your tears as he kisses you in the quiet darkness of the alleyway. They’re cold against his, mumbling soft words of sweetness and gratitude and farewell. He chokes at the sounds, poetry spilling into the space between your bodies. Will it expand with the distance—making your separation more and more beautiful as you drift apart?
He can hear the faint sounds of his friends as they exit the restaurant and turn down another street, ignoring when he hears the murmur of Has anyone seen Hanta? He just wants one more minute with you—one more kiss and one more touch and one more promise.
Before he has to go with the others. Before he has to escape into the night to be carried over the mountains and across the border.
Before he’s gone, waking up in Switzerland in a bed without you.
oh my god pasting fics into this website it such a chore
You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.
[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]
part 4: made of the same dust.
sero hanta x reader
ch 4/6 | 13k words | masterlist | ao3
cw: the smut. it's mild and i kept it gn (no body descriptions for reader)
notes: senorita by camila cabello and shawn mendes, nobody by hozier, ceilings by lizzie mcalpine
the time you finally reach back.
✰.
"The fact that we can sit right here and say goodbye / Means we've already won
A necessity for apologies between you and me / Baby, there is none"
- Walking in the Wind, One Direction
The world slows while you stand and stare ahead, eyes boring into Hanta’s across the crowd. Your heart pounds in your chest, skin ablaze as your mind races. It’s fuzzy, too much passing through and slamming together as you try to understand the past few nights, entire days, years that have gone by. Your chest squeezes at the thought of Hanta watching you curiously, uncertainly as you wandered through his gifts, not yet understanding the magnitude of what he was trying to say.
And here he stands—still as a stone, unsure after baring his heart and his memory before you. A memory you forgot.
You run forwards.
“Hanta!” you shout as you weave through the crowd. His eyes widen, head jolting from shock before he breaks free and runs to meet you without hesitation.
You reach for him, hands grasping tightly at the front of his shirt. Your own panting sounds through your ears, pairing with a sting across your nose and eyes as your body threatens to sob.
“Hanta, was it really you this whole time?”
He’s nervous, eyes glazed with a mixture of fear and hope. His hands lift but they don’t make contact with your arms. When he speaks his voice is breathy. “Yeah, it was me. I mean, Momo helped—but they were my ideas. I wanted… I wanted to show you how I feel towards you.” There’s a pause as he surveys your face. “… Do you like them?”
Momo? Your head rushes at the thought that she was an orchestrator—Momo, who you haven’t had the chance to say a proper thank you to, to share with her all that this means to you. Momo was helping Hanta build tents and stories and magic? That alone could make you cry.
But you’re stunned further when you register Hanta’s question. Like them? That tent was full of your home, your memories, moments you didn’t even know were lost until now. And at the same time they were his confessions, love letters that have been looking for you, for years. Since Quito.
“Hanta… they’re everything I’ve been missing.”
… He’s everything you’ve been missing.
His hand is searing against your waist, fire burning through fabric to ignite the skin beneath your gown—a shock against the winter air. The touch is gentle, still cautious despite your affirmation, but you see relief wash over him, face softening into a hopeful stare. He swallows.
His arm curves to hold you firmly, forcing your body into his, the heat of him that seeps through his costume. You accept it greedily, pressing your face into his shoulder. Your cheeks burn, you can’t tell from your own blood rushing through you, or the radiance of his heat. As he guides you through the crowd—your feet stumbling along his—you try to calm yourself, only now feeling your erratic heart beats, the lump in your throat and stomach you can’t explain. But despite all this, you feel safe in his arms.
You don’t know where he’s taking you, and you don’t care. Words tumble from your lips before you can choose them carefully, just wanting to tell him anything. Everything.
“You were there? In Quito when I was in the parade?” Your voice is quiet, likely too soft to hear. But he releases a choked yeah that makes your body tighten.
You laugh breathily. “I remembered hating it. I was so scared to perform. But abuela thought it would be good for me. I… I didn’t remember having so much fun. Only falling at the end and hurting myself. I was never a performer, even if I love to dance. I—”
The air is quieter around you when Hanta comes to a stop, letting you break away partially to look at his face.
“Gracias, Hanta. Para mostrarme.”
Thank you, Hanta. For showing me.
His face is unreadable, a mysterious shroud of darkness. You take in what your peripheral offers, tall looming shadows of palm trees. The silhouette of a banana leaf breezes behind him. They’re out of place in the temperate weather of Milan. You’re sandwiched between the festival and the street, in the strip of tropical plants outside the duomo. Isn’t there a fence to separate the vegetation from pedestrians? How did he bring you here?
You want to know everything about him—all this impossible magic, what he’s thinking, what he knows about you. Your heart reaches for him, yearns while watching with bated breath.
It quickens impossibly when his hand moves to your face. His touch is soft and ignites a buzz beneath your skin. His thumb presses your cheek, stroking under your eye. His tongue swipes through his lips, biting down on the lower one with a frown in thought. You watch him. Still waiting.
His face stretches into a grin, this one in disbelief, almost contorted with pain. “I never thought I’d… I just—” the words don’t amount to anything, only the beginnings of thoughts coming from his lips. You laugh gently in agreement.
“Eres tú,” he finally manages. It’s you. His Spanish is firm and deliberate. “Seeing you that day is the reason I’m here now. You were… you were beautiful. And you saw me.”
You don’t know what he’s saying, too far gone to read into his words. They hardly enter your brain. But you capture their essence, your body reacting on instinct to the sounds. Each word is a strike to your heart, a squeeze to your lungs, a burn across your face. You inspired him somehow—you with your clumsy enthusiasm that only lasted a moment. He saw it and wanted it too.
“Were you looking for me?” you ask. It’s not what you mean to say.
He shakes his head slowly. “I… I don’t know. I was just chasing that feeling you gave me, from the moment I felt it. And it led me here.”
He’s too beautiful, you think. Him and his earnest words and his devoted heart. You stare openly, at his face partly illuminated in the dim glow of the moon. His eyes are honest and wide, watching every detail of you carefully. But they’re also dark—mysterious, deep depths that hold impossibly more. Like his hair, soft against his forehead and cheeks, a blanket of uncertainty that you want to wrap yourself in.
But he’s also ridiculous, standing there in his jester’s costume, the amalgamation of Japanese and French and Persian attire. His hat is also dark, artificially so, a fuzzy felt that rains over his head. You can’t hold back your smile at the sight, this multitude of a man.
“You’re so beautiful,” is all you can say.
And suddenly he’s closer, pulling you in, pressing against you like you’ll meld together. His face is close, so close, searing forehead against yours as he stares into you with those large, hopeful eyes.
You don’t reject his advances, letting him take you and guide your head towards him with the hand against your cheek—to steal your lips for his own.
If touching Hanta is the heat of fire, the burning pain of flames against your skin, then kissing him is the heat of molten rock and stone, hot lava that pools in your body. You grab him greedily, clutching the hem of his robe with the intensity of claws. It eggs him on, hand firm as it slides to the back of your neck, releasing a wave of tingles down your spine. His other arm stretches further around you, to pull you impossibly closer. You’re dizzy, dissolving from his intimacy like steam from a boil. It hurts, but you crave more.
He tastes sweet, the tang of an orange along the freshness of mint. At the first sample, a swipe against his lip with your tongue, you immediately crave more. He lets you in, gives you full reign to him. You take it easily, take and take and take as you run your hands up his neck and confine him. A groan releases from his throat, a rough sound that starts from the depths of his chest, vibrating against your own. You think you might die from the intensity, how his song raises your temperature even further.
When you finally have space to breathe, pulling apart only to press a rapid succession of kisses against him, you breathe his name like air. First it’s the exhale of a shaky, “Hanta,” and then it’s a cry, the choked mantra of, “Hanta, Hanta, Hanta—”He whines in response, a high pitched and raw honesty. You can’t take it, can’t bear the thought of being apart from him. When you think about how long you’ve lived in his absence, one you weren’t even aware of until tonight, it tears at your chest, the sting of an open wound.
His hotel isn’t far from the duomo, but the journey there is endless. He pulls you forward by the hand, and the sight of him, his wide back and his arm outstretched towards you, fuels a giddiness in your chest.
The room is small, only large enough for one, and the hall is tight when he pulls you in, immediately pressing you into the wall of the cramped corridor. You inhale sharply at the impact, then nearly choke as he leans into you, the curve of his front slotting snugly into yours. He’s all over you once again, this time in the private darkness of his space. The air is heavy against you, a sticky dampness of need. You welcome him easily, lips parting to taste him again—orange and mint and heat.
His kisses are deep but hurried. He moves quickly, an eager pace you encourage. You urge him to continue, equally firm as you run your tongue over his teeth, catching his with your own.
Your heart jumps when he pulls back enough to run his lips under your eye, migrating to your temple and against your ear, lighting your body aflame. You gasp as the feeling, how it claws into your chest and sides when he moves to kiss your jaw, your neck. Then you’re whining, high pitched and breathy. He chuckles against you—a raspy, throaty sound that blooms an ache in your stomach.
“Lo siento,” he whispers against your throat after biting it softly. I’m sorry. “Ideally I’d take my time with you.”
You groan at the admission, hands sliding up his neck to bury in his hair. The grunt he releases is an animal sound. Suddenly he’s clutching at your thighs, grinding his hips into yours to make you feel the hard, searing heat of him.
He tears you from the wall. You wrap your arms over his shoulders, holding him tightly as he stumbles further into the room. Your hand reaches for his stupid jester hat, tugging one of the felted points, jingling as it slides off his head and onto the floor. You giggle at the silliness of it all, your two costumes pressed together.
Then you’re falling backwards, flopping against the surface of his bed. Hanta leans with you, pinning you against the plushness of the duvet. He hums into your lips, an intrigued sound at your laughter, before he ruts his hips into you again, pulling a gasp from your lips. The heat between your legs is blooming, consuming. You bury your face in his hair, dark dark threads swept beneath your chin and cheek as his lips suck at your neck. His fingers dance against your sides, sliding under your back to find the string that holds your dress together.
With one tug it loosens over your shoulders, bunching softly when one of his hands comes to your collarbone, fingertip hooking into the seam before tracing gently down your chest. You fold easily, shaking the cinches from your wrists to let the sleeves slide down with the bust. You’re left bare, chest and stomach and heart, for him to see in their entirety.
He pushes up from the bed to look at you, eyes tracing the dip of your collarbone, the firmness of your sternum, the softness of your belly. A hand smooths into the curve of your waist, touching gently with delicate fingers. You reach for the lapel of his top, the robe-like fabric tied at the side. He lets you pull the string, and then shrugs the garment off, easily brushing it to the side.
You know he’s fit; he’s an acrobat for a living. But you eye him greedily, taking in his sculpted figure, all lean muscle and angles and edges. Your fingers reach for the side of his pec, tracing down hot skin to the hard flesh of his obliques, the ripple of his abdomen. Another searing, hot wave rushes through you as you drink him in—the pour of boiling black liquid. Molten rock.
He leans back down to kiss the skin of your chest, the flesh coating your heart. His chest is impossibly hot against your stomach, his torso burning as it settles between your legs. Your hips stutter on their own, bucking into his belly in attempt to relieve that ache. He groans again, a deep sound that thrums through your own body. You notice the flush of your face, a burning heat from within—not just the external warmth you’ve been stealing from him.
His thumb presses against your hip, fingers wrapping around to dig into the plush of your ass. He’s encouraging you, pulling you into him to roll again and again, to use him for your relief. You follow his lead, let your hips rock into him even after his hand stops guiding you. There’s a twitch against your sternum, his lips stretching into a grin that he smothers into your skin. You don’t have the gall to care, too wrapped up in his touch and your pleasure that builds embarrassingly quickly.
He lifts his head, drags it against the plush of your chest and to your nipple. You inhale sharply when his tongue flicks across the bud before he kisses it, a peck before harsh sucking. Pins run down your spine and directly to your heat, burning your body in every place and at every moment. Your hand threads through that deep, dark hair—soft, long locks against his scalp. His free hand pinches your other nipple, giving you no reprieve as he presses his stomach harder against you and flexes. You tremble from the overload of sensation, its ruthless compounding.
Your body tightens, shakes with the tension of a coiled spring. In the next moment it releases, you cresting the peak of your high as relief washes over you, hot white light flooding your vision and body. You don’t hear yourself whine and groan through your ecstasy, focus only on holding Hanta close to you.
You can hear your panting when you finally come to. Your eyes peel open after some effort, sticky from the force you used to scrunch them closed, to see Hanta above you. He’s smiling gently, a sweet and careful tug at his cheek. You blink rapidly in attempt to sharpen your vision, but he remains fuzzy in the dim light. You can only smile back, watching him lean down to kiss you again—this time slower, unhurried.
You jolt in your skin as his free hand reaches for your waist, sliding up and down. Your heart buzzes when it trails lower, touching the top of your thigh, over the edge towards the inside, before gliding to your center. You can feel your heart pound in your ears, thrumming in anticipation. The tips of his fingers ghost over your heat, igniting fire through your legs at the simultaneous lightness and overstimulation.
And then he stops.
The shift is jarring. He pulls away from your lips, hand jerking back. In a flash it’s like his touch was never there, only the ghost of a feeling in your memory. But he’s still hovering above you, now with a look of uncertainty. You frown—at the loss, but mostly from concern.
“Hanta?” you press.
He blinks, eyes darting from you and to the side, inspiring nervous fluttering in your stomach. He bites his lip in thought, nearly chewing at himself. You think you can see the gears turning in his mind.
“¿Estás bien?” Are you okay?
His head shakes, like he’s coming back to himself. He looks at you again, wide earnest eyes that hold every secret you’ve ever needed. You feel relief in your stomach, that moment of unease slipping away. You trust him.
His voice is throaty when he answers, and he stumbles a couple of times before he manages to say, “I—I really don’t want to rush this. To rush you… us. I’m sorry.” A glossiness pools in his eyes. He looks mournful. The sight hurts your heart.
“Estás bien,” you say this time. You reach one of your hands to his face, carefully brushing his cheek. You want your words to get through to him. “Hanta, it’s okay.”
He exhales shakily, leaning to press his head against your shoulder. Your hand migrates to the back of his head, petting his hair gently. He blinks rapidly against you, the butterfly wings of his eyelashes kissing your skin. They’re followed by the light touch of tears, a slight drizzle of rain while he collects himself.
You cradle him carefully, coaxing him to relax on top of you. His weight pins you down, like the security of a blanket. He’s still warm, hot coals against you—coals that breathe, expand and shrink over and over and over again. Your free hand travels down his back, softly tracing his spine, the ridges of mountains, groaning earth beneath taut skin.
In this quiet reprieve, the space between action, your mind wanders to his words. I don’t want to rush this. But it’s up to you, isn’t it? Whether there can be a this at all—whether you can have any time together in the future. Whether you can find the courage to leave and chase that feeling that brought Hanta to you. But the ashes of abuela sit under your coffee table, waiting to be brought home; your sister sits in her room halfway across the world, waiting for you to call her back. Your heart is heavy, sinking down your body as you bear its burden and the weight of the man above you.
“Lo siento,” he whispers the apology against your heart.
You smile sadly to yourself, swallowing a lump as you reply, “Yo también.”
Me too.
You don’t wake first, but you still wake early, eyes twitching when the morning sun brushes your face. You feel the plushness of the blanket, body snug under its warmth. The sheet is stiffer than yours, and the scent of the room has a tang yours lacks. Your eyes shoot open.
Sero is not what you expect to see upon waking, the first figure to cross your vision. But he lays beside you, propped on his stomach with his arms thrown over a pillow, outstretched to cradle a book. His shirt is still discarded from the night before, tan and toned skin stark against the white of the bed. He doesn’t notice that you’ve woken, eyes tracing along the paper, a fond smile tugging at his lips. Even buried in your peripheral, the book is recognizable.
You get a few minutes of this peaceful quiet, watching the light from the window illuminate him from behind. He's glowing, radiant.
When his finger drags against the top of the paper, his eyes dart towards you, widening in surprise when he sees that you’re awake. You wonder if he looked your way at every turn of the page, waiting.
You smile. He grins in response and tucks a tag in the spine, letting the book close as he shifts towards you.
“Buenos días,” he greets softly. The rasp makes your heart pound.
Your voice is almost a whisper when you return the phrase.
“Sleep well?”
You respond with an mhmm, adjusting as you roll entirely to your side to face him. The blanket falls slightly down your chest, but you leave it. Hanta’s eyes don’t leave yours.
Your hand slides towards him, finger brushing against his forearm. His opposite hand lands atop yours, thumb gliding gently over your knuckles. You wonder what this is, what you’re doing here with soft gazes and twitches of smiles. The pace of your heart picks up, an awkwardness seeping through your skin. Then you frown with realization.
“Was it okay for you to leave last night?” you ask.
Sero blinks at the question. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I wasn’t actually working.”
Your face morphs to one of confusion. “But you dressed up and hung around the festival anyways?”
His mouth twitches, the press of a line as he tries to hold a straight face. “Yeah?”
You don’t press, supposing it made sense if he was planning to join you in the tent. The reminder brings another wave of thumping against your chest. Your cheeks flare at the memory, and suddenly you feel embarrassed too. Grateful and in awe, but embarrassed.
“Thank you,” you say. It doesn’t feel like enough, to simply thank him. “For last night, and the previous nights. What you showed me was incredible, and I have no idea how you and Momo managed it.” You have the urge to ask all those questions in you, how he pulled those memories, why your time with abuela is nothing but a bright green marble, how that tiny tent could expand the space inside to be so endless.
You don’t ask.
“Of course,” he answers, shuffling closer. He reaches for you, gentle fingertips against your cheek. “I… Like I said, I wanted to show you everything, how I feel towards you. I don’t… know entirely what happened, or what you saw in the earlier ones—it’s left to the illusion. But I hope they were all good to you, ultimately.”
You have to take his words in slowly, processing them individually and as a whole. They’re cryptic, vague. But you think you understand.
“And I’m sorry again,” he adds. “For last night. I meant what I said, but I don’t regret anything.”
When he told you he didn’t want to rush, he means. You remember his words, couldn’t forget them if you tried with your entire body and soul. They’re burned into your mind, scorched etchings on wood. This is an opening, you recognize, to be honest. An opening to share your confusions, to ask what he means and if he’s expecting you to leave for him. An opening to share your concerns, every bite of hesitation that claws at you, chains your feet to the streets of Milan. They’re on the tip of your tongue, heavy between your teeth.
“It’s okay,” you say instead. Your hand comes to cradle his, cup it gently. “I appreciated it.”
You still have a few days, your brain bargains. Tomorrow, you promise yourself. Let’s enjoy today, and be honest tomorrow.
But it’s hard to hold back when you look into those sweet, earnest eyes. You shift your gaze, needing reprieve, and landing on the book. Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda. Your mind flits to the tent last night, that incredible scene of the meadow under the night, a clear sky reflected in the black glass of the pond—poked with a thousand holes, the freckles of light seeping through for you to grasp and stretch and weave.
“What chapter were you reading?” you ask.
Sero pulls away from you to turn towards the book. You watch his shoulder dip as his torso twists, stretching the thin gap of his waist. You want to grab the skin, maybe sink your teeth into him. It’s bad for your health to be so close to him this early in the morning.
“Last night’s scene,” he says as he manages to grab the corner of the novel and turn back towards you.
You hum unsurprised. Lithe fingers dip to his bookmark, the spine bending easily to lay flat. It’s a well-loved copy, the glue holding the pages together starting to separate. You see the words littered with underlines and notes, a mix of Japanese and Spanish, blue and black pen, neat and messy handwriting. He’s annotated again and again, throughout the years.
You scootch close to him, wiggling to see the words more clearly. Your chest meets the point of his elbow, your hand returning to its place on his forearm. He leans into the touch for a moment, head dipping to press your shoulder. Then he rightens, and reads a few paragraphs.
You haven’t heard the prose spoken by anyone but yourself for years. You last remember your mother reading it aloud to you in middle school, but it was the last time. At some point you were expected to grow out of it, to read something else. You did, for a while. But your heart always found its way back.
Hanta pauses after describing Santi’s experience crossing through the pond.
“Y’know, there was supposed to be a sequel.”
Your eyes widen in surprise. You stiffen. “What?”
His thumb moves to the edge, pressing down as pages flip by, the rapid flutter of wings. He pauses, then shuffles his other hand to turn back a couple times. His copy has an author Q&A in the back. You didn’t know this existed. He points to one of the paragraphs under a bolded question.
“Ataré Mi Corazón al Tuyo,” he breathes. I’ll Tie My Heart to Yours.
Si estiramos estrellas como seda, ataré mi corazón al tuyo.
If we stretch stars like silk, I’ll tie my heart to yours.
The title of the first book is set up to have a sequel, only the beginning of the sentence. Your eyes scan where Sero’s finger points, reading the author’s explanation for how the two books would fit together. It’s vague, ideating a continuation of Santi and Marco’s friendship, how they navigate as they age—but ultimately how they find a way to be together, forever. You inhale sharply.
“Did you read it?” you ask quickly.
Sero shakes his head. “Was never published.”
You pout to yourself, the knowledge like a bucket of ice water. To learn that their story kept going, that there was more you could have known, only for it to never make it to the shelves, your shelf—how devastating. It carves a hollowness in your chest, a sort of obligation to do the heavy lifting and imagine for yourself how things could have worked. A part of you wants to examine the parallels to your current situation.
“Shit,” you mumble, leaning back to flop against the mattress. The ceiling has crown moulding, little swirls and divots painted white and pressed into the corner. “I’m sure it would’ve been incredible.”
Hanta’s response is delayed. You can feel his eyes on you, contemplative.
“Yeah,” is all he says.
You lounge in bed, soft voices wafting through the small hotel room. Eventually you grab your phone—to check the time—and wince at the stack of missed calls on your lock screen. A few are from Chiara, with concerned messages demanding your whereabouts. But worse are the ten from your sister, eight of which were made early in the night, the remaining two attempted after midnight. There’s also a message from Kendou, asking if you’re free for dinner tonight. You swipe your sister’s assault away, reply to Chiara, and type a quick yes to Kendou, then glance at the time. You should leave, to be home for a client picking up a last minute costume for Carnival. Presumably Sero has his own circus business to attend to.
You turn to him, watching his face twist in embarrassment after being caught looking over your shoulder.
“Sorry,” he nearly whispers. “Wanted to see the time.”
You roll your eyes, uncaring. You tell him as much, adding regretfully that you need to leave soon, to check over and prepare the costume.
To your surprise, he asks, “Can I join you?”
You look at him skeptically. “You don’t have to help with anything? Like taking down the tents, or… whatever for the parade tomorrow?”
He shakes his head, grinning. “Top’s already disassembled, I guarantee. And Denki and Tetsu are the only ones who need to rehearse.” He looks at you deeply, a little too deeply. “Please?”
You weren’t planning to deny him, but the plea shakes whatever footing you thought you had. “Yeah, of course. Just… don’t complain if you get bored.”
He grins.
Your only clothes are the puddles of your dress and blazer on the floor. You pout at the idea of sliding back into them for the ride home, but huff and sit up to reach over the bed. Sero watches confused, then in realization, as you pull your gown by the skirt, slowly bunching it atop the duvet.
“Wait, no—hang on.” He throws the covers aside and slides off the bed, immediately moving towards the closet in the hall. You watch greedily at his nearly bare form, every lean muscle and sculpted curve.
His front disappears into the closet door, still offering the view of his curved back. Small clangs ring as he rummages through the hangers, eventually turning back with fabrics in his hand. One is long and a pale yellow, a shirt with bright patterning around the collar and wrists. The other is a pair of pants, brown and baggy. You think they’re natural fibers, soft and easily wrinkled.
“It’s cold,” he says. The garments look a little too thin to be effective, but you nod.
You thank him, taking the shirt first and slipping it over yourself. The rush of his smell is dizzying, overwhelming. Then you slip on the pants, their touch gentle over your thighs. Both are big on you, swallowing you. Hanta’s eyes linger over your neck, before he darts them away and brings a hand to the back of his own nervously.
You bite down your smile.
“There’s no way they cleared the site already.”
Hanta grins beside you as you walk briskly down the sidewalk together. You’re nearly a block from the duomo, where you insisted you pass before getting on the metro.
“Mhmm,” he hums smugly.
As you crest the final strip of tile, pacing along gothic columns and carvings, your jaw almost drops at the lack of the canvas in the sky. The piazza is completely cleared, just a scattering of people lingering on its surface. A trio of girls pose in front of the duomo as an Italian man crouches to take a photo. You see someone in a suit jog across the square.
The remnants of Hoshi no Sākasu have vanished, completely evaporated into the night prior. There are no circus tents or rows of stalls. Nothing.
You glance at Sero, his chin tilted upwards. You want to pout, thinking his smile is one of smugness, but he looks more like he’s enjoying the cool air against his face. He looks pretty, peaceful. One of his eyes opens, pointed towards you, and then that smirk creeps in, stretching across his cheeks. You pout dramatically and walk towards the metro station without warning. You hear him laugh before the thump of his footsteps catch up.
You let him into your studio while you shower, returning with his clothes neatly folded and some tea. He’s rummaging through your costume racks when you walk in. You pause when you see the ones that caught his attention.
“Oh, I hope you don’t mind,” he says, embarrassed.
You smile awkwardly. “No, no. It’s fine, I wouldn’t have suggested you wait here if I wasn’t okay with it.” You do, however, feel cornered. His hand hovers on an ocean-themed dress you finished a few months ago. The top is a saturated teal, fading into a layered skirt, each piece of fabric white at the ends, layered with lace and some frills at the edges—sea foam. It’s a beautiful gown, with shells and beads and pearls meticulously sewn into the bust.
“This one is surprising,” he says.
You nod, putting the mugs on your work table. “It’s for my sister,” you say, leaving out the detail that she doesn’t know it exists. How do you explain that you’ve been avoiding your family for months, ignoring every call your sister attempts to make, but sitting at home making dresses fitted to her exact measurements?
He hums, not pressing further. You wonder if he saw the missed calls when you swiped them away, if he could tell they were from her. You share the same last name, after all.
Instead he points to your mannequin, the voluminous layers of red satin and a creamy ambrosian mask—with matching scarlet lips and golden swirls around the eyes. The connecting top explodes with spirals of fabric to mimic roses. “Is that the one getting picked up today?”
You hum in affirmation. “I made it for Carnival a couple years back. It sold shortly after I put it on sale, just had to do some tailoring, and fix a couple of the roses.”
Sero’s face lifts, curious. “What are you wearing this year?”
Your lips twitch. “I’m sure you can take a guess.”
“Can I see?”
“You can’t wait til tomorrow?”
He pouts. “I might not see you, since we’re in the parade.”
Your grin stretches further. “No one told you I was invited to join?”
“Oh,” is all he says, mouth hanging ajar. He’s cute, standing awkwardly by your costume rack. You laugh at the surprise on his face.
You point to the mugs while you walk towards your mannequin. “One is for you, if you want it. And feel free to sit. The costume won’t be picked up for a couple hours, but I’m gonna get working.” It’s Tuesday after all.
Sero hums affirmingly. “Yeah, please do what you need. Can I keep looking at these?”
You nod, hoping he doesn’t mention the other dresses for your sister.
He doesn’t.
He does make comments on the others, asking what they’re for and what inspired you. He soaks your answers greedily, noticing details and connections that you don’t explicitly state. He’s observant, and nosy. Eventually he sifts through the entire rack and settles in the chair across from you, watching quietly as you sew; the only sound between you two is the thrum of your needle passing along the fabric.
His eyes feel distant as you fall into your craft. But they’re focused, settling on your fingers as they fold and glide and cut.
In this silence, you have the urge to ask him questions, so many questions. About Ecuador, about Quito. You want to talk about your homes and how you’re connected. You want to trade stories of living near sand and ocean and sun. You want to learn about little Hanta, running through the house to greet his abuelita. You want to hear about extended family members and their messy drama. You want to paint a picture together: of bamboo and rain clouds and scorpions; birds and tropical fruit and volcanoes.
You want to hold long conversations in Español—your native tongues with their small regional differences.
A tension builds within you, only noticeable after it’s grown considerably. You don’t understand, don’t know what’s changed. You try to let your mind wander back into that focused headspace: a thoughtless void where things get done. Instead words sit in your throat, reaching for him. Your hands move quickly, a little roughly, foot pressing firmer against the pedal beneath the table as you work with agitation.
The needle breaks.
You curse, lifting your foot and immediately tearing your hands from the garment. Grumbling at your carelessness, you stand to rummage through your tools for the pliers. Before you grab a replacement needle, you check the time. There’s still half an hour before your client arrives. Maybe you should just take a break.
You look at Sero, sitting quietly and observantly. You feel bad.
“Sorry,” you tell him. “But I warned you it would be boring.”
He smiles. “Not boring at all. I like seeing you work.”
You ignore the heat that rushes through your body. “I think I need a break. Are you hungry?” You aren’t hungry, but you feel like making something.
His eyes light up. “What do you have?”
When you rummage through your fridge, you suddenly feel self conscious of your limited ingredients and random leftovers. So you open the freezer and poke around, pausing when you pull out an old plastic bag you forgot about.
“Empanadas!” Hanta chimes over your shoulder.
You grimace, first because you know these are abuela’s, handmade and saved for later. A flavor you haven’t tasted since her hands lost their strength. Your face tightens further when you realize they must have been sitting for over half a year.
“Hanta… these are old. And I don’t have any salsa.”
He shrugs, a smile twitching against his cheeks. “But they’re frozen.”
You nod slowly, face twisted in uncertainty. He plucks the bag from you and you protest, awkwardly standing from your crouch.
“I’m probably not gonna get to eat good homemade latino food for a while,” he says pouting.
You look at him skeptically. “Good latino food is six month old empanadas? Hanta, I know a spot where we can get some. Fresh ones. Also homemade.”
He shakes his head. “We’ll go there later.”
You blink as he twists the dial on your oven and rummages through the cupboards. He works your kitchen effortlessly, quickly finding a tray to start lining up the empanadas. You pout. Cooking was meant to give yourself something to do, but he took over so easily.
You settle on brewing another round of tea.
Your phone pings before the food is ready. It’s your client only minutes away, so you leave Hanta in the kitchen as you return to the studio. The exchange is brief, and you feel a lightness at losing a costume that doesn’t suit you—instead passing it to someone who will love it properly. You let the chilly air run over you for a few minutes, watching her slip away down the street, before closing the shutter and returning to the kitchen.
Hanta has the food plated when you reenter, but has yet to take a bite.
“You didn’t have to wait for me,” you tell him.
“I wasn’t, they’re still too hot.”
You roll your eyes, pinching one experimentally. The outside is hot, but not burning. You carefully take a bite, the skin crunching under your teeth.
“Mm,” you agree, putting the remaining moon half on the plate. You juggle the piece in your mouth as it rolls and sends a flurry of scalding tingles along your tongue, trying to taste and cool it at the same time. Hanta watches you exhale mirthfully, I told you so lurking as a sparkle in his eyes—pools of stars.
You catch the savory spice of sausage paired with molten cheese that burns, coated in the earthy corn dough. The flavor is dulled with age, but it’s unmistakably abuela’s. The loss of its intensity is akin to the fuzziness of memory, the veil that obscures nostalgia into nothing but vague feelings. Transparent images flash before you: abuela’s hands rolling the skins, mixing the meat, sprinkling the cheese, folding the edges.
The food temporarily brings you home, fading your Milanese kitchen to the one of your childhood. In another moment you are far away, outside looking in at you and Hanta here in Italy, before it shifts to your imagination of a traditional Japanese home. You wonder if this is how every morning could look, if you chose to follow—join—the circus.
Hanta’s face is unreadable, putting you further on edge. You watch his lips part, ready to speak, before he closes his mouth. Your forearms buzz, wanting to grip him and shake him and make him talk.
Your mind wanders to the night before, that confession of a tent, where he pulled you through your favorite book and across the sea to the moment he first laid eyes on you. What did that mean? When he said, I wanted to show you how I feel. Does he trust you to put those feelings into words, to make the correct assumptions. Are they feelings of these same deluded fantasies, imagining your lives intertwined until they burn out? Is that what he wants—what you want?
“Are you getting dinner with Momo and Kendou tonight?”
His question pulls you from your thoughts, so abruptly you need time to process the words. You nod eventually. “I think so.”
He hums. The sound isn’t entirely satisfied. “Do you know when?”
You aren’t sure. Hopefully early.
“Can I see you, after?” he asks.
You blink at him in surprise. He continues when you don’t respond. “I know… I’m probably being pushy, I’m sorry. I just—I’d like to spend more time with you.”
You recall your thoughts this morning. Let’s enjoy today and be honest tomorrow.
“Yeah,” you say. “Of course you can.”
You take another bite of the empanada and look down at the plate, averting Sero’s gaze. His hand intercepts your vision, grabbing one for himself.
“They’re really good!” he exclaims after a bite, and you turn back to him skeptically. He pouts. “Be fair, they’re good for how old they are. And they taste close to home.”
You force him to return to the studio once you finish your fill, setting to get as much done as possible if you’re going to be busy all evening. He happily continues munching across from you, settling to watch you work again. This time he asks about the current project, the details of your choices. Again his eyes follow your hands as they work. He asks about your process, your stance as a designer, how you imagine a costume when you start putting one together.
He’s distracting, in the way that makes your hands tingle and your heart tighten. When you lift your eyes briefly, the sight of him is too much: his casual form across from you, leaning on an elbow against the table, hand gently swirling through excess fabric with slender fingers. You should make him leave.
“Sometimes I just see a person and I have a costume in mind,” you say, answering his question. “But sometimes it’s just a passing detail. Like your Todoroki friend, I thought he’d look nice in blue.”
He hums in surprise. “Really? What—does that happen for everyone you meet?”
“Hmm, I guess.”
There’s a pause, a pensive look on his face. You smile.
“I thought of black fabric when I saw you,” you explain. “Something loose and slippery, like silk. Imagine my surprise when I realized your number.”
He grins. “Really? That’s so cool. What did—the costume—”
He wants to know what you saw. You hum, standing abruptly to your fabrics. There’s a long length of chiffon you know is lurking in there, blue, but it’ll do. You wave him over as you pull out the clump, shaking it to untangle into a wide swath. Sero stalks over quickly, eyes wide with excitement. You have the urge to kiss him.
Instead you throw the sheer fabric over his head, resting like a hood as the ends fall over his shoulders. Then you wrap them a couple times over his arms, letting the extra dangle from his wrists after tying it off. The transparent fabric gives him a regal and misty appearance, like a dancer. You pull a silken blanket of black around his waist, tying it by his hip. When you take a step back and look at him in full, you grin.
He’s flushed, only slightly, but his eyes are wide and watching you closely. For a moment you picture a dog’s pleading face, sitting with anticipation as a hand hovers a treat over its head.
“Something like this, just black,” you say to break the silence.
Sero blinks, then looks down to the mess of fabric wrapped around him. His eyes scan his arms, then the skirt. “No top?” His voice is small.
You laugh and shake your head. “A slutty dancer’s fit suits you, I think.”
When you sit back down to keep working, he doesn’t ask anymore questions.
Hanta leaves you to get ready for dinner on your own. He calls out a soft, “See you later,” before waving awkwardly by the door. He lingers for another second, and then slips out into the dimming sky.
Your heart races as you approach the ristorante, this time for Momo—your gratitude still unspoken. The knowledge of her involvement in Hanta’s tents is another source of tension; how do you adequately thank her? A tremor of nerves passes through you, paired with the chill of the cold.
The pair is waiting for you outside the restaurant when you arrive, three minutes early. Your heart lifts, churns at the sight of Momo in a long wrap coat. She’s beautiful, and for the first time you notice the darkness of her hair, the depth to her eyes. You huff to yourself, clocking a type you didn’t know you had til now—these soft, earnest personalities with rich souls, mysteries of dark nights and stardust.
Her eyes tear from Kendou when you’re only a few paces apart. She brightens and turns towards you immediately, stepping to meet you halfway. Your body eases.
The restaurant is unfamiliar, one you have yet to try. It has the sort of atmosphere that makes you feel out of place. You prefer the coziness of a trattoria, where photos of family members decorate the walls. The ristorante is formal, populated with white tablecloths and button down shirts throughout the dimly lit room, clusters of tealights and dried flowers in the center of each table. When you sit and receive your menu, the host rattles on about the chef’s special and the wine of the day. Your eyes glaze over the entrées and then to your company, reminding yourself this isn’t an interview or business meeting. It’s a meal between friends, like your impromptu empanadas with Hanta. Just a very different meal between friends.
When the host walks away, you let Momo and Kendou discuss the options, planning the appetizers they want to try. You agree easily, uncaring and murmuring a quiet, “Grazie,” as the waiter appears to fill your water glass. When you order, you disregard the suggestions from the sommelier, instead pointing to the lone sangria. He doesn’t react, jotting your order with a blank face. You bite your cheek to suppress your smile.
He leaves. Finally, in the quiet of the company between just the three of you, you turn to Momo.
“I never got to thank you, for being so patient with me and letting me in—as your designer.” You speak freely, earnestly. Kendou’s eyes are the only other ones who watch. It feels right.
Momo smiles, the red crescent of her lip pulling into her cheek. “Of course, and thank you for your diligence and your care. It takes a trustworthy designer to feel safe surrendering to their process.”
Her words are warm, a massage through your neck and shoulders. Tender, careful hands that hover over your skin.
Your eyes drop to your glass. “Hanta told me… about the tents. I wanted to thank you for that as well.”
When you glance back to her face, her eyebrow quirks. Her lips are pressed, suppressing a smile. Kendou is the opposite, beaming excitedly.
Momo hums. “Sero did the heavy lifting, it was just me who executed the ideas. I’m relieved that you enjoyed them—that’s all he wanted. He was worried, after the second night.”
You cock your head curiously, leaning in to hear more. “He was?”
“He was waiting, hoping to catch you when you left. I don’t know what happened, but… he was anxious the day after. It’s unlike him.”
You blink, imagining the sight he must have seen. You had clutched that little green bottle and ran, maybe still crying, rubbing your eyes as you left the festival. Did he see that? You recall him lingering when you waited with Momo before her act, his surprise when he saw the marble—the compressed sphere of abuela, quietly tucked into your pocket until you dropped it.
Your hands buzz, a tingle lingering on the tips of your fingers.
They don’t bring up the job offer, dinner continuing as the peaceful murmurs between friends. Momo and Kendou talk about the upcoming shows, their next stop in Austria. The singer muses enthusiastically about the musicians scheduled for the evening festivals, while the designer talks animatedly about visiting traditional boutiques. You smile while watching them, Momo’s poised etiquette against Kendou’s unbridled excitement.
Your thoughts race before you can get a hold of them, imagining hopping a train to catch a weekend show—spending the daylight hours whizzing next to the mountains. You try to shoo the thoughts away, pull yourself back down to earth before you start envisionsing your reunion with a particular man—getting to watch his act on the long threads of silk again.
You bite into the lemon garnishing your dish. The sour citrus is rough against your tongue, but it does the trick—pulling you back to the dining table. You manage to keep your face from twisting in a pinch. Momo doesn’t notice and Kendou doesn’t say anything.
When the plates are cleared and a dessert menu is laid on the table, you have no remaining appetite. Once again your body floods with nervous anticipation, squeezing your belly. You try to ignore it, focus on being present for the last minutes of dinner with your friends, but all you can think about is meeting Hanta afterwards. Momo orders a torta, offering you a bite when it arrives. You take one, but taste nothing, and hum vaguely.
The three of you stand to leave, you deliberately moving as unhurried as your body will allow. At the door you thank Momo for the meal, and once again for being Momo. Then you thank Kendou, trading hugs with them both and promising to see each other tomorrow. You feel steadied, more relaxed than before.
You let the pair exit first, stepping into the biting blackness of the night.
“Sero?”
Your eyes shoot open, heart racing at Momo’s call of his name. When you make it out the door behind the redhead, you search for him.
He’s standing to the side, away from the door and next to one of the restaurant windows—partially obscured by the hanging planter box. Your chest heaves at the sight of him in a long black coat, face tucked into the high collar. He’s stiff, hands stuffed in his pockets and his feet pressed together. He looks nervous. Cute.
“Hi,” he says, eyes flitting from Momo to you, and then back to Momo.
Kendou grins in the corner of your eye, trying to swallow it as she grabs Momo by the wrist and pulls her to walk from the ristorante.
“See you tomorrow!” she calls, ignoring Momo’s confused protests. You hardly wave, barely managing to lift a finger.
Hanta stands before you, tall and dark and a little flushed. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I couldn’t wait.”
You chew your bottom lip harshly, attempting to contain your reaction. “Don’t be sorry,” you tell him. Your heart thumps in your ears as you add, “I’m glad you didn’t.”
The admission is awkward and embarrassing, but Hanta’s eyes widen and his lips press together, caught off guard. He coughs before turning his head from you, the pink across his cheeks darkening. He returns shortly, eyes boring into yours.
“Yeah,” is all he manages.
You nod.
The tension that sits between you is palpable, a dense mist of uncertainty. You hold it within you, that hunch to your shoulders as you take him in.
And then you laugh.
It starts as a lone huff of amusement, a cloud of hot air as it escapes you. It builds to a giggle and you realize there’s more to release, and suddenly your shoulders are shaking as you laugh. Sero yelps in surprise, then exhales in disbelief. He’s quickly laughing with you, and when you look up and see his scrunched eyes and wide, crooked grin, it fills you with warmth—and peace.
It’ll be okay.
When your laughs finally die and the two of you are left smiling stupidly at each other, you tell him.
“It’s okay,” you say. “It doesn’t… It doesn’t have to be so scary.”
Sero looks almost guilty, a face that makes you want to grab him. “I’m gonna be scared no matter what.”
“Of me?” You’re baffled.
“Yeah,” he admits easily. Freely. “Things are scary when they’re important.”
Your chest tightens at his words, his honesty. They bring a heat to your face, steaming into the winter air. First it’s from the waves of embarrassment within you, and the giddiness. Then there’s a pang of guilt: from your selfishness to want to wait til tomorrow—for the hard conversation.
The door of the restaurant opens, a couple stalking out and almost bumping into you two. You watch Sero’s face twist in embarrassment, bending at the hip as he apologizes—very Japanese—and think you should go somewhere else.
“I didn’t eat dessert,” you say flatly, pulling his focus back to you.
He blinks, waiting for you to continue.
“You wanna get gelato?”
“This wasn’t the smartest choice.” You wish you had gone for cake, or pastries, now that your hand is freezing as you sit with Hanta near a park fountain.
He hums and shakes his head, “No, you’re a genius.” He happily swallows another spoonful from his own cup of frozen cream, the saturated hue of blood orange.
“Thanks.”
You eat quietly, only accompanied by the rustling of branches above and the scrape of wooden spoons against paper cups. When you finish—before he even makes it halfway through his own—you set the cup beside you and let yourself ramble without thought, hoping it’ll help you be honest.
“I was trying to put off our serious conversation until tomorrow,” you start, staring into the darkness of the plaza before you. Hanta’s spoon pauses, halting at the bottom of his cup, before continuing slower than before. “But I get the sense that it’s making you nervous. So, sorry. For being selfish.”
He doesn’t answer. Your eyes glance his way, watching as he slowly wraps pink lips around the bowl of his spoon, letting it sit as he watches you closely. You exhale.
“You probably already know, but I haven’t made a decision about the job offer. I mean, I really want to—it’s a dream of mine, to work in costume and travel with a circus. But… I just—the timing…”
In your peripheral vision he pulls the spoon from his mouth, lips parting to ask, “The timing?”
You swallow the lump in your throat. You mull over the words, how to string them together. In a way that makes it less obvious that the timing is not the issue. “My abuela passed last year, and… things are messy back home, because of me. If I left for Japan before managing to clean it up…”
God. You close your eyes, focusing on anything but the sting creeping up your nose and eyes. You don’t know where to start explaining where you fucked up. Was it years ago—when you left home for Europe? Or when you came back and convinced everyone that abuela could be saved if she left too?
It’s inevitable that you’ll have to face your family. Part of you wonders if it’s wrong to start making amends now because of a man you’ve found, a frilly romance that caught your eye. But part of you knows this criticism is another means of avoiding stepping forwards, that Hanta being your motivator to tie loose ends is better than never doing it—than hiding here for the rest of your life. And it’s reductive to Hanta, to categorize him as just another man, just a romance. He clearly holds something deep for you, something you don’t quite understand; something you aren’t sure you’re ready for. Another reason to be scared, to stay stagnant.
There’s a timid touch on the back of your hand, a pinky gently pressing your knuckle. You smile softly, turning to look at Hanta.
His expression is conflicted, almost pained. But he looks at you as he answers. “I… I don’t expect it to be an easy decision, or for you to choose me—or even Hoshi no Sākasu. I mean—fuck, I was hopeful? I’m still hopeful. I guess I thought it’d be the obvious answer, that everything would align and… and I’d get to be with you and get to know you and take my time. Shit, if my contract wasn’t for two more years—”
Your eyes widen at what he’s implying, immediately shifting to face him. “Hanta, that’s insane. We’ve known each other for a week.”
He nearly scoffs. His face twists, eyes shining under the distant lamplight in the courtyard. Your heart constricts at the desperation in his voice. “I’ve known… about you since I was a kid. You… you directed the course of my life; I never would have thought about performance before I saw you. Of course—”
His glassy eyes search yours intensely, boring beyond your mind. You feel naked beneath them.
“Of course I’d choose you. I was always choosing you.”
You swallow again, heart heavy in your chest, filled with sand. You can’t breathe. He’s insane. You should hit him and run away.
“And—fuck, I’m not trying to guilt you or wax poetry about how we’re meant to be together—” your heart is running, tripping over itself as he continues. “But it’s important to me that you realize how… how important you are, to me. And I get that you don’t feel the same, but…”
He stops, deflating. That hurts you more in a way.
“I’m sorry,” you interject.
His face pinches. “It’s not your fault—”
“I can still be sorry,” you cut him off. “For the situation, and for you. And for not being honest earlier, and for being scared, and for… for possibly trying to ignore all of this.”
“I should’ve been clearer sooner,” he reasons.
You look at him blankly. “How much clearer could you have been? You… you made magical tents for me, of memories from home and…”
The air is still between you, eyes unwavering as they target one another, restless, unforgiving. All you can think is that Hanta’s so good, so raw and open and honest. He’s here, baring his heart to you all the while considering every thought and feeling of yours, not once directing blame or anger. He just wants to be seen—to be considered, too.
Your eyes water, blinking rapidly as your lashes collect drops of salty tears. Hanta crumples.
“Can I hug you?” he asks.
You sob and nod quickly.
He’s warm; he’s always warm. But this warmth is gentle and easy, nothing but comfort and understanding and maybe even love. You try not to think about that. Instead you hold him close, by the front of his coat, and press your face into his neck. It’s so so warm, and he smells like oranges.
His arms hold you firm and close. You try to breathe evenly against him, but you’re crying, hiccuping into his skin. He hums, running a hand down your back as you shudder in his embrace. He holds you like a fruit easily bruised, cradled protectively. He doesn’t let go the entire time you cry, and he doesn’t let go when you stop. Instead he brings one hand to your head, holding it in place against him. Maybe he needs this more than you.
When your breathing evens and you have faith in your voice, you whisper, “How did you know? That you were always choosing me?”
He exhales, arms shifting to squeeze you. “It’s just a feeling.”
You hum curiously, softly.
His response vibrates through his chest, lulling you. “It’s the same feeling I get from reading Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda. I don't know how to explain it, but it’s intense, and it’s… it feels important. So I just always chose the things that made me feel that way.”
Si estiramos estrellas como seda,
If we stretch stars like silk,
You don’t understand, can’t understand. You ended up in Milan out of luck, initiated by a sense of obligation and then carried out when the perfect opportunity landed in your lap. Life was never about choices, really, just following a thread tied around your heart, moving you forwards. Maybe Sero has that too, but it feels different to him. Maybe your threads are intertwined.
Ataré mi corazón al tuyo.
I’ll tie my heart to yours.
This time when you wake, you’re in your own room, under familiar sheets and scents. Your eyes remain unopened as you gently rustle your body, shifting just enough to comfortably fall back asleep. The movement brings attention to a heat pressed against your back. It’s so warm, like the comfort of a blanket multiplied and condensed. You lean into it, press yourself as snugly as you can.
Only when you feel a pressure around your waist, an arm pulling you closer, tighter, do you register that the heat is another body—Hanta gently cradling you.
You recall the night before: him standing awkwardly outside the ristorante, gelato in the park under lamplight, tight hugs, coming home, tender conversation in the sheets, confessions of what you’ve done to your family. He nearly rolled off the bed in shock, but he ultimately understands why you’re struggling to decide. He stayed with you when the sleepiness of night came; he held you under the covers.
He’s still holding you under the covers.
A flurry of tingles scatter across your skin, originating in the depth of your chest before fluttering down your arms. You blink your eyes open, staring ahead at the wall as you take note of all the ways you two are entangled. His head is pressed against the back of your neck, lips touching the base, the first ridge of your spine. One leg parts yours, thigh separating by one of his, a muscular calf slotted along your shin. The arm around your waist is firm, fingers gripping your side. The other runs beneath your neck, bicep filling the space perfectly. His entire front blankets your back, every dip and ridge and softness in his chest and stomach known to your skin.
He shifts, bones settling into the mattress while his grip never loosens, and then he presses a kiss to your neck, that bump of your skeleton. Your breath halts, body stilling with anticipation. If Hanta notices, he doesn’t make any indication, instead nuzzling your hair.
He sighs. It almost comes out like a whine, or whimper.
“Are you awake?” His voice is a raspy whisper.
You nod.
He hums, squeezing you tight for a few moments, face burying into your neck before his hand at your side detaches. The press of his heat leaves your back and his legs begin to unravel from yours. You turn towards him, on your back, eyes trailing him. He reaches for his phone, glancing at the time before turning back to you, pouting.
“I have to meet with the crew early today. Parade stuff.”
You nod in understanding, eyes drinking in as much as they can before he has to leave: rumpled hair, unfocused eyes, the indent of the pillow running along the side of his face—
His pout, deepening.
“You could look more sad, you know.”
It pulls a laugh from you, an early smile of delight. “I am,” you assure him. “But I got to spend yesterday with you. And you look cute right now.”
You catch the twitch of his lips, a moment of suppressing his smile before the grin wins, crooked and wide. He’s warm and light, you notice, a contrast to the dark mystery you initially saw in him.
He sighs again, leaning to press into you. His head slots in the curve of your neck, chest pressing flush against your own, hot. He kisses you beneath your ear, before groaning and pulling away. Your chest yearns. A heat runs down your body.
“Don’t get up,” he commands gently. “Go back to sleep. Is it okay if the door’s unlocked?”
You won’t be able to sleep, you already know. But he looks at you with a soft plea in his eyes and you can’t argue. “That’s fine.”
You watch while he gathers his things, standing by the bedroom door when he’s done, just to come back and kiss your forehead again before he slips away. You murmur, “See you later,” and then turn into the covers of your bed. It’s chilly, without Hanta heating your back. But he left a lingering smell of oranges in your sheets. Warm citrus.
“So. You sleep with your circus boyfriend yet?”
You frown at Chiara’s accusation. She stares into your eyes sharply, focused as she brushes yellow and black across your skin before pulling out a white pen.
“We didn’t sleep together,” you remark. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Uh huh,” she says flatly. You roll your eyes dramatically and slowly, and she grunts, pinching your cheek. “Stop it, the eyeliner isn’t dry.”
“Then you stop.”
“Never.”
The air is still for a moment, Chiara quiet in her concentration. You avert your eyes downward, letting her finish dragging the pen across your eyelids and towards your temple. She pulls back and holds your face at arm's length, eyes hopping between yours thoughtfully.
“But you left with him, didn’t you?”
You groan, “Chia—”
“You think I’m an idiot,” she accuses. You recall your conversation with Davide last week, wondering why you chose such dramatic friends. “I could tell there was something going on backstage. And you know Davide is a snitch for me.”
You want to groan. Of course he told Chiara at his first chance, to brag about finding out first. She must have known before you went to the show together, likely watching you carefully, to figure out who it was.
“It’s the Sero guy, yeah? Longish black hair.”
You huff, giving in. “Yeah.”
She hums to herself, pausing her eyes to look into yours, thoughtfully. She smirks. “So did he win you over? You’ll leave Milan, me, for him?”
You pout. “Give me more credit, Chia.”
She snickers. “I know, I know—just teasing. But are… are you leaning one way or another now?”
You pull your lip between your teeth, eyes scrunching in uncertainty. “I don’t know, it’s made everything more confusing than anything.”
She stares at you blankly. Then she sighs, turning and letting your face go. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t kill your excitement. I’ll stop asking, but when they leave—you’re telling us everything.”
“Of course,” you say immediately.
She grins. “Well, you’re all done now.”
You turn to the mirror, taking in the swathes of pigment around your eyes and the swirling white details. The makeup spreads to your temples and down your cheeks. You slip on the costume, wrapping black slippery fabric over the bottom half of your face and settling the structured headpiece on your head. Your eyes stare intensely at their reflection, stark against the costume; they match the lone flash of yellow beneath your neck and the brightness of the beak you carry separately.
For a second time, you and Chiara leave her place as a pair of birds, her as the red macaw, but this time you as the keel billed toucan. You haven’t worn a costume of these colors in at least fifteen years.
Unlike a week ago, when you were a pair of macaws, you walk carefully—subdued. You wonder what Hanta will think when he sees you.
You amble unhurried to the gathering location, where groups and individuals wait their turn to start parading through the streets. There are swarms of people, large crowds gathered to walk and witness, chattering animatedly. Various groups play instruments, populated throughout the section of the plaza. You grin excitedly at the sea of colors, groups in costume and traditional wear, floats, giant clusters of balloons. Your eyes search and scan, face schooling into a frown as you look for the puppets from Gōyoku.
When you turn and scan a second time, you spot one that was initially hiding behind a float. You recognize the bright yellow—Kaminari. You tug Chiara’s sleeve, pointing when her attention turns to you.
She nods before leaning to shout over the noise, “Go ahead! I’ll tell you where I meet Davide.” To spot them in the crowd, when you pass. You nod in return before weaving your way through the crowd, the puppet as your lighthouse.
It’s a difficult journey, but a practiced one. You clutch your headpiece and beak carefully as you slither between bodies, moving quickly but with precision. The excitement and your hurrying brings that exhilarating rush to your chest, the heavy thump of your pumping heart a reminder that you’re alive. You smile, briefly thinking of abuela, before you brush the thought away—it’s too soon to be sentimental.
When you finally reach Kaminari, standing excitedly under the floating feathered mec, you call out to him. He brightens, yelling, “Yo!” as you manage the last few steps.
You notice it’s just him and Bakugou, no one else hanging around. You pause at the sight of the latter, the first time you’ve seen his festival costume. It’s similar to Sero’s, but infinitely more ridiculous: a much more lively and springing jester hat—striped with orange and black—sandwiching his face against the swooping frills of his collar. The colors sit uncomfortably next to one another, him glaring in the middle of the chaos.
“Your costume is sick!” Kaminari shouts at you, eyes tracing the headpiece and beak. “It’s like—a bird version of what other people are wearing.”
You laugh. “That’s kind of my thing. Where’s everyone else?”
Bakugou grunts while Kaminari pulls a face. “We kind of lost them. It’s hard getting around the crowd with this thing, and Kacchan was supposed to chaperone me, but he isn’t doing a good job.”
That pulls a glare from the ashen blond, immediately retorting in brash Japanese. Kaminari pouts. You don’t understand what they’re saying, but you can tell their banter isn’t getting them anywhere. You jump in at the next pause.
“I didn’t see the other puppeteer that way,” you offer, pointing from where you came. “So maybe we can head the opposite way?”
Kaminari thanks you repeatedly, happily bounding towards the direction you pointed. You try to hurry ahead, glancing over the crowd for the silvery bird. A tug at your sleeve yanks you back, faint jingling sounding behind you followed by a gruff, “Oi.”
It’s Bakugou, scowling when you turn to him. “Stick with stupid, you can’t see shit with that thing on your head.”
You nearly guffaw at the comment. Thing? you want to ask. With all the bells on the ends of his hat, flopping around awkwardly and into other peoples’ space: he wants to call yours a thing? He walks ahead before you can return the comment, leaving you to wait for Kaminari to catch you. The latter smiles amiably as you two trail behind your self-proclaimed leader.
“Should I feel insulted?” you ask.
He laughs. “Maybe. Will you hold my hand? So I don’t get lost again.”
You grab the sleeve of his costume with a laugh.
The three of you slide your way through the crowd, eventually passing a float that was obscuring Tetsutetsu’s metallic puppet. Bakugou turns to you when it’s visible, nodding curtly as if to ask if you see it, before slipping forwards quickly, out of your sight. The crowd is thinner where the Hoshi no Sākasu performers are gathered, and you tug at Kaminari, directing his attention. You can’t weave through the mass while attached to the blond, so you wade through unhurried. Bakugou reappears after a few minutes, sticking close by as you finally reunite all the performers together.
Kirishima is the first you spot, rushing forwards. He calls to Kaminari, words you don’t understand, but a tone you can recognize as exasperation.
“Just had to pick up a delivery, that's all!”
Kirishima’s eyes move to you, sighing with a smile. “Sorry about him. Thanks for helping!”
You shake your head dismissively. He’s about to continue when you hear your name called behind him.
You lean towards the sound, to Hanta and his excited face. A smile takes over you, forgetting your mouth and nose are obscured by the silk around your head. Your hand pinching Kaminari’s sleeve releases, lifting to wave. The other holds your bright yellow and green beak by your chest.
Hanta’s eyes are wide as they trace your costume.
“¿Un tucán?” he asks. A toucan?
You hum, still smiling. “Como la primera vez.”
Like the first time.
His expression softens. Kaminari whines behind you, high-pitched Japanese that makes Hanta roll his eyes. He reaches forward, taking your hand to pull you close. You follow easily, stepping so your shoulder brushes into his chest. His palm tightens around yours.
You bump into Momo as you navigate the crowd, waving at her and Uraraka. Midoriya says a swift hello with Todoroki—the younger one—before hurriedly running off. The two of you migrate to the edge of the crowd, where the noise begins to fade into the background. You check your phone for any updates from Chiara, but there aren’t any new messages.
Only one missed call from your sister.
“Any idea when Hoshi no Sākasu starts heading down?” you ask, shoving your phone out of sight.
Hanta’s fingers loosen around yours, trailing gently over the individual lengths, the tips grazing your palm and ghosting your knuckle. He shakes his head. “We’re following the float with the balloons, so whenever they start moving.
You learn shortly that the circus is on a float of their own, not trailing on foot like you expected. It’s simple, an elevated rectangular platform with a black frills lining the bottom and a banner with the circus’ name translated in Italian. The simplicity will allow the mechanical birds to remind the focus, the characters in costume being the supporting decoration.
You blink in surprise while Hanta steps forwards, heaving himself up the ladder after a few of his coworkers. When he reaches the top, he turns and offers a hand, waiting for you to join him. Your heart constricts at the thought of a stage—always what you worked towards but never where you stood. Thank god your costume covers your face. You lift your beak towards Hanta, letting him hold it safe as you grasp the metal rungs and pull, taking careful steps before standing on the sturdy floor of the float—above the crowd. The sight is one you’ve never seen in person, a sea of headpieces and vibrant fabrics, dots moving about on their own. You like the vantage.
Hanta returns the beak, grin uncontained.
“Excited?” you ask.
“It’s my first time being in the parade,” he says after nodding. “For almost all of us.”
You smile wistfully, nervously. “It’s my first time in a long time.”
Some of the crew members scurry around, instructing you where to stand and how to engage with the crowd. You’re assigned towards the end with Hanta. The two of you stand out of the way with the others as the float slowly approaches the start, following a massive float with bundles of balloons—an array of bright colors against the still-bright sky. Some are neatly arranged to display certain patterns or shapes, others thrown together without order.
Midoriya talks animatedly beside you, explaining the research he did about the Ambrosian Carnival, the rich history of Milano’s Carnival specifically.
“It’s so wonderful that we get to be part of this,” he says with shining eyes. “Especially with its origins in Catholicism, Milan has so many incredible communities and traditions that we can see first hand. Even with this parade, entering the city center will let us pass centuries of historical buildings. I looked at all the sites along the map of the floats, and I think we’ll pass—”
The float jostles from an abrupt halt, jerking your attention away, before it resumes almost immediately. You lurch forwards, but Hanta’s steady hand finds your waist, bracing you just as long as it takes for you to find your footing, before falling from you. Your heart stirs from the contact, then yearns from the loss.
Midoriya’s voice resumes, droning on as Todoroki hums beside him. You stalk towards the railing at the edge of the platform, curious to spot whatever caused the disruption. Instead you see the road only a couple floats ahead, the approaching sea of onlookers waiting for you to pass. You check your phone again, this time seeing a message from Chiara with her location. She’s three blocks down from the starting point, on the left—your side.
There’s a moment of scrambling and shuffling atop the float, people getting into place. You turn to Hanta beside you, beaming with unexpected excitement. You feel like a child again, bubbling with the anticipation to be part of something new. Hanta grins back, skin flushed warm in the sun despite the chill of the winter air.
You turn back to the front, taking in the crowd and the racing of your heart. You feel so tall now, compared to the child you were in Quito, grasping abuela’s hand and draped in the itchy costume she made you wear. Here you are above the audience, dressed in your own toucan, silky against your skin. Two nights ago you were given the gift of reliving that moment in honesty, remembering the joy you felt when you let yourself go, let yourself meld with the spirit of the celebration—a moment Hanta saw and could never forget.
Here you are above the crowd, entering your second parade—this time nearly two decades later, and with your hand in his instead.
You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.
[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]
part 3: that we’ll string together.
sero hanta x reader
ch 3/6 | 14.7k words | masterlist | ao3
cw: more mentions of a deceased family member and grief (that is poorly repressed)
notes: songs are memories by maroon 5, counting stars by one republic, yellow by coldplay
the five times sero reaches for you.
✰.
"Marco constructs tiny rooms from scraps of paper. Hallways and doors crafted from pages of books and bits of blueprints, pieces of wallpaper and fragments of letters.
He composes chambers that lead into others that Celia has created. Stairs that wind around her halls.
Leaving spaces open for her to respond."
-The Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern
Davide appears in your studio unannounced.
“You hate me!” he accuses in drawn out Italian, walking through the garage door. It’s warmer than yesterday by a few degrees, but you’re still huddled in a jacket as you hunch over your sewing machine.
“Only a little,” you promise.
He gasps. “You won’t even deny it?”
“That’s what you get for making assumptions,” you say, still refusing to look at him.
Davide huffs as he struts over and pulls out the chair across from you. He sets down his coffee to cross his arms, wrinkling the sleek sleeves of his blazer. “We’re a throuple but somehow I'm always third wheeling you and Chia.”
You finally cave, eyes raising to meet his blankly. They're the icy blue of the sky during a winter day: cold and sharp and uncomfortable to experience for too long. Every blink is a reprieve.
He sighs dramatically, head tilting back with a whine. “Tucano, are you really leaving? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Your chest tightens. “It was just an offer, I haven’t made a decision yet. And I was going to tell you next time I saw you.”
“Which was going to be when, exactly?”
You pout. “Sorry. I’ve been busy with the dress and the show and everything. I told Chiara first because she was free that day.” And because she’s less dramatic.
He gives you a pained look before softening with another sigh. “Babe, you know I’m never going to stop you. Seriously, how is this not an immediate yes? I mean, yeah you have some commitments lined up and some of them are my fault—” Orders for drag costumes in March, for him and a couple friends, “But we’d never want to keep you from being where you should be.”
This is the duality of Davide: a thin veil of vanity draped over a deep heart, someone who loves to talk about himself, always redirecting the conversation to his own feelings and stories—only to stare right through you and your own private thoughts in an instant, when he catches a ripple of hesitation on the surface. It's a friendship best described as whiplash.
Your heart stings; his earnest sentiment settles as a squeeze of pain. “I know,” you say honestly, “but… there are other reasons to stay.”
Davide’s tanned face twists into a scoff, the shake of his head bouncing tight coils of hair. “Glad to know I mean nothing to you after all.”
You roll your eyes. “Dramatic.”
He pauses, watching as you rotate the fabric and slide it through the needle again. “Then what is it? If it’s not your friends and not your work.”
You bite your cheek, breathing deeply to steady your quickening heart. “It’s—” you stop when you feel stinging behind your eyes, blinking rapidly to avoid the buildup of tears.
“My abuela,” you manage softly.
Davide doesn’t respond and you don’t look at him, determined to keep your eyes glued to the fabric and out of his sight. The texture of the lace—rough beneath your fingers—grounds you in your anticipation for his response.
“What about her?” he finally asks. His voice is so flat you laugh in surprise. “Is she haunting you? Telling you not to go?”
Your face twists between a smile and grimace. You shake your head.
He sighs. “Babe, you have to help me out here. What’s going on?”
You stop, the fabric and needle coming to a halt as your face pinches. You exhale. “I… I can’t leave her here. I already took her from home, so she could live longer with me instead of with the whole family around. And then to just… just leave after she died—”
“Tucano…” he says quietly, the nickname another punch to your stomach. “If your nonna is in Italy… you know she’s only here for you, right?”
It’s a painful, cruel reality that she’s watching over you instead of resting in her homeland. Maybe because her ashes are in your living room, never mailed home or brought in person like you should have. Instead she’s sat in her little wooden box for the last few months, trapped and lonely. The thought of taking her to Japan makes you ache with guilt. The thought of bringing her back home floods your body with fear.
“This isn't like you,” he adds softly. “To get so hung up on things. You're normally so excited for change.”
It's true. Change is exciting and chaotic, something you reach for easily. You enjoy novelty, prefer it over the steadiness of monotony. But this change is frightening—one entirely up to you.
“Do you want to make a list?” he asks after your silence. You nod meekly.
“Okay,” he starts. “Your weird guilt around your family is a con. And the fact that you’d be leaving me behind. You have a steady career that you might have to restart, and if you hate the circus you’ll be stuck there for however long your contract demands.”
“I won’t hate the circus,” you argue.
“Uh oh—”
“And I’d have to learn Japanese,” you interject, ignoring his side-eye. “Which has an entirely different alphabet.”
Davide hums thoughtfully. “I didn’t consider that. But a lot of them speak English, yeah?”
You nod. “A couple of them know Italian, too. And one of the acrobats speaks Spanish.”
“Ooh, another point for the circus.”
You nod slowly, trying to push your other thoughts about Sero aside. You spent an embarrassing amount of time last night… researching the performers, looking up their names from the booklet and scrolling through articles and social media posts. You learned that Todoroki’s stage partner is his brother and that Midoriya has constant reports of spending the off season recovering his overused arms. Sero was elusive, only small mentions in articles. He must be secure in his position with Hoshi no Sākasu, not interested in marketing himself independently.
You learned that his first name is Hanta. You read it quietly to yourself, the Spanish way with a silent H. It doesn't have any particular meaning, but you couldn’t help noticing that it rhymes with canta: sings. And the letters you spoke, everything following the H, nestles neatly into the word fantasía.
Fantasy.
“Babe?”
You blink, shaking your head as you remove yourself from your thoughts. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I was asking what other pros there are,” he answers, piercing blue trained on you skeptically. “What got you lost in thought?”
You purse your lips, not wanting to answer. He raises his eyebrows with glee.
“The longer you take to answer the worse it gets,” he nearly sings.
You huff. “I was just thinking about some of the performers. They’re nice.”
He scoffs. “Already finding my replacement?”
“Yeah, one’s that aren’t so accusatory.”
He kicks your foot under the table. “So? What are they like? You think you could work with them?”
You nod. “Yeah, at least from first impressions. Everyone I’ve met is nice, and they seem close to each other. There’s a big range of personalities though.”
“Mmm, so that’s a pro I suppose: that you already have an idea of what the work would be like. And you’ve already worked for them so you know their process. It’s a circus, which is your dream, and it would get you out of Italy. I think that would be good for you.”
You don’t ask him to elaborate on the last point. “I think it’d be a challenge to continue working in their process, but in a good way.”
“So maybe a pro and a con?” Davide asks. You shrug. “Oh! Another con: you’ll get caught in a romance with one of the staff, but it won’t last and you’ll awkwardly be around your ex for the rest of your contract.”
You face flushes immediately. Not because of the comment—one you’d normally scoff at dismissively—but because your brain flashes with an image of Sero. You want to bury your face in your hands. What, you dance with a guy and watch his bondage performance and suddenly he’s your fantasy man?
Fantasía.
“No fucking way,” Davide says. His eyes are wide as they watch you, mouth gaped and half grinning. You flush harder and step on the pedal again, shoving your head down as you work impatiently. “There’s no way that’s already happening. Who is it?”
“No one,” you grumble.
“Babe, please. You could at least try to act convincing. This is embarrassing. And offensive.”
Your heart thumps erratically in your chest, on the brink of sweating despite the chilly air coming in. “It’s really nothing,” you say again.
“Just spill it, I don’t feel like drawing this out.” He pauses before his eyes widen again with excitement. “Wait, does Chiara know yet? Holy shit, you have to tell me.”
You grit your teeth, jaw clenched in a mixture of irritation and embarrassment.
“I said it’s nothing,” you repeat. “Not even close to a romance. But there's this guy who speaks Spanish… We danced bachata together the first night of the festival. He didn’t know I was the costume designer, but we talked more yesterday.” You try to emphasize yesterday. You don’t mention the heat of his skin, the ghost of it that still lingers sometimes.
“You’re going to leave me for a man?” Davide accuses, voice raising. “Not even that singer woman you have weird romantic tension with?”
“Shut up,” you whine. “I said we’ve known each other for two days. But if you need any more reasons for my interest in him, he performs on aerial silks.” Davide hums. “And he knows that book I love, it’s a childhood favorite for him too.”
That pulls a gasp from your friend. “Oh my god. It’s some horrible fated romance, I just know it. You two were meant to be together since you were born.”
“You have to stop,” you say. “Either encourage me or stop me, you can’t do both.”
He laughs. “I’ll tell Chia to pick whichever side I don’t.”
You kick him under the table. Hard. He yelps.
He relents after more teasing, eventually letting you grill him about his life while you work: a show you missed and the latest news on his own complicated romance—a love triangle involving his co-workers at his day job. Eventually the two of you sit in concentrated silence, you running fistfulls of fabric through the sewing machine and Davide furiously typing emails. This quiet intensity is the other side to your friendship, a stark contrast to the noise of excited bickering.
He leaves around noon, with a threat to repeat his actions if you don’t keep him updated. You shoo him away dismissively and he tells you he hates you. Even after he's gone, you're left smiling to yourself, in the lingering essence of your friendship.
You’re late to your meeting with Kendou. Twenty minutes after the show starts you stumble in, clutching a paper bag of pastries in one hand. She’s neither angry or amused as she turns to look at you, arching a brow at the clear evidence of your lack of urgency.
“Good to know you’re not ghosting me.”
You grimace, holding out the bag like a peace offering. “Sorry. I was in my head and then I needed moral support.”
She takes the offering skeptically, pulling one of the sfogliatella carefully between two fingers as powdered sugar rains onto the table. Her eyes meet yours, returning to the flaky, cream-filled dessert in hand. “And it had to be the messiest thing you could find?”
“I could’ve picked something bigger, to force you to eat it in a hundred bites.”
You sit next to her and drum your fingers on the table. You don’t take one of the sfogliatella for yourself, your stomach too tight to eat. She doesn’t comment on it.
“Well, there’s nothing that warrants the need for moral support,” she says after a bite. “I’m just going to answer your questions.”
You want to argue that answers are scary. This whole situation is scary, talking as potential co-workers instead of an artist and their client. Any decision you make is terrifying, whether it’s to remain stagnant or step into the unknown.
Instead you ask for the job overview, clinical questions of work hours, salary, benefits. You gather that you would work alongside the cast of Gōyoku for a year before having the opportunity to join the design team in preparation for the next show. They want an expert in sewing, someone who knows how to work the finer details of a costume: your feathers and beads.
The conversation slowly devolves into sketching an idea of what your timeline would look after the circus leaves Milan. Speculating details for moving to Japan: visas, bank accounts, language barriers, secondary work. You ask about the environment and work culture, contracts, connections. You try to put every answer she gives you neatly into the pros and cons list you started earlier, but a lot of them sit in grey territory. The ghost of Davide’s voice gripes over your shoulder, your own internal monologue joining to argue with him.
Kendou watches as you thrum your fingers and think quietly, avoiding her gaze. Eventually she says, “Y’know it’d be more efficient if you told me what you’re worried about? So I can answer your actual questions instead of walking around them.”
Your face twists in apprehension. “It’s… I don’t think there’s anything you could say—to help me make a decision at this point.”
She blanks at your honesty. You don’t know how to admit that you’re only pretending to care about the logistics and the money, to trick yourself into putting the decision anywhere but your conflicted heart. You sigh as you run the words through your head, chest heavy with guilt for wasting her time. At the very least it got you here, finally saying it aloud.
“I think I just need time… to think,” or feel, really. Understand what you’re feeling in the first place.
She looks at you with an unreadable expression, green eyes swallowing you like the sea. You avert your gaze. “...’Kay. You think June is late enough?”
Three full months, plus some. You nod slowly. “Thanks.”
You’re a harpooned fish, pierced by her observance. She can see your writhing and thrashing despite your collected exterior. It reminds you of your conversation with Davide. Why are you always befriending these kinds of people?
“You could talk to Touya, the older Todoroki brother,” she suggests. “He had some reservations about joining too. He doesn’t speak English, though, so one of us would have to translate for you.”
You grimace at the thought and shake your head. “That's too much.”
She hums, unbothered. “Okay. But it’s okay to change your mind. And you can talk to anyone.”
The door slams open.
“Momo, I have the rest of my ideas for the—”
Your eyes lock with Sero’s, his mouth immediately shutting when he glances up and notices you. His face is flushed, likely just having finished his act, and slightly panicked. You swallow at the visual ambush, features schooled to appear calm as you take in the tightness of his costume, the glittering details of feathers and jewels. You remind yourself that you saw this yesterday too.
“Next one over.” Kendo’s voice is urgent, almost stern. It catches you off guard.
He nods curtly, eyes lingering on you before he fumbles to close the door. “Shit, sorry. I—sorry, thanks.”
You frown at Kendou after the door slams shut. She smiles innocently and changes the topic.
You don’t linger after your conversation ends, wanting to be gone from the tents and circus monkeys, wanting space to clear your mind. But you can’t hold yourself back for long, returning when the tents of the festivals open, spilling ambiance and light into the plaza. You let your anticipating heart guide you to the quiet row in the back, that splash of red and green whispering your name.
A wave of relief floods your veins when you spot it, still sitting quietly adjacent to the potter’s stall. You try to breeze by inconspicuously, unsuccessful given your excitement. Once you reach the entrance, you pause with a sudden apprehension. Your hand hesitantly reaches for the front flap, fingers carding through soft green feathers. You exhale and dart inside without another thought.
It’s different this time.
The interior is still a tent, though much more vast than what should be possible from the outside dimensions. Instead of shelves lined with an assortment of trinkets and paraphernalia, there are tables scattered throughout the space. Thick, wooden frames with intricate engravings sit next to rickety plastic, a tablecloth strewn atop. Some are low coffee tables, while others are tall like a standing desk.
And they’re filled with bottles.
Mostly glass, cylindrical and curved, but in every shape and size and color. There are jars and tins as well, a couple aluminum cans and the occasional vase. Some of them are tipped over, laying sadly on their sides, but the rest stand comfortably on the various surfaces in the room. They glimmer, reflecting the dim twinkling of the fairy lights illuminating the space, tinted with warm orange. Some of them reflect each other, stretching colors across their hard surfaces.
You step forward hesitantly, unsure how to react to the change. Part of you is disappointed you didn’t stay longer yesterday, missing the opportunity to thoroughly explore all the ornaments on the shelves. The other part of you is elated, heart skipping with excitement that there’s more.
Your finger traces the edge of a deep mahogany table, the tip swirling through the curve of an engraved leaf. The color is dark, rich, warm to the touch. The bottle resting on the corner is glass, straight at the base and curving gently towards the top. You think it may have held sparkling water. It’s bare of any label, and the cap is gone, it’s body empty except for your transparent reflection. You tap your nail against the surface, the clink in response soft and bright.
Next to it is a mason jar, its bumpy glass surface stained blue. It has a metal lid that calls for you. You reach carefully over the tall bottle at the corner, careful not to bump it as you lift its smaller companion. It’s heavy, weighted as you notice a dark liquid sloshing inside from your disturbance. You hold it to eye level, squinting in confusion—and nerves. You glance around the room, behind you towards the front, before turning back to the jar and the table in front of you. Only a moment passes before you succumb to your curiosity and twist the lid open.
You are hit with an overwhelming scent of salt.
It’s almost as if the entire ocean is attempting to sprout from the small container—thick, dense, and hot air roaring upwards and across your face. A faint breeze rushes through your hair and the folds of your clothes, touching gently at your skin. The crashing waves flood your ears, paired with the cries of the birds. It feels like pressing the conch shell to your ear the previous night, immediately transported to the beach.
When you look up, you are there.
You audibly gasp, confronted by bright sand and crystal blue water. The sky is massive before you, knowing no bounds—especially not the bounds of a tiny market stall—as it rolls on endlessly, populated with innocent and fluffy clouds. The seafoam beneath matches, white and soft and spreading along the water. You turn to take in the width of the view, ground shifting beneath your feet. More sand, tiny and endless, softly spilling in response to your shuffling. A couple birds fly above you, black and unrecognizable.
You take a careful step, mind incapable of understanding the scene before you, how you got here. Your movements don’t break the image, letting you amble forwards towards the water. You look down to the jar in your hands, illuminated by the sun above. Experimentally, you twist the lid back on.
And you are back in the dim light of the tent.
You blink in shock at the change, lightly twisting the jar back open and lifting the lid, immediately pulling you back to the shore. You remind yourself to breathe, heart stuttering and breath hitched at the impossibility of such an experience. The warmth and stickiness of the air is home, somewhere you couldn’t go, haven’t let yourself go. The sound of the ocean is a lullaby in your memory, singing you to sleep more often than your mother. It’s voice is sweet and nostalgic, but it becomes too much after another moment of listening. You cap the jar.
You return it to the table, by the edge so you can easily find it again. Behind it there are hundreds of containers waiting to be opened next. You reach for a slim bottle, tall amongst the others. Its glass is frosted and tinted, though you aren’t sure with what color.
No scent wafts out, but opening it brings you a violent wave of nausea. You feel sick to your stomach, eyes immediately scrunching with the pain. The bottle nearly falls from your hands. The feeling doesn’t subside as you breathe deeply, but you manage to open your eyes.
More blue—the clear brightness of the sky—but this time you’re fully encased in it, floating upwards. The air breezes past you, as if falling while you float through the atmosphere. Your rolling stomach hardens, still uncomfortable but subsiding as your focus darts around you, trying to ground yourself in the sight of the ocean, a forest, a city—anything.
The end of the sky never appears. Instead you float with your nausea and what you realize is a desperation, one you don’t understand. You feel like you’re calling for someone, crying for them to see you, to answer. The flood of emotions are intense but foreign—like they're real, but someone else's. You exhale shakily, trying to center yourself in a plane that has no relativity. At the very least you can feel the bottle in one hand, its cap heavy in the other. You pull your hands towards your chest, weak from the pain.
A pink dust spills from the bottle, flurrying upwards with you. It’s sparkling, shimmering in the sunlight. The colors disperse throughout your vision, like rosy tufts of dandelion. For a moment you think they are the stars of daytime. Then you are filled with an incredible sensation of love. It’s so overwhelming that you choke, the beginning of a sob. The feeling is so tangible in your heart that you can’t deny its reality, despite having no idea of its origins.
A sudden rush of tranquility washes over you, nausea quelled as you simply exist beautifully in the expanse of the sky. Eventually the bottle has no more magic to give, its last puffs of sparkles emptying above you. You watch, completely taken, until your body has a weight and your neck has a pain of discomfort. Within seconds you are once again standing in the space of the tent, now hazily blinking at the string of lights tethered to the ceiling.
Now with some fear, you continue through the jars, still unsure what they mean or even are. You’re taken to a forest of bamboo and maples, walking along a path lined with stones and rays of light filtering through rustling leaves. Next you are swallowed by searing heat, body alight with fear and calling for a brother you don’t have, swimming through flames of blue and red. After being thrown into the bustling streets of Tokyo, and then feeling your own body harden like a mountain and tear through knife-sharp shards, the pattern becomes apparent. The small jars are places, and these taller ones are… fragments of memory.
Part of you wants to stop, concerned about experiencing these intimate details of lives—lives that belong to the circus, their crew and performers. But the other part barrels forward, hungry to live and breathe and absorb all of the memories before you.
The first clear memory you see is Sero’s.
The bottle is dark, sleek and mysterious with a golden lid. When you open it, you’re on the back porch of someone’s home, feet swinging against the bench as small hands clutch the half of a maracuya. Your skin is wet, drying in the warm sun behind you. Rapid Spanish filters in the background, a large family caught in an animated conversation. The fruit in your mouth is sweet, slightly sour and with crunchy seeds. You feel yourself smile into the peel, puppeting the actions of the character you’re inhabiting.
You—Sero—stand abruptly, surprising yourself, the empty skin of the fruit rolling down your lap and to the floor, eventually hitting the sand beneath the platform. Your feet move quickly, darting through the open door at the back of the house, sliding striped rugs beneath you and avoiding the bump of bodies in the crowded spaces of conversation. You hear gasps, one deep call for your—Sero’s—name. But eventually you stop, legs standing wide before the front door, a short and old woman making her way inside. Her face is wrinkled, a soft smile playing on her lips as her eyes meet yours.
“Abuelita!” you hear yourself shout.
You slam the cap on the bottle and twist furiously, wiping the memory away. Your real body stands in the dim of the tent, heart racing and with clammy hands. There's a tightness in your chest as you inhale and your eyes prickle with tears. Your hand shakes as you press the jar to the table.
This is a circus of cruelty, you decide.
You should leave; you were right earlier, that this is too invasive. So invasive that it comes full circle, forcing you to confront your own unwanted memories. Even so, you make no move for the exit.
Instead you glare at the bottle with accusation and reach for one of the stout jars. You don't open it immediately, arguing with yourself before finally pulling the lid. Snowy winter mountains greet you, reminding you of trips to the Alps. They’re cold and callous and quiet, a reprieve from the noise of family and decisions.
As you trudge through the fluff of snowfall you feel the urge to throw a tantrum, to whine and kick the ground, scattering white powder like autumn leaves. Your grandmother is normally just a lingering thought, the essence of a feeling burrowed uncomfortably in your chest. Uncomfortable, but small enough to ignore.
You come to a stop at that thought. Your heart continues to race, speeding up instead of slowing at your stillness. This feeling scares you, its enormity and intensity, so powerful you wonder how you haven’t let it take over. Is this the first time you’ve ever sat with this… this tangled knot of grief? Even one second is too long and you start treading forwards again, offering a physical explanation for these symptoms. The mountains are still too calm, too quiet, and you leave the cold to stand in the warmth of the tent once again.
The room is also silent, unmoving, but the shining jars distract you, pulling your attention away from your thoughts. You stand with them silently, eyes roaming the many options—the many perpetrators of your distress. The mason jars—innocent containers for locations—are safe, you decide.
A red lid stands out to you, the body wide and clear. It’s filled with beads, clicking gently as you pull the jar to your face for inspection. It takes you to a bustling American city, you guess New York from the looming buildings and grey skies. For the first time you pass a window. The room behind it is dark enough to cast your reflection. Momo’s surprised face blinks back at you.
You walk around the table looking for more innocent memories to invade, nearly missing a small bottle close to the center. When you take a few steps it reveals itself, originally shadowed by the larger jar in front. The exterior is a sharp lime green, recognizable despite the warmth of the dim light. You know this color by heart. You pause while reaching for it, when you realize the shape of the bottle is the same as Sero’s.
You stare skeptically, heart thumping in alarm but arm itching to see what it holds. You try to reason with yourself, remind yourself that you’re looking through other people’s memories, invading their privacy. Even if you can only place two of them so far, that’s still two too many. Hell, everything you’ve seen is more than you should have.
But the color—that bright chartreuse… a devious part of your heart yells that it’s a sign. It’s meant for you.
You have no strength. You open it.
The smell of citrus overwhelms your senses, paired with warm light streaming in from a window. You’re sitting on a stool—on your own hands—as gentle fingers card through your hair, pulling and pinning it back in place. A murmur floats through from the neighboring room: muffled bickering. Your ear itches, and you dip your head to meet your shoulder to relieve it.
“Oi!” a voice barks behind you, the stern chide of your grandmother. “Quédate quieto, tú tucán.”
Sit still, you toucan.
You frown, eyes teary from the discomfort and the sting against your scalp as abuela tugs your head back. “Pero me duele,” you whine. But it hurts. “Y no quiero ser un tucán.” And I don’t wanna be a toucan.
The part of you watching as an observer, as an adult looking over a decade in the past, feels a panicked jolt in their heart. This is the exact sort of memory you feared, one that would bring you back to your family without any warning, throwing you into abuela’s mandarin-lemon perfume and wrinkled hands. You think this could be the cruelest memory for you to relive, the evening before your first parade in the Fiestas de Quito. You’re visiting an aunt, a regular parade performer who invited your family to join.
Your younger self thinks toucans are weird, with their large beaks and boring bodies. Abuela uses the nickname because you’re easily fussy and angry, ready to peck both literally and metaphorically. Chiara adopted it when she overheard you on the phone at work, claiming it still suited you.
You eye the head garments on the desk in front of you, the vibrant beak attached to a stick for you to hold to your face, a reddened tip that fades into blues and greens, swathed with a hint of yellow and orange. The front of your costume has a matching lemony yellow along the chest, but the rest is loose black fabric falling over your shoulders and back. You feel yourself frown at the sight, your younger self internally grumbling that they wanted to be a macaw. The fabric is itchy anyways, and you’re scared to dance out in the road with your family.
“I’ll stop calling you Tucán the day you stop fussing like one.”
You only frown further, temper rising as if your body wants to prove her point. A cry bubbles in your throat, nearing painful as you swallow it down. Instead you let tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. At a particularly harsh tug on your hair you ball your fists beneath your thighs, knuckles aching at the force. The headpiece is heavy and itchy when it's secured in place, and the pins dig uncomfortably in your scalp.
But then it’s done. Abuela’s hand comes down to your shoulder and squeezes gently, her warmth seeping through the rough fabric and into your skin. Her touch is firm but gentle, the touch of a grandparent. You turn to look at her carefully, accusatorily. Her face is soft, a fond smile tugging at her lips when she notices your teary eyes. She steps forward to hug you, encasing you in warmth and citrus. You bury your face into her shoulder, easily welcoming her despite your earlier annoyance. She hums, patting your head carefully.
“Lo siento,” she apologizes quietly. “You did good. Let’s try to have some fun, okay?”
You nod as she pulls away, already missing her warmth. Your hand timidly reaches for hers. She takes it easily, holding firmly as you slide off the stool and collect the beak from the table in front of you. She gives it a squeeze as you make your way to the next room together. You find the memory ironic, since the parade was a disaster; you fell and broke your ankle near the end, carried the rest of the way crying in abuela's arms.
But here with her hand in yours, you can't help but believe it might be different this time.
How long has it been since you two held hands? Your most recent memory of interlocked fingers was after she had passed, her hand limp while you squeezed it violently—on the phone with emergency services. But when did she last reach for you? Was it here in Italy, or years ago back home?
In this memory before you, her hand is rough and wrinkled, skin cracked and scarred—the telltale signs of a weathered person. She's always been worn to you, always old in your memory. Unlike the jagged surface of the earth, which fades into softness, smoothness, as it ages, people are soft from the start, warm flesh covering the sharpness of bone. Time pulls that cushion thin, until it is stripped away entirely.
Until the people themselves are stripped away—from your life and your memories.
When you blink awake in the tent, you’re kneeling on the cold ground, bottle clutched atop your thighs. Your cheeks are wet, eyes heavy and burning. There’s a similar burning in your heart, an ache and a longing that overwhelms you, makes you feel incomplete.
But there’s also a sense of peace, one you think you haven’t felt before. There’s a quietness to your pain, one that holds appreciation. It's almost content. Despite the stinging in your heart, the muscle sits still, beating slowly. Your head is clear, like you’re actually living. As if this pain is an affirmation that you are alive.
You bring the opening of the small container to your nose, breathing in light and citrus once again.
The following day, you come to the circus ready to demand answers. You want to furiously ask who is crawling through your memory, putting special moments in bottles to be experienced by someone else. You want to ask why—why they would do this. You want to ask how—how the hell it’s possible to whisk you away to another world. And who—who’s doing this?
You want to ask if it’s all for you.
You immediately turn around once you reach the entrance. Your stomach hurts, squeezing at the thought of asking your questions, at the thought of receiving answers. The coward in you leads you to a nearby cafe, hoping that an hour in brooding silence will help you muster the courage to stomp back and interrogate the entire cast.
You sit by a window nursing a hot drink, staring at people as they walk by in their coats and boots. The mug heats your hand and lips, smooths over the unsteadiness in your chest.
After some time a hand obstructs your vision, eyes forced from a garish skirt you were admiring on someone walking across the street. You’re annoyed by the diversion of your attention, then panicking when you turn to see the hand’s owner. Any shield of peace you had started to build immediately collapses at the sight of Kaminari—the friendly blond and one of the puppeteers.
“Hey!” He exclaims. “Whatcha doin’ here?”
You smile nervously by habit, unsure how to react to the ambush. Before you can come up with an answer, he asks, “Are you coming to hang out backstage again?”
You pause, suddenly embarrassed by the question. Are you being annoying? Hanging around their cast members and pretending for a moment that you're one of them? You don’t know what to say, not ready for the reaction that will arise if you affirm or deny his question. The answer is opaque even to yourself, unclear where your heart and mind are willing to compromise.
“I’m not sure,” you say honestly.
His expression doesn’t change, still an open curiosity. He blinks, as if your answer is one he didn’t prepare for.
“Oh,” he says. A silence lingers awkwardly for a moment. “You should come! If you have the time.”
Your chest crumples at the response. You don’t know why or what it means. Then you frown, realizing that the show has already started. “Wait, why are you here? Don’t you have to get ready?”
He hums in denial, the fluff of his hair bouncing as he shakes his head. “Not yet! Since I’m one of the last acts they sent me on coffee duty,” he finishes with a pout.
His head turns as an order is called, the barista slipping the last cup into a drink carrier on the counter. He turns and smiles at you. “That’s me. Help me carry them?”
You’re surprised by the request, glancing at your nearly empty mug. Kaminari doesn’t wait for an answer, already walking across the room. Body moving on its own, you down the rest of your drink and scurry to follow him. He hands you a carrier, taking another in his hand and a box of baked goods in the other.
“Yay,” is all he says, smiling warmly before leading you outside.
Your eyes narrow as you watch him, walking with a slight bounce in his step, face soft with contentment and eyes curiously taking in the surroundings of red brick, cobblestone roads.
“Your circus can’t afford delivery?” you ask, wondering why they would send a performer and not a random stagehand.
He giggles, shaking his head. “They send me on errands to get me away from the stage. I get antsy waiting for my act.”
Like a dog, you think.
You two stop at the crosswalk, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. Kaminari uses the pause to awkwardly balance the pastry box on his arm carrying the drinks, pulling out his phone to check the time. You wonder what his carrying strategy would have been had he not run into you.
“I would’ve stacked them all on top of each other,” he answers when you ask.
A vision of him tripping on the sidewalk, twelve hot drinks tumbling to the ground and splashing against his skin, flashes through your mind. You decide it was a very good thing that your cafe brooding was intercepted, even with your nerves still sitting in your chest.
You enter backstage mostly unnoticed, everyone preoccupied with watching the show on the screens or preparing for their own acts. You help put the drinks on one of the tables, near an armature that some of the athletes use for stretching. Sero’s backside is facing you as he hangs from one arm and then the other, warming his shoulders for his act. He speaks casually to the poi artist—Bakugou, standing with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face.
You avert your eyes, not letting yourself get lost in the ripples beneath Sero's costume, the way his muscles shift when he switches arms. His body looks weightless, light as he tugs and swings with ease, despite being dense with lean muscle.
You wonder how he would feel if he knew your eyes trailed his form like this, especially after last night—after you crawled your way through his memory, to live his own life for an instant. Would he grimace, losing that meaningful sheen in his eyes when they stare into yours?
When you look away you lock eyes with Uraraka. She must have just finished her act before you entered, laying on one of the lounge chairs. She lifts a hand lazily to wave. You wave back.
“Hanta!” you hear from beside you, Denki’s cheeky voice. You don’t understand the Japanese that follows, but watch as Sero turns around, a flash of embarrassment crossing his features before he hesitantly walks over.
You frown slightly at the call of his name, eyes moving down to the table as you think.
Not Hanta with a silent H, Hanta with the H, soft and breathy.
Hanta.
“Huh?” you hear him beside you. You look back up and catch a face of surprise. His cheeks are pink, flustered. Confusion washes over you briefly before it turns into embarrassment, realizing you must have said his name out loud.
“Sorry!” you say quickly. “I just—I assumed it was ‘Anta, the Spanish pronunciation. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
God, this man needs a break from you.
His mouth moves slightly, lips pressed as if suppressing something. Kaminari laughs beside you and you feel another wave of embarrassment. Your knowledge of Japanese culture is sparse, but you have the decency to recognize that you aren’t close enough to be whispering Sero’s given name to yourself.
He shakes his head, coughing gently before he assures, “It’s fine, I prefer it anyways.”
You nod dumbly, swallowing as warmth bloom in your cheeks. Kaminari hands Sero his order, slender fingers removing the lid of the dark drink before holding it to his nose for an inhale. You look away, hand slipping into your pocket to clutch the green marble between the fabric. Last night you took that bottle with you, the one with abuela tucked away inside, but when you left the tent it became nothing but a small glass sphere. You want to yank it aggressively from your pocket and put it on display, demanding answers for what you saw… and why you can’t have it again. Your stomach tightens.
Others filter over, thanking Kaminari for the drinks and rummaging through the box of snacks. You relax at the sight of Momo, talking animatedly about the show tonight. Shouto and Touya make an appearance shortly, acts finished. Sero is quiet, you notice, more subdued than the previous days. You can overhear his conversation with Kaminari, but it’s incomprehensible, rapid Japanese, as you try to maintain yours with Momo.
Your eyes lock once, but he looks away first. Your stomach clenches again.
You wait with Momo before her act, near the opening towards the stage. She stands confidently, eager to make her way to her performance.
“I’m amazed by how not-nervous you are,” you tell her.
She smiles softly. “I’m certainly nervous, but more excited than anything. When I first started performing, as a teenager, I could hardly find the courage to stand on stage.”
You stroke your thumb over the marble in your pocket, the memory of your own first performance—your discomfort and your nerves and the disaster that followed. Your face twists with uncertainty.
“Break a leg?” you offer, then regret. Is that a phrase used in the circus? Are you cursing her?
“Thanks,” she answers with a smile.
She eventually parts the curtain to take her place on the darkened stage, leaving you at the edge between the inner and the outer—the carefully crafted world of performance, and the mess of construction behind it. You squeeze the marble in your pocket, taking it out to confirm its existence. In the dim light you can hardly tell it’s green, but there are shiny speckles scattered within, reflecting silvery light sweeping over. They’re layered throughout the clump of glass, everywhere and endless.
You exhale and turn to walk back to the main room. You jump in surprise when you see Sero, shadowed in the corner by the entrance. He bristles when you jolt, marble falling from your hand with a clack and rolling towards him. You feel your stomach drop, filling with dread—the fear of losing something.
“Sorry!” he says, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He crouches to pick it up before you can tell him not to bother. His hand pauses briefly before carefully grasping the small object. Your heart buzzes as it rolls to the center of his palm, his fingers folding to gently squeeze it. When he stands, his arm stretches to return it, and you have the urge to shiver when his fingers brush yours. They're warm. Hot, even. When he pulls away, the marble is safe in the center of your cupped palm.
The expression he wears is complicated, but you think he mostly looks confused. “A keepsake?”
You aren’t sure if he means for the circus or something else. You want to ask him if he recognizes it, what it means. How it can hold something so important and so vivid. All you can manage is, “I found it yesterday. In the festival.”
He looks surprised, shooting a sliver of disappointment through your chest. You want to frown at the feeling, your hope fluttering away. You hoped he knew what it was. A part of you hoped that he was the one orchestrating the tent to begin with, that he was letting you in himself.
“It’s pretty,” he says.
You nod. When you tuck the marble safe into your pocket again, you relax.
Sero looks calmer too, shoulders a little lower and face softened. You’re distracting him, you think, from his anxiety for his performance. You smile, an attempt to reassure him. His lips part slightly, eyes gently widening before they crinkle at the edges, teeth displaying in a crooked grin. The warmth that floods through you is palpable, embarrassing, such an intense feeling for someone you don't know. But you grin back excitedly, that bubbling of child-like giddiness strong in your chest.
The tent tonight is empty, void of tables and shelves and little objects to touch or open. Instead it is endless, one never-ending tunnel, stretching impossibly far. The light above is still dim, soft and warm as it casts against the fabric edges, illuminating just strong enough to reveal the floor. A vibrant mosaic swirls below, clusters of colored glass slotting neatly together, white plaster spacing them apart while also holding them together in place. The shards by your feet are a rhythmic pattern of white and yellow and red, the beautiful warmth of a corn snake. It looks alive from a distance, a breathing monster when the light flickers across the tiny tiles. You take a step, and the refraction offers the illusion that it is slithering away.
One more step lands you on the tail, and immediately you are surrounded by bright purple. Tall lengths of purple, like giant knives that bend and sway, streaks of pale gold and neon green running through them. You feel yourself tread forwards, the vibrations of your movement reverberating through your belly, rubbing against the ground beneath you. Your head darts to the side, tongue flickering to smell the air. It only takes you another moment to realize you are the snake, slithering through a sea of grass, grass that is warped by an infrared vision. Maybe stalking, waiting, enjoying the dapples of light that peek through the canopy above you, warming the smooth scales that line down your body.
The change in perspective is alarming, unsettling. But it’s exciting, watching the world through unreliable eyes, instead letting a new sense guide you. There’s damp, cool air resting on your tongue, refreshingly crisp. Your body curls freely, waving through divots in the ground, brushing against a rough stone along your path.
You fade in and out of animal metamorphosis, reappearing as a human in the tent at the head of the snake, now walking forwards towards the extended paw of a gray wolf, glimmering reflective triangles scrunched into clusters of fluff. When your shoe makes contact with the edge, green and yellow floods your vision and the scent of pine takes over. You walk along soft needles that carpet the ground.
Next you’re a fish darting through warm water, gills breathing deeply as you slot yourself between corals. Then a polar bear, giant paws carrying along endless sheets of ice and leaving indents in the soft layer of powder on top. A dragonfly, world separated in two warped globes as you clumsily land on a bundle of brush leaning into a river’s edge. As an octopus you roll your tentacled body along the ocean floor, curling and grasping a closed mussel in your row of suckers. Your body is heavy and slow as a tortoise, but completely content with itself dragging against dry dirt. And then you’re a howling monkey, grasping swaying branches to swing through a jungle canopy. The air rushes against your face. You feel free.
This trail of other lives, the opportunity to live as another, is almost a gentler, more lighthearted version of what the tent offered you last night. You walk along the path greedily, giddy as you inhabit other species, get to be small or big or something you never imagined.
(Maybe you are all the same—creatures living for their very first time, as earnestly as you can while you try your hardest to survive, or even to live. To make do with the vessels you inhabit and to explore every crevice of what you’ve been offered. Whether it’s the sky or the sea or the dirt, there is a place for you to be.
There are so many places to be, so many purposes to fulfill. How does one choose?)
The next mosaic is a vibrant green bird, the long length of the guacamaya verde: the green macaw, your military macaw. You pause, brain stuttering at the sight. Are these tents really… for you? But why? Who has any reason to go through this effort, to share such… secrets.
Secrets, because that’s what they are. Impossible moments and experiences, precious memories that you can’t even match to their owners.
You step forward, body falling through the sky as you fly in the body of a green macaw. That overwhelming feeling of freedom rushes through you again, chest light against the wind and face soaking in the breeze. The world is expansive and sharp and saturated. You can see the canopy below you, giant fanning leaves and clusters of tall, tall grasses. There are blooms of orange, the flaming flowers of the Llama del Bosque—The Flame of the Forest.
The sky is vast and blue and yours. Endless freedom, endless choice. Nothing holding you down, nothing clipping at your wings to prevent your journey forwards. The joy is uncontainable, bubbling from your throat in the form of excited chirping. You laugh at the sound, manifesting as a squawk that pulls more laughs from your chest.
There’s a response, another call in the distance. Your head twists, neck craning towards the sound. The small ruffles of feathers across your neck brush the skin beneath, making you twitch and shiver, body faltering in the air as your wings tilt. You dip slightly, arcing through the atmosphere as you search for the origins of the sound.
Another green macaw swoops to your side from above, chirping. It's an emerald against the sapphire of the sky, shimmering. Large wings flap beside you, nearly brushing your own. Your heart swells, never having been this close and intimate with a bird before. As a human you are a distant admirer, watching content from the ground as they whoosh above you. But now you’re here next to one, as one, comrades gliding through the sky, chartreuse swathes of paint in a canvas of cerulean blue.
You coast together, soaring through air and wind. Your new friend tilts forward, dipping to swoop to the ground before soaring far beneath you. Your heart rises to your throat with nerves, but you take the plunge and dive down to meet it.
Cold air rushes past you as you find yourself running through the stalls. You yelp in surprise, and the lack of warning before you were removed from the sky. Now you stumble on two legs, trying to slow yourself while simultaneously reacclimating to being on land, body falling forwards as you barely catch yourself.
You’re finally stable, chest heaving as you stand by a market tent, the clink of change and mumbling of exchanges bringing you back to earth. Your body is on fire, tingling with life and anticipation. You turn your head quickly, confused how you arrived here, back through the front of the tent and into the row of artists. Nobody looks surprised by your appearance, not blinking an eye as they pass, caught in their own worlds.
You turn helplessly, body buzzing with disbelief. There’s a giddiness in your chest—the belief in something impossible. Otherworldly.
The red-draped tent stands quietly, unassuming, soft folds spilling onto the plaza floor. You walk towards it slowly, curiously. When you pull the curtain back and step inside again, it’s the small, empty, ordinary space of a covered market tent. A part of your heart clenches in disappointment, wanting to relive that special feeling or freedom and flight over and over again. Then it stutters, painful with an emotion that touches on pride, maybe spiteful glee at the implication that the tent was for you. That it emptied itself after it carried you on your intended journey.
You step back into the markets with a skip, giddiness uncontained. You’re a child again, impatient to move, to do something. The stalls blur as you flit through them, weaving along the people and rows with a thrill.
You see Momo.
The world of glee you’re lost in comes to an end momentarily. You falter, conflicted as you watch her bend to a knee next to a young boy—a fan bouncing with excitement for a photo. You haven’t stayed long enough to see any of the cast the past two nights, running away too soon or too quickly. But here’s an opportunity right before you, a potential answer.
She approaches you first.
“Are you enjoying your evening?” she asks.
“Of course,” you reply honestly. More words bubble at the entrance of your mouth—vulnerable questions, skeptical demands—but they don’t manage to escape.
“It’s a beautiful night.”
You hum in agreement, and leave it at that.
When the next day comes, you tell yourself you need to stop, that this itch you have to run back, the anticipation you can’t shake off, is a fog over your mind, not allowing you to think clearly. Deluded thoughts of running away start to seep into your brain. You try to remind yourself that it’s not a delusion; they want you, Kendo’s offer being proof. Then you think you’re delusional for believing it.
You wonder if you should take a break, stay away for one night to let your mind reset and have a sense of tranquility. Not this habit of chasing cravings—dreams and fantasies of running away with them, never looking back. How can you do that with a box of ashes in your living room, an anchor chaining you down. You repeat this to yourself, a mantra as you push fabric under the needle, glide scissors through careful outlines of a pattern to stitch together.
But when the evening comes, you can’t stay away.
This time when you pull the flap open and step inside, you nearly trip into a vast pool of still water. You land on a gondola, rocking harshly from your clumsy footing. You manage to grasp the edge of the wooden boat, holding your body rigid as it eventually comes to a still.
Before you is a pond, or maybe an ocean, a clear blue body of water reflecting the brightness of the sky. There’s a faint blush of orange seeping from the horizon, sun hovering a few degrees above the surface. It must be a lake, with the giant, twisting mandarin tree that stands before you. The trunk is thick and sturdy, giant bundles of leaves bursting from the top and sprinkled with clusters of oranges. You’ve never met a tree this massive, at least ten times the size of its standard.
At the base of the trunk, where bark meets water, the surrounding surface is filled with fallen leaves and oranges. They float calmly, mirroring the canopy above. A wind rustles your boat and the branches, leaves chattering—whispering to each other. Two oranges break from their stems, plummeting below. They sink at first, spurting water from their point of impact. A wave rolls through, gentle ripples disturbing the silent blanket of green and orange.
You breathe, citrus and clarity entering your lungs, your mind. Everything is quiet. Still.
Your eyes sweep the gondola, its dark and empty body. Feet move carefully along the bottom, the vessel rocking with each step. You grasp the handle of the oar once it's in reach, tucked in the elbow of the fórcola, and lift to place the long rod into the divot at the top. You pull experimentally, the bow slicing through blue ripples; you and the boat trudge forward as one—awkwardly curving to the left.
Your movements are unpracticed, never having been the one to pilot a gondola before, only ever the passenger. The boat rocks choppily with your command, switching directions constantly and moving with no predictable pattern. But it’s fun. You laugh when your steering propels you in the opposite direction you intended. The sound expands into the vast space beyond, carried by another breeze that flutters across your skin.
The tree is still out of reach, likely another ten minutes of amateur paddling. But you notice an orange floating in the water, only an arms length away. Quickly you tuck the oar securely before you carefully lean over the edge to grab the fruit.
The pads of your fingers brush the skin—smooth and wet. Slightly bumpy. And then it’s soft. Papery thin, folding under the pressure of your touch.
It opens into the bloom of a lotus flower.
You startle at the change, boat jerking at the force of your reaction. The water jostles, lotus wavering on the rough surface, but it looks calm, unworried. Content to ride out the wave. The air has a stronger tang of citrus, a cloud of orange spreading through the air.
Your miraculous touch persists as you slowly approach the tree, transforming the little fruits into opened flowers, crowns of orange with fiery red edges. They look like layers of sharp spoons, folds of colored paper, licks of flame reaching back for you. But they’re cool to the touch, soft, thin.
As your boat cuts through clusters of oranges, parting them through the water like lanterns floating through the night, you reach for them, entranced at their unfolding. Flowering. The moment feels too beautiful, too peaceful for you to be a part of it. You don’t understand how your fingers, oftentimes nothing but hurried, rushed, clumsy appendages, could have such a magical effect. How they can transform. Create.
Reveal.
As the sun dips down, kissing the horizon, orange floods your vision. The sky becomes the petal of a lotus, red and orange and pink melding into one another, like blotches of ink seeping through cotton. The water is a liquid mirror, a chameleon to the sky, and the little lotus flowers nearly vanish, lost to the quilt of warmth they are sewn atop of.
You breathe deeply, calmly. Fresh, warm, citrus air fills you. You think if abuela were a color it would be orange. That fleshy inside of a limón mandarina: covered in green skin, a citrus that leans a little more sharp, a little more sour than the one you’re surrounded by now. This one is soft, sweet, with an orange skin that matches its inside, with leaves of a deeper green than you’re familiar with. But it’s equally warm, equally loving.
The peace in your heart is unfamiliar, one you haven't known for years. You bask in the balmy light of the falling sun, the hazy glow of a light burning out. You bask in the security of your feelings, your strength, your ability to remember, and to remember with ease.
When the sun finally dips, extinguishing its light into the water below, you are on firm ground. Unwavering ground. Steady ground. There are no lights above you or water beneath, just solid earth.
Your tranquility persists when you step out into the night air, body completely at ease. The world has a new sense of clarity, reality that you can experience freely. Free of shackles to your own mind and fears. Free of questions terrorizing your heart.
Free of embarrassment, when you bump into Sero near the musicians.
He looks surprised to see you, or maybe nervous. You aren’t entirely sure, only able to observe wide eyes, a slight pink across his cheeks, a smile that doesn’t quite split his face. But you take it in stride, lips curving softly as you greet him.
“Hi Sero,” you greet, then pause. “Hanta,” you correct yourself, his given name still unfamiliar to your tongue and mind.
“Hey,” he says. It’s breathy. Soft. You hear clearly over the ambiance of the music and the crowd, somehow.
You don’t respond, feeling no reason to, letting your eyes sweep through the plaza instead.
“Are you… enjoying yourself?”
You hum as you turn back to him. “Yeah,” you say. “Tonight’s been… really good.”
His face twitches, lips tugging higher up his cheeks before they’re smothered back down. His eyes relax. You think his shoulders drop slightly.
A silence passes through you, a third presence to mediate your conversation. You accept it easily, let it hang in the space as you stand towards the edge of the scene. Moments go by. You let them.
“Care to dance?” Sero—Hanta asks abruptly.
You feel your cheeks tighten, lips stretching as you look down at yourself, your mismatch of patterned pants and too-big shirt. Chunky boots that would crush his toes. Then you turn to him, eyes crinkled with amused concern. You tap your horrible, chunky boot against the toe of his shoe.
“Only if you’re brave enough.”
Sero’s face breaks into a crooked grin. You watch his eyes unfocus, darkness smearing against his skin, hiding in the crease of his eyelids. His lashes are long, you realize, dark feathery strings that frame honest expressions. And his teeth are so bright, boasting a smile that shines.
No more words pass between you, silence still a third participant in your conversation. It’s only long glances, eyes flittering over features. An occasional yelp or grimace when you inevitably step on his toes.
But you’re at ease. At peace. Warm, with his hands on you.
The feeling does not persist to the morning.
In the rising sun you are a regretful creature, face flaming against your pillow—in attempt to suffocate yourself—as you recount the night before. The ability to let go, to exist in the moment and in complete peace, is a distant dream. Now you are embarrassed. Panicked.
When you rise and check your phone, there is a missed call from your sister. You drag your thumb across the screen to send the notification out of sight. Out of mind.
You arrive at Chiara’s early, letting yourself in to find her sitting in the living room. She grimaces as her eyes sweep over you.
You’re in your dress of stars. Bunches of sleek, dark fabric spill over your figure, elegantly taught against your waist and tightly wrapped around your torso. The shape is littered with glimmering flickers of silver, star-shaped stones and beads and gems sewn delicately into the skirt. A feathery length of ribbon is tied to each one, sheer silk that lifts as you walk, taken by the rush of your movement. The same misty fabric coats your arms in loose pleated waves.
You think you’d look captivating, ethereal even, if you didn’t pair it with a bright red beanie and thick, yellow-plaid coat. You smile, assuming they’re also the source of your friend’s disdain.
“I’m afraid to find out what shoes you’re wearing.”
You pinch the fabric around your thighs and lift, tendrils of frosted ribbons swaying as you reveal your most dirty, weathered, casual sneakers—once white but now grey, or maybe brown. Chiara scowls.
You linger quietly as she readies, heart nervous and distracted. It’s the final show, the last night of the festival. Likely the last night of secret, quiet little tents. Tents made just for you.
After she changes she shoves a jacket into your hands—a matching black with a sheen instead of rough felt and fleece. You pout, knowing you won’t be as warm, attempting to make a compromise that you’ll take it off when you’re inside, but she won’t have it. You manage to argue for your shoes, but she yanks the hat from your head as you exit her home, tossing it behind the door before locking it quickly. She ignores your protests and pushes you towards the elevators.
When you settle comfortably in your seats, jacket shrugged from your shoulders as you expected under the warmth of the canvas top, it nears half an hour to the start of the show. Chiara grumbles next to you at the punctuality.
“Scusami,” you apologize half-heartedly. “I’m excited.”
Her furrowed eyebrows and scrunched mouth soften, features smoothing as she rolls her eyes. You grin. She averts her eyes, glossy nails threading through the pages of the performance booklet.
“Sorry in advance for my lack of enthusiasm.”
“It’s fine,” you tell her. You know she doesn’t understand why you chase these shows. This one is even further from her range of interest, since the masks leave little to be studied from a cosmetic standpoint. “Thanks for coming anyway.”
She scoffs. “Of course.”
Seeing the show a second time in full and in the audience has a special quality. The first had the element of surprise, a suspense that gripped you tightly. This time you’re full of anticipation, and as Midoriya told you when you met—spending time backstage and seeing the hidden parts of the show help you appreciate it more, better understand the amount of work and skill that went into certain acts: to achieve ideal transitions, to tell the story.
Momo's act is executed perfectly for the last time—the last time here, in the city where you made her gown. The last time here, with you in the audience. The last time here, you floundering in uncertainty. You would tear up easily if it weren't for Chiara's nails digging into your arm.
Even after several days of seeing snippets of the show, of catching performers in costume and preparing backstage, you aren't prepared to watch Sero's performance. He's more captivating than the first time you watched him, stealing your focus and your breath as he moves. Would it be weird to ask for a recording? For some way to watch him in the future? Are you going to be cursed with mere flashes of his movements for the rest of your life, wishing you could see him again?
You try not to stare, in case your friend catches you. But you give up in an instant, accepting that you set yourself up for failure.
When the show runs its course and the audience makes to leave, Chiara’s grip on your hand is painful.
“What the hell was that!?” she exclaims over the rushing of the crowd.
“What? The last performance?” You can admit the giant, mechanical puppets were unexpected, but you think they worked well for the show and as promotional pieces.
“The whole fucking show! And shit Tucano—your dress!”
You laugh, nodding in agreement.
“Do you know that guy, the white haired one doing the handstands?” Her eyes are wide, boring into yours with interrogation. “I think the booklet said his name is—Shigaraki?”
Your face twists in confusion. “We were introduced, but I haven’t spoken to him much.” He’s quiet and kept to himself, though you aren’t sure if that’s limited to his backstage personality.
You make a face when you realize what she’s thinking. Your eyes drop in disbelief, lips tightening in a line when she asks, “Introduce me?”
“You can introduce yourself,” you say. The row finally clears and you step from the line of seats to walk towards the stage. The guard is the same as the one from the first night; this time he doesn’t stop you from climbing up the steps and through the curtain.
The room is in a frenzy when you enter, many of the actors half undressed as they change into their festival costumes for the last time. Some scurry to begin the process of deconstructing the props. Large trays of catered food lay on folding tables near the center of the room, plates and bowls unfinished and scattered around the space.
Momo is by the entrance when you walk in, still in full costume, to give you a hug. The embrace is tender, soft and warm as you carefully bring your arms to her waist to return it.
“What an incredible first week!” she exclaims when you pull away. Her eyes shine with glee and pride. “Quite possibly the best we could have imagined.”
“You deserve it,” you tell her. “I’m so happy for everyone. And it was a dream… to be able to be part of this.”
The edges of Momo’s eyes deepen while her dark irises shine. She blinks rapidly before grasping your hand. “Don’t act like this is our goodbye. We still have Carnival.” The Ambrosia Carnival—happening for the next three days, where the crew and puppets will be paraded.
“Are you going to be free? To get dinner with Kendou and myself before you leave?” she asks.
You nod eagerly. Momo’s eyes sweep to Chiara, then back to you. The looks you exchange are an agreement that you’ll work out the details later.
In the meantime you introduce your friend to the cast. Chiara stands confidently, shaking hands and explaining her work. Her English is more refined than yours, her accent less noticeable and language more eloquent. Sometimes you forget this side of her, used to crass Italian that lovingly insults you—not unlike your sister’s Spanish. Your sister… You briefly wonder if she acts like Chiara when she’s working. Her missed call comes back to your mind. You shake the thought away.
When you return to the present, Chiara is gone from your side. You frown and look around the room, eyes widening when you see her enthusiastically talking to Shigaraki. He looks intimidated, almost cornered, and you watch with uncertainty if you should interfere.
“Is that your friend?”
You turn to Sero’s voice, sending a mental apology to the white-haired man, knowing you won’t move to save him. You hum in affirmation. “Chia. She can be kind of intense.”
You itch to compliment him, ramble on about his performance, the fluidity and the beauty of it. How it still takes your breath away despite having seen it several times by now. Then you remember the way you stepped on his toes last night, your giant boots making your movements choppy and clumsy. You fight a grimace, clenching your jaw at the memory. He deserves the compliment.
“Your performance was incredible, again,” you muster.
His embarrassed smile makes a piece of you tense, wanting to curl your toes and clench your fist as you watch his eyebrows curve upwards, like he’s ready to dismiss it. You bite your tongue.
“Your dress…” he trails off, unsure how to finish.
You brighten. It’s the first anyone has mentioned it tonight. “Oh! It borrows from Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda. I mean, it’s inspired by the fifth chapter. I wanted to play around with the concept of the stars, and I like the way it moves.”
You twist your hips slightly, letting the skirt twirl and sway gently over your legs. The sheer ribbons float along, a delayed trail of strings. An afterimage of your figure.
Sero’s lips part slightly as he watches the rustle of fabric. You think you can see awe, striking a giddy warmth through your chest.
A voice sounds behind you, deep with a rise towards the end that borders condescending. You don’t understand the words, Japanese, but you feel like they’re meant for you. A flash of irritation crosses Sero’s face, eyes darting behind you in a glare that almost makes you nervous.
You turn to see the Todoroki brothers. The younger one speaks when your eyes meet. “Don’t mind Touya, he doesn’t speak English.” He pauses. “And he insulted your shoes.”
You laugh, eyebrows raising curiously. “What did he say?”
Todoroki shakes his head. “It was rather crude.”
Neither Sero or Todoroki entertain your pleading for answers, and you’re forced to pout in your ignorance while the eldest grins to himself. His smile is sharp and glinting, a knife against skin. You remember Kendo’s comment: that he was originally apprehensive to join the circus. You wonder why, with how comfortable he looks with everyone. What held him back, and what finally convinced him?
You don’t ask, instead getting pulled into further conversation about your dress. Sero pesters you to take some of the food, offering a plate that you gently refuse. Only then does Chiara materialize next to you, graciously taking the dish that you won’t.
“Hey—” you try to stop her.
Sero grins. “It’s fine. There’s always extra. Please, take some too.”
Chiara grunts when you shake your head. “There’s no way you're passing up catering from la Brisa.”
You can’t relate right now, stomach sporting faint knots. They were easy to ignore at the beginning of the night, distracted by Chiara’s bickering and the show. But with each minute you get closer to wandering through market stalls, walking your way into that tent one final time. You’re too excited to eat—too nervous, even.
“I agree.” Hanta adds with a grin. He turns to Chiara. “I’m Sero, by the way.”
You pause, frowning as your friend introduces herself after Todoroki. You look at Sero skeptically, then as blankly as you can, ruminating on why he called himself Sero. I prefer Hanta, he told you.
“Tucano?”
You blink, mind returning as Chiara taps her nail against your arm.
“Hmm?”
“I asked if you were gonna be okay, if I left before the festival,” she says, eyeing you. “There’s a club that just opened, but I need to change if I go.”
You frown. “It’s a Wednesday?”
Her face contorts between a grimace and a look of disgust.
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine.” You smile at her gently, gratefully. “Thanks for coming.”
“Always, birdie.” You can hear the softness beneath her dismissal. You wave her off.
When you step in the tent for a final time, you fall.
It’s a plummet of surrender. The void is vast and consuming, the darkness of a night sky. A black piece of paper dotted with needles, a sheet of silken fabric pulled taught, lightness seeping through the threads. Your body burns against the rush of air, a meteor, a streak of fire in the coldest abyss, the vacuum of space and time. You let it take you, pull you through one final journey. The fall is fast and terrifying, stomach heavy as if you swallowed the weight yanking you down. But it’s safe. Free.
You touch land like a blazing arrow, fiery hot as you roll against the ground, body slowing as you tumble through long grasses. They are black, narrow blades that wave in the night, slivers of silver streaked down their bodies like shards of the moon. The vegetation is a cool mist against your searing skin. You roll slowly, turning gently onto your back when you finally lose momentum. You’re left staring into the sea of sparkles you just fell from.
When you sit up, you see that there is no end to the meadow in sight, not until you turn and greet looming, jagged mountains standing over your backside. They’re intense, watchful, protective of the moon, its light obscured behind their sharp figures. It’s all grass otherwise, rolling hills of hair blowing in a soft breeze. All grass, with one large pond carved into the carpet of the earth ahead of you.
You take your time approaching, crawling slowly through the grassland. A childish grin tugs at your mouth, feeling like a lion parading through its kingdom. The greenery rustles under every step, crunching beneath your hands and knees. You think if you were a lion you could feel the roughness of your paw against the fibers, your fur tickling your skin, mobile joints shifting under flesh.
The water in the pond is still, not a single ripple in motion. It’s surface is impossibly reflective, silver glass that captures every detail of the sky in sharp precision. When you lean over to get a glimpse of yourself, it’s not your own face that looks back at you.
The figure is dark, a shadow against the freckling of stars that twinkle from above. The silhouette is not yours. You freeze, heart racing as you are struck with realization.
Without hesitation, moving purely on instinct, you lean to dip your fingers into the pond, fist hovering over a cluster of stars, the face of Lepus’ skeletal form. You pull.
Bright, shining threads float through the air, silken lengths of stardust. They shimmer, glow under the gaze of the moon. You stretch the stars like silk, like you’ve dreamt since the day your eyes read chapter five of that mysterious little book. It’s a beautiful sight, the twisted, bright fibers floating through the night with every cluster you pull. Most shine silver and white. You notice a particularly thick thread with an orange hue—Jupiter, you think. Another is bright red. Mars.
You aren’t sure how to weave your stars and planets, holding the bundle of threads like a tuft of hair near the base. A braid could work, the closest weave you know to an actual rope. You imagine abuela scoffing as she watches you, retaining nothing from all the years you watched her work her loom. When you begin to separate the clusters of string, flitted through your fingers, a hand comes through the water to grasp your wrist.
At the heat of the touch, the searing contact of a palm and fingers over your skin, you are certain that Sero is on the other side.
He tugs you close, body falling through the portal of water, and you are once again shooting through the night sky. This time Sero falls beside you, one hand over your wrist and the other around your waist. Your body is burning again, searing as if his touch is everywhere, pressed deep into your side and holding you impossibly close. His face is still obscured, body still a void of darkness, a black hole. But you have no doubt it’s him. A tremor runs through you, heart beating rapidly as it pumps more heat throughout your body.
The universe is palpable, a tangible surface that you strike together. The stars are scattered beneath you as you are jostled in Sero’s—Hanta’s—protective arms. You want to press your face into his chest, dissolve into him as he cradles you, tumbling through stardust. After two more rolls you come to a still, laying gently on top of him, his chest a steady ocean wave beneath you. One of your arms comes beside him to lift yourself up, peering down. His face is illuminated in the moonlight, no longer a blank mysterious figure. You can see the white of his eyes blown wide, cheeks noticeably darker than usual. You watch him closely, unable to speak or look away as your body tingles, heart still pounding, racing through your chest and throat as you think of something to say. Anything. You feel weak under his gaze, arm a tremoring pillar.
The stars sparkle beneath him, like fine spheres of glass. When you clench your hand to try and steady yourself, shift for better footing, you realize it is glass. Sand. Black sand, the kind that twinkles in the day, a starry sky in the sun. You’re the first to break eye contact, sweeping past Hanta and across the shore. Your shore. The black sand of the Eastern coast—deep and rugged against clear blue waters that look murky in the night.
There’s a tug at your hand: Hanta, having stood without you noticing. You let him pull you, words still frozen as you watch his cautious face. He looks afraid. You are too.
He leads you to the water, your feet—now somehow bare despite still in your cosmic dress—pressing into the lapping waves. They don’t sink until they touch sand, instead pressing against the surface of the water, your sole a hydrophobic pad that can’t break through. Sero pauses once you’ve taken a few steps, turning to look back at you before he continues forward.
The trust is easy, natural. You think nothing of the disappearing shoreline, only looking ahead. It’s easy with him guiding you.
The sky lightens as you cross the ocean, black becoming a deep blue that lifts from the horizon, evaporating as vibrant orange takes its place, eventually fading into bright, constant cerulean. The sun waves through the air, eventually floating directly above you. Your heart steadies, slows, as you jog over the ocean in tandem. There is only peace, bliss. Freedom. It’s just you and Sero and the sound of the water. Sero doesn’t look back, not since the initial step off the shore. Only when a new form of land enters your sight—close enough for you to see sand—does he take another glance. His face is still smothered with worry. Your trust is still firm, but your heart wavers at his uncertainty. What is he doubting?
When your feet touch sand for a second time, tan clusters of shell and stone dust, it is fiery hot against your skin. Searing like Hanta, his hand still pulling yours. You run through jagged rocks and grasses, uphill, towards the back of a house. It’s small, with a sun-bleached deck. It looks familiar.
When you reach the deck, wood creaking under your weight as Sero pulls you through the backdoor, your vision flashes with the memory of a sleek black bottle. Then it’s you, sitting on the bench holding a maracuya to your lips, abruptly jumping to run inside and greet abuelita. You are once again in the warm confines of Hanta’s memory, this time as you. This time with him, to guide you through.
The inside of the house is empty, but you remember your way to the front door. You think he’s going to stop, open it and greet his abuelita. But he only pushes through, pulling you out of his childhood home as quickly as you entered it.
When you fall through the portal of the front door, his touch disappears.
You come to a stop, head spinning from the suddenness. Your ears fill with the thrum of layered chatter, dozens, if not hundreds of people surrounding you. You frown as you look around, at the new scene smearing into focus. A road stretches beneath you, dark pavement a runway for people dressed in a variety of parade outfits, flanked by neoclassical facades. It’s a sea of white in front of you, sprinkled with bright red and occasionally some blue. You’re the shortest in the crowd. When you look down to your own outfit, the layered chiffon of your dress is replaced with loose black fabric, the only color a swipe of lemon yellow across your chest.
You are once again a child about to dance through Fiestas de Quito—as a toucan.
Your head turns frantically, scanning your surroundings for your family. Your heart pounds in your ears, childhood nerves resurfacing despite being over a decade older. You think no matter how old you are, how many years have flown by, reliving this moment will always return you to the delicate glass of a child’s nerves, emotions so overwhelming all you can do is look for someone to reassure you.
The anxiety lifts, releasing from your stomach and your chest and your shoulders when you spot abuela, wrapped in cerulean and yellow fabrics as the blue and gold macaw. Mamá stands beside her with her hand in your sister’s, an aracari and hummingbird.
Your feet act first, scraping the rubber of your shoes against the pavement as you scurry over. Abuela’s hand is warm when you take it, the final balm you need to soothe the prickle in your chest. She smiles at you softly, encouragingly, face wrinkling as she walks forward to follow the next group of performers. Your heartbeat picks up again, skin flushing in preemptive embarrassment from the dance you’ll perform along the street.
But abuela is stable, walking forwards with a calm confidence that makes you think it’ll be okay. Your eyes dart to your sister and mother, stomach squeezing with envy at their shining eyes and hops of uncontained excitement. You feel a squeeze at your hand, a reminder that you’re okay. That it’s okay to be nervous and subdued.
Dancing through the streets of Quito is not exactly as you remember. The beginning is identical to your memory, your nerves churning, feet stuttering clumsily as you falter through your routine. Your eyes sting, lip wobbling as you scan the crowd—full of people watching you struggle through movements you practiced for so long. But abuela holds you firm, guiding you along. The warm, rough touch of her hand is your north star, a constant and a weight that keeps you tethered to the ground. Your other hand clutches the base of your mask, a dowel with that large, vibrant beak—a shield for your burning face.
You don’t remember enjoying the parade, only existing as a torturous memory. Even now, you wait anxiously for the moment you fall and break your ankle, anticipation clouding your heart. But somehow, soon enough you’re having fun, feet and body taking charge as your mind fades into the back. Is it because of abuela? Or even Sero, wherever he's gone? Regardless, you feel the grin on your face, the warmth in your chest as you deliver the practiced movements of your dance. The child in you is gleeful, hopeful. The costume is no longer an itchy cage, but a dressing for your movements as you finally settle into the music and the performance.
Before you know it, your hand is gone from abuela’s, giving you the freedom to twirl. You spin happily, face rushing through the open air. When you recenter to the front of the street, your eyes sweep through the crowd. A boy your age is watching closely, eyes wide with awe and mouth slightly agape. He’s dressed in bright patterned stripes, a contrast to dark hair and eyes. One of his hands is lifted, grasped by the woman standing behind him. Your free hand comes up to wave, passing your excitement through the air with a massive grin.
You watch an excited smile cross his face, expanding like an inhale, and you realize that it’s Hanta.
You don’t continue down the street to the end of the parade route. You don’t fall near the end, leaving the festival shaking with sobs and hiccups. Instead the world fades away in that moment, the crowd morphing around you, sky darkening, music shifting from horns and drums to the strumming of a guitar, all while you hold Hanta’s gaze.
You’re in Milan, flanking the live musicians at the circus festival as you stare at this man—his earnest, nervous expression—and wonder why the world is so cruel for not bringing him to you sooner.
"i'm never writing imagery every again," i say, lying.
when i first wrote this part i was like "this one's my favorite :')" and then i wrote the next part and the part after that and said nvm.
la Brisa is a real ristorante that i've never been to and honestly don't even know if they do catering but i'm so tired of researching that i can't be bothered anymore.
You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.
[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]
part 2: veiled by the daytime sky.
sero hanta x reader
ch 2/6 | 11.4k words | masterlist | ao3
cw: slight spoilers for the war arc/fights if you squint
notes: ch songs are birds of a feather by billie eilish, saltwater room by owl city
you watch the circus performance of a lifetime.
✰.
"It's all so familiar yet I know I've never been here before. I feel so at home."
-Sophie, from Howl's Moving Castle
You wake up in your own home.
Despite the excitement and thrill of the night, the buzzing through your body came to a halt when your dance with the stranger ended. You tried, gave a valiant effort to continue, but your heart felt heavy. You were missing something—a partner. In an attempt to sooth your melodrama, you purchased another round of taiyaki, hoping to suffocate your delusions with the fluff of pastry and dense red bean paste. When that failed, all you felt was the pull to be home, comfortable in your bed. You heeded Chiara’s offer and took the metro home, ignoring that you’d have to get your garment bag and box in the future regardless. Then you took the train back, showered your fastest shower, and laid in bed curled around your precious book, fingers threading through the pages. It felt more real, somehow, after running into that man.
You turn over in your bed, squinting at the morning light crawling through the room. You blink a couple times, trying to smear your vision to clarity as you notice the grey of the sky. When your focus sharpens, you catch light tufts of snow gently falling.
It’s enough to have you leaping out of bed, hopping and stumbling as you untangle the giant comforter from your legs. When you free yourself you run across the room, planting your hands on the windowsill and pressing your face against the glass. Joy blooms in your chest, watching puffy whiteness cling to the pavement and grass.
You think today will be incredible.
It’s also a working day, you decide, to spend your morning on the start of your next order: another opera gown. You make your breakfast unhurried before slipping on a coat and into the garage. The door to the driveway opens with its usual squeaky greeting, and you step outside with a smile. Your hands raise, outstretched to the sky to catch the softly falling snow. You tilt your head upwards, scrunching your nose when a bundle of flakes lands on the tip.
It takes a while for you to start working, first pulling out sketches from the meeting with your client. You spread them across your work table, shoving unnecessary ones aside, some of them falling to the ground. Next you scan them for the measurements you jotted down, outlined with a bright yellow square. Notes for colors and textures are scribbled underneath, with a crude sketch of lace swirls. You rummage through your rolls and scraps and samples, looking for fabrics that match best. You take a picture of three similar options, asking your client for her preference. You set an alarm before switching off your phone and pulling out the dress pattern, to start on the bust.
You work steadily, taking your time to cut and pin swathes of sapphire blue. Next you sew, listening to the comforting hum of the bouncing needle, your hands gliding smoothly beside it. These movements are technical, practiced, running on muscle memory. You are another type of sewing machine, one that measures and cuts and hems, one that will later embroider and meticulously weave details into the fabric—but you are still another machine, in the end.
It’s easier to work on autopilot somedays, like today, when you’re still trying to grasp that your last project came to an end. You have different fabric in your hands—no longer fiery red and blood-maroon. You’re cradling a different story, a new client, a new destination. But you work as per usual, going through the same motions, the same patterns, the same focused, uninterrupted state of concentration.
The air is chilly, biting against your hands and seeping through your jacket. But you leave the garage door open, soaking in the light diffused through clouds, the crispness of winter flavoring your work. Stray flurries breeze into the room, greeting you for a moment before they unravel into small puddles on the concrete.
A soft smile sits on your face as your mind wanders. You love winter, the coldness initially foreign and villainous when you arrived in Italy. You’re used to the tropics of Costa Rica—hot, humid air and black sand beaches, crystal blue water with the warmth of a hug. You hated these wet winters and the dry heat of Milan summers, how they deepen your ache to go home. But you’ve come to love the new layers of your seasons, the arrival of one always blooming excitement for the next.
But your hands go numb, and you have to close the door.
The alarm sounds, pulling you from the depths of your focus. The last piece of fabric slides through the needle before you lift your foot from the pedal, to halt the machine. You swipe your thumb to end the alarm before briefly scrolling through your notifications. Your client responded with her preference: a thin and lacy fabric, the one you’re almost out of. You make a note to pick up another bolt today.
You don’t bother with cleanup, leaving scraps of fabric and papers and spools of thread across the surface of your table. Instead you stand and stretch out your arms, rolling your shoulders beneath the heaviness of your coat. There’s an ache in your neck from hunching, worsened by the stiffness from the cold.
Dressing today is a rare challenge. Normally it’s a sequence of intuitive decisions, hardly a thought entering your mind when you toss on garments. But today is special; today is the first showing of Gōyoku—the first production by Hoshi no Sākasu that you get to see, and with your first costume in a circus production ever. You didn’t expect to feel this indecisive, with uncertain hands carding through your closet and drawers, nothing catching your eye. You pout at your lack of inspiration.
A flicker of feathers catches your eye, glimmering like a wave from the back of the closet. You pull the hangers aside to reach for it, frowning in confusion. When you manage to pull it from the rack and hold it in the light, you laugh. It’s a long piece, the fluff and volume of a black feathered boa. The thought that crosses your mind feels impulsive, sabotaging even, but you’re already giggling at the thought of wrapping yourself in it. Your mind races with possibility: a flapper dress, blazers with giant shoulders, giant sunglasses. They’re re-entering the fashion scene, appearing on the streets with skin-tight dresses, but you want something more casual.
You settle on creamy linens, white with the faintest touch of warmth. They sit heavy on your skin, thick enough that you consider going coatless. Knowing you’ll be cold, you snatch a matching coat to settle on top. After looping your star garment around your neck, black feathers stark against smooth fabric, you turn to the mirror and laugh. Chiara would groan if she saw you, but you work in costume before fashion. Looking ridiculous is part of your job.
You take your time entering the city, leaving early to stop by a bakery and fulfill your craving for panzerotti—the call of fried pockets of mozzarella and tomato—buying some extras and a few different tramezzini to share. Kendou sends you a pin when you let her know that you’re close, leading you to one of the trailers behind the auditorium tent. You walk giddily, smiling at the sparse snowflakes still feathering down.
The piazza is quiet when you walk through through the main entrance, the sides now blocked from the night festivities. There are few people: stray observers and occasional staff members. The guard by the security clearance lets you through with ease. Another guard notices you straying towards a secondary fence, tracking the pin with a frown, and helps you navigate to the trailer once you offer your ID card.
You are led to a white rectangular trailer, one of three in a line. You check the pin once again before walking to the one in the center. Unsure if you should step in without warning, you knock hesitantly on the door.
Only a few seconds pass before the door swings open. You blink in surprise when you’re greeted by the man you met last night, now dressed down from his festival costume. His hair is ruffled, bangs scattered sloppily across his forehead, and his stubble is gone. You swallow as you take him in, the softness on his face, along the edge of his jaw, as wears a matching surprise. He’s flustered, but there’s a shine in his eyes as he watches you. What is he thinking, to look at you like this—like you mean something? He has an air of mystery that tugs at your heart, a yearning to ask endless questions about him, to know who he is. It’s paired with an ease that convinces you he would answer; he would tell you all you wanted to know.
You fight through your smile to speak. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
He opens his mouth to respond, and you’re eager to hear it, but Kendo’s face appears behind the man’s shoulder. “Hey! You found us! Come in, come in.”
Mystery man steps aside to let you pass, just close enough that you brush his shoulder. Your mind flashes to the night before, his hand on your waist and then entangled in your own, spinning you while your wings flapped over your shoulders. You try to blink away the thought, but it persists.
You catch Momo sitting by the vanity, waving with a cheeky smile. You frown at her expression.
Kendou speaks again, gesturing to the man. “This is Sero, by the way. One of the performers.”
You nod, then smile towards him as you introduce yourself. He grins brightly, not a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. It’s a stark contrast from moments ago. Another mystery.
“Nice to meet you properly,” he says.
“Sero was just about to get ready,” Momo says. Her eyebrows are raised into her bangs, glancing towards Kendou with a look you can’t read.
You hear Sero’s voice hitch, like he’s about to say something, before he sighs. “Yeah, I was on my way out.” He looks at you regretfully. “It was nice to catch you.”
You nod, offering one of the small sandwiches from the bakery before he leaves the trailer. He takes one without looking—prosciutto, with tomato and olives and Swiss cheese—before gently closing the door. When you turn to Momo in anticipation, ready to help her into her dress for the show, you’re met with a mischievous grin. You frown again.
“What?”
Her lips twitch. “Nothing.”
You look at her expectantly, unamused, but she doesn’t budge. Kendou smiles, making you equally skeptical of her, before speaking. “We have a bird to dress! Aoyama will be here any minute with the skirt, and then we’ll get to work with your supervision.”
You nod, understanding that you’re meant to be the supporting role for the other costume artists, for them to figure out the kinks of the dress by the time they’re on the road. It’s bittersweet, to spend a few more days with your creation before it sets off without you.
A man appears shortly, noisily strutting through the door of the trailer. His outfit is entirely reflective, the iridescent shine of a CD, and you assume he must be Aoyama. You grin at the sight. Kendou is quick with the introductions. “This is Aoyama, the other costume manager. Aoyama, this is the costume artist—”
You shake hands as you finish her introduction. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He winks while responding. “As it should be! I love your boa.”
You suppress a laugh. “And I love your outfit.”
“Heat transfer vinyl,” he sings, pressing a hand to his chest. “Do feel free to ask where you can purchase it for yourself.”
You laugh, telling him to give you the details later.
The air of the room shifts, everyone settling into business as Aoyama sets down the hoopskirt and Kendou pulls the dress from the closet. The trailer is surprisingly large despite being a room on wheels, offering a wide breadth for Momo to step into the frame and have the other two fuss over her. They check with you on its placement before gathering the dress. Your fingers itch to join theirs, to fix the stray bends of fabric or straighten how it lays against Momo’s skin, but the hands of the costume crew trace over those spots eventually.
When the headpiece is set in place and you get to see Momo in full costume—her hair falling in loose, long curls, eyelids powdered the same blush as her lips, an elegant jewel strung around her neck—you swallow. Seeing your finished pieces, dressed on the figures they were made for, will always clench at your stomach. It brings a rush of euphoria over you, followed by a sweeping emptiness.
You do a onceover to look for anything out of place or concerning, but they’ve laid it perfectly. Your chest both lightens and pangs. The dress will be in good hands.
“If we’re settled I think it’s time we take our star to the main room, yes?” Aoyama asks.
You nod slowly, pressing down the ache.
Kendou smiles softly. “It’ll be okay.”
“I know, I know. I have attachment issues.”
She laughs and slaps at your shoulder. “I would too. Now go busy yourself until the show starts.”
You help them pin the fabric at the back of Momo’s dress before exiting together. You stop at the back entrance of the tent to say a temporary goodbye, handing over the remaining triangle sandwiches. The crew members slip carefully through the canvas, holding the thick material back to avoid brushing against Momo. You avert your eyes, only catching a glimpse of feathered costumes drifting in the background.
The next half hour is a struggle, time passing slowly in your giddiness. You stand in the cold for the first few minutes, remembering how snow fell softly from the sky just hours prior. The sticky remainders flatten under your shoes with a soft crunch. Your mind drifts to the grueling months leading up to now, iterating the dress and the push and pull between what you, Momo, and Kendou all envisioned. The sky is still hazy, a bright white mist covering the blue buried above. You imagine a plane beyond the fog, Momo and Kendou sitting together by the window, waiting in anticipation to see your mockup in action.
You smile wistfully. It already feels so long ago, that flood of excitement and the fear of not finishing in time—hours stretching on with you hunched over the gown. It was a painful sort of urgency: the need to be finished, all the while your hands only ever moved at the same steady pace. And now you suddenly have the next step to focus on—the show for tonight, or the next gown you need to sew. Where does the time go? Is it buried in the folds of your projects, sewn into the fabric like a quilt? Are you giving your own life away when you pass on the garments—holding all those moments in their fluid spaces?
Sometimes you wonder how you got here, always moving and moving, never taking the time to look back, to reflect and connect all the pieces of your journey to who you are today. Sometimes you feel like you never made a decision, that these events unfolded on their own, little seeds that blew in the forceful wind of life, hiding in the crevices until you finally turned to look at them: sprouted and standing firm in the ground.
Too firm, too rooted, to move.
Tired of your sentiments and the creeping chill, you decide to enter the shelter of the stage tent. The main entrance is littered with people checking in, clumps that thin into long lines. A metal guardrail separates you from the ticketing to enter the tent, so you approach one of the security members to ask for help. When you show him your ticket and ID card, he leads you to another entrance, skipping the line entirely.
You reach the edge of the interior where the concessions are prepared, sandwiching the stairs to the seating. The crowd thickens as showtime approaches, the lines for food and drink quickly elongating. You’re prepared to skirt around and go directly to your seat, not tempted by the wafting scent of buttery popcorn and the sweetness of pretzels, but your eyes land on that fluffy fish-shaped bread from the night prior, and your feet take you to the line before you mentally make a decision. Luckily it moves quickly and you soon purchase two taiyaki, placed gently in a crinkly paper bag. You hold it gently, the heat spreading through your hands.
The seat number on your ticket indicates that you’re in the section closest to the front, but in one of the furthest rows. It’s the seat you requested, centered to get the ideal view and close to the stage, but slightly elevated for the best angle to view the performers. You walk unhurriedly to your spot, taking a booklet offered by the attendant in the aisle. Once seated, you run a finger over the glossy paper—the striking art of a fiery phoenix—then press your thumb against the edge of the cover to open the first page. You scan your eyes over the introduction, three separate paragraphs for the original Japanese, followed by an English and Italian translation.
Gōyoku—meaning ‘Fierce Wings’—is the action-packed story of the impossible creatures of the sky. For just one moment, in the wake of their greatest desperation, these winged beasts are able to be glorious, fiery gods. Follow the journey of a guardian hawk as it battles fearsome foes, inspires his apprentices, and eventually burns out in his diligence to protect the new generation.
You smile with anticipation. The next page contains a list of names and roles: the director, producers, and stage crew displayed in neat rows, with details written in a small font beneath the individual names. You catch Aizawa’s, the romaji bringing a grimace to your face when you once again remember your first encounter. You flip the page, eyes recognizing a list of acts, and then immediately skip to the one after. The back has a list of acknowledgements and gratitudes, to donors and inspirations for the show. You blink when you see your own name on the bottom, with a small paragraph describing your work and why you were chosen for the production. It pulls a tight smile across your face.
You close the booklet and eat one of the taiyaki.
At four on the dot, the lights dim. Most people are in their seats, some stragglers still filtering in. Your eyes trace the room, packed full with spectators. Nearly every seat is filled, a mix of ages, singles and couples and families. Your eyes widen when you catch sight of the little girl from last night, the same pinched face of her Hyottoko mask. You’re tempted to wave, to see if you can catch her attention, but she’s up in a row towards the side of the stage. There’s no reason for her eyes to swoop in your direction.
But they do, to your surprise. First in glee, excitement, and then in surprise. You look at her confusedly, slightly tilting your head. Her parents are watching you too, with the same expressions. Other people in their seats look your way. Your heart starts races, wondering what about you has grabbed their attention—
A pair of hands cover your eyes from behind, jolting you in your seat. They’re paired with a deep giggle, almost dark and maniacal. You grin in embarrassment.
Crowd work. You’ve seen the cartoonish forms of circus clowns engage with the audience before, oftentimes its own act in the show, but you’ve never been subjected to it yourself. Your heart races from the attention, anxious at being part of the spectacle. Part of you Suddenly the hands trail downwards, to your large boa, and pull it away, bringing a waft of cool air to your neck and shoulders. You blink in surprise, head turning to follow it.
You see a blond man nearly skipping down the aisle, your boa swinging in his hand. He’s dressed in a tight black suit, tipped at the wrists with tufts of feathers. The fabric of his clothes are sewn with analog watch faces, set at a variety of times. His face is obscured by a bird mask, only revealing a wide, cheeky grin. He makes a show out of floating your boa around him, posing as if he’s unsure what it is, before wrapping it around his own neck, letting out a fit of ridiculous laughter and then skipping through the seating.
You wonder if he was informed that you were in the audience, if this was planned.
Your grin spreads easily across your face, watching as he turns back with a wink before bothering other audience members. He stops by the girl, where she sits in the front row of the next section, and makes a show of looking curiously at her mask. He reaches for it and she giggles, holding it against herself in defense. The suited bird cocks his head, then pouts before sighing and strutting away dramatically in defeat.
Commotion from the other end of the room turns your head, to another figure working the crowd. This one is a bubbly woman, with a costume of bursting pink feathers and purple, shimmery patterned cloth. She wears a giant smile as she hops along the seat, looking curiously at the audience members. When her mask turns so you can see the face, you are struck by the illusion of darkness beneath her eyes, completely blacked out. A pair of sharp but narrow horns sprout from the edges, giving her an alien quality. Like her show partner, she giggles happily as she skips along.
The pair charades their way to the front, keeping the eyes of the audience focused. When they meet each other on the stage, they communicate with overexaggerated gestures and gibberish noises. The blond one does a twirl, raising his hands to bring attention to your boa with a wide smirk. The pink one gasps and reaches for it, only for the blond to huff and jump away. You watch with amusement—and apprehension, hoping your scarf will survive the show.
The sound effects of the characters start to blur into a song as they move around the stage. A light melody settles in, synchronized with their steps skirting back and forth. Just as they dart into the center, a loud bang resounds from the speakers. The characters pause, dramatically turning around the stage in defensive stances. The girl looks up and points, hopping in excitement. Her partner tilts his head, offering a polite clap with a shrug.
You follow her finger, watching as a hoop slowly lowers from the ceiling. It spins slowly, cradling a man. He’s almost lounging, lazily lying with his back on the bottom, neck cradled to the side. One leg dangles while the other is bent into the frame, foot toeing against the edge. You are close enough to see his face, the confident smile that pulls at his lips. His eyes are closed, outlined with red markings. His clothing matches his hair, golden and ruffled, white feathers accenting his wrists and ankles. He wears a transparent golden mask, open to let his expression shine through.
The music continues gently as the hoop lowers. The bird characters on the stage cheerfully try copying his pose from their standing positions, the blond shaking his head at the woman as he lifts one of her arms higher. Your eyes travel back to the lyra, to the man’s face, his eyes peeling open. He slowly sits up, trailing his arms around the perimeter of the hoop. His face morphs into curiosity as he takes in the crowd, then the birds beneath him. A sharp grin spreads across his face while he leans forward to watch them closely.
In a flash the hoop falls—you think more than his body length—and it pulls a sharp inhale into your chest from surprise and fear. The performer leans back with the movement, as if he’s going to plummet to the ground, but he catches himself with the underside of his knees. The two below shriek in fright, before scattering across the stage in opposite directions, disappearing into the back. As this new character—you assume the hawk in the booklet summary—comes to the end of his fall, he stretches his arms, reaching to catch the scattered jesters. Bright red wings sprout from his back, feathers swaying with the jolt of the fall. They’re giant, especially to have been so well concealed.
The hawk draws out the lowering of the hoop, removing one leg to fall into a split, holding his ankle by his head for the sake of showing off. Then he releases it to snake back up the hoop. His arms follow, pulling him back into the frame. He tangles himself through the edge, making a show of his flexibility, before sitting in the center. He grabs the frame below him before rolling forwards, swinging as he dangles in the air from his hands. The wings burst open once again, fiery red flaming behind his figure. The lyra is lowered enough that his feet barely skim the ground. He swims his legs through the air as if walking until he can touch the floor securely.
And then he runs.
You’ve seen aerial object acts before, always an impressive series of poses and fluid movements entangled in the air. But the speed of this act is unheard of. The performer's body swings and swipes through the air like a knife, so sharp you think you can hear the whoosh as he moves. His wings continue to open and close at the perfect times, unfolding when he holds a specific pose, lengthening in tune with his routine and the quickening music. Even when he is curled into the lyra, they compliment the positions of his body. You realize they work through a mechanism attached to his arms, opening opposite to his elbows. You watch captivated as he gracefully slides across the wheel despite his speed, all the while it glides in a circle or twirls along the rope anchoring it to the ceiling. Your stomach drops with his precarious balancing and the surprise drops, always catching himself in the nick of time.
As he slows and the act winds to an end, he pulls himself back to the center of the hoop. He nestles into another lounging position, mirroring his entrance. The lyra rises and the music lulls, signaling the end of the act. Scattered claps sound around you, snapping you from your daze. You join the applause as it rolls through the audience. It was a stunning opening, setting the stage for what’s to come.
In the midst of the clapping, the music unexpectedly fills with faster, darker sounds. As deep bass thrums through the room, three figures wrapped in black silks unravel from the ceiling. They fall in sharp, jagged movements, rocking as they tumble through the air.
They slow as they finish their descent to the floor, and then to eventually rest on the ground. The silks lift into the ceiling, leaving the performers behind. They lay still for a couple moments before twitching, muscles and joints moving in rapid and jagged jolts. Slowly they rise to stand, legs and arms angled to appear twisted. You take in their costumes, tight tan fabric purposefully wrinkled along their bodies, with small, uneven lines of feathers—one figure’s pink, one green, and the last yellow. Their masks are small on their faces, disheveled and anxious. You think you recognize two of them, the small women from the day you dropped off your dress, the ones you saw last night in the festival.
You watch curiously as they begin to struggle towards one another. They remind you of baby birds, naked and frail. Your eyes widen at the thought, putting together that they have fallen from the sky.
Their act is one of contortion, bodies twisting and bending in impossible shapes. They mold into one another, arms and legs tangling in a rolling knot. The show of flexibility is broken with a series of theatrical performances, futile attempts to fly or crawl over each other. It’s as haunting as it is awe-inspiring, striking you with distress and pity. It’s an incredible use of the act. The story is clear with these characters, their desperation for safety, for freedom. You feel sorry, yearning to offer help.
As their bodies slow in a display of exhaustion, they pile in the center of the stage. You see them breathe together, expanding steadily as one entity before compressing again. The moment is tender, intimate. Drawn out unlike usual performances. You know this is the end of the act, that you should applaud, but you don’t want to break the softness. The others in the audience seem to feel the same.
A fourth figure appears, sliding from the side of the stage and in the back. He’s tall and lean, toned stature showing through the tight fabric of his costume. It’s similarly wrinkled as the contortionists, but with a mix of purple and beige fabric. Faux scorched skin, you realize, as if stapled to itself. His costume is the least orderly, with black and red and white feathers clumped in his hair, indistinguishable.
In one of his hands is a staff, with a wheel of spokes standing from both ends. He twirls it slowly, tauntingly, as he starts to circle the bodies in the center. The lights dim as he stalks them, turned so his chest and head face his prey. The music plays eerie, sharp notes that clash with one another. Then it halts.
In an instant a flame bursts across the stage, tracing the circle of the man in purple. Your brain whirrs in attempt to understand how the act unfolded: all you can think is that his staff may have been leaking fuel along his path, unnoticed in the darkening stage. It doesn’t explain how the fire came to be, or how the staff lit itself.
The fire spinning is an act of intensity, a gut-wrenching scene of the larger figure taunting the small. He plays the role of a villain with ease, convincing even when you know it’s only for show. His body is one with his staff, rolling and twisting the length over his limbs. It runs along his shoulders and neck, twirls over his chest and through his legs, hooked over the top of his foot to be thrown back into the air. The two points of light dart throughout the stage, illuminating his face and chest and limbs for less than seconds at a time.
After one particularly fast and complex combination—topped with a downwards yank of the prop, releasing long swirls of flame into the air—you see another figure enter the stage. He has a smaller frame but a similar intensity, as though stalking towards the predator. As he nears towards the light, you realize it’s Todoroki, his split-dyed hair unmistakable. His costume is deep blue with a high collar, the exact sort of fit you imagined when you first saw him. You grin.
He suddenly thrusts himself towards the remaining streaks of fire on the ground, pressing his hand against the flame. You watch in shock, expecting him to pull away in pain, but instead the heat is smothered in an instant. The bundle of contortionists spill across the floor, writhing to the side of the stage. They continue their struggle to freedom, their jagged movements persistent as they escape to the edge of your vision.
Todoroki finishes the rest of the flames while the taller man chases him with the staff. They leap and dodge one another, a choreographed fight that involves many close calls. Your heart leaps as you watch the edge of the staff swipe close to Todoroki’s face, illuminating his sharp but delicate features. He is unmasked, the deep red of his scar visible to the crowd.
A billow of fire erupts from his mouth, shooting past the spokes of the staff and into the air. It casts a torrent of orange glow across him and his opponent, flooding himself and the burned creature in a beautiful, warm light. It shines bright enough to see the details of the stage and audience for one brief moment. You realize Todoroki was holding the fuel in his mouth throughout the entirety of the fight thus far. Impossible.
The fight continues, Todoroki and his opponent dancing with fire. It’s mostly a series of choreographed strikes and dodges, almost a game or dance as they circle one another: the staff one weapon and Todoroki’s breath the other. The flames on the end of the prop begin to wither as their movements speed, nearing the end of their performance. Todoroki closes it out with one final exhale, blowing blinding clouds of heat in an arc towards the audience. You blink back in surprise, warm air brushing against your face.
They stand in the center, bodies tense and shuddering with deep inhales. Their exhaustion plays into the reality of the fight, ragged breaths and hunched shoulders visible from afar. You think they look pained, that their struggle is beyond the performance.
The next act transitions easily, the fire show morphing into a chase with new characters—in full bird-shaped headpieces and wing-like cloaks—eventually through the air on a series of springboards soaring, twisting, flipping, and jumping propelled by each other’s landings. Two characters in particular catch your eye, with deep green and red costumes. You’re reminded of Midoriya, and think the height and frame of the green bird could align.
Your eyes widen when a giant net rolls across the stage behind the heavy duty seesaws. The fire artists slam down on the boards in sync, the new bird figures soaring. When they rise just enough to clear the net, it’s swiftly rolled underneath them to catch their landing. The springboards are then pushed out of the stage, marking an end to Todoroki’s performance.
The people at the base of the net—women in leotards, different shades of purple, paired with skirts full of feathers—lock the wheels before climbing the ladders up the side, joining the previous characters onto raised platforms. The two men untie the threads around their necks, slipping the capes from their arms and followed by the headpieces—now left only in lean pants. After setting them on the back of the platform and walking towards the edges at the center, you confirm that one of them is in fact Midoriya. The other has hair that matches his red costume.
The trapeze act should be impossible, especially with Midoriya and the redhead having just completed an entirely separate act. But it’s flawless, impeccable, unthinkable. The following acts are executed with seamless transitions that lead through a cohesive plot—a juggling act with a man who moves as if he has six arms, and a dual cyr act with men of a drastic height difference, the smaller one gliding easily and with incredible balance, and the taller spinning across the stage at incredible speeds.
At the end of their act, when the two roll out of sight, the lights and sound dim to darkness. A roar of applause passes through the crowd, this being the first real quiet gap between acts. There are cheers and hollers and whistling for several moments, an extended display of love. When the noise finally begins to fade away, a spotlight glows in the center of the stage, slowly illuminating a figure in red. You take a deep breath to ease the constriction in your chest.
It’s Momo.
In the excitement of watching, you momentarily forgot that she was performing, that you made her costume, that you’re a part of this show too.
She’s beautiful, standing tall with an air of elegance—a poise that commands the room. Behind her is a pair of feathered musicians: a purple-haired woman and an older blond man, with an electric violin and cello respectively. They draw a slow melody through the room, crisp notes floating through the speakers. Momo steps to the front of the room smoothly and carefully as if floating, the edge of her dress brushing right above the ground to cover her feet. You hold your breath as your eyes track the details of the costume, every ruffle of fabric and bounce of feather.
The costume looks perfect on stage, not a ruffle out of place. You realize it’s the first time you’re seeing her wear it from a distance, to appreciate the hug of her waist and the curves of her figure. The darkness of the fabric is regal against her skin and her confidence. The sheerness of the chiffon brings out her grace, with a sparkle that brightens her edges, the glow of an aura. The orange swathes that trail behind her are like glowing footprints, the markings of a deity—the evidence that she walked across our earth.
Momo’s performance is beautiful, starting as a series of long, drawn out words in well-enunciated Italian. They’re sorrowful, a series of questions that ask where her friends have gone, if they’re safe. If they’ll come home.
The music increases in sound and intensity as she continues, words moving quickly through verbal images of where they could be, what they might be facing. Her voice is rich and smooth as it traces through forests and fields, of predators and monsters. Each note slides beautifully into the next, weaving between heavily grounded and delicately airy. She’s a master with her instrument, the strings of her vocal chords under her total command.
The song finishes with a plea for help. She moves her arms in fluid motions as she reaches towards the crowd, hands twisting and fingers curving as they move towards the sky. You exhale with melancholy at her display of emotion, the pain that strikes the beauty of her obscured face. Her movements become angry and desperate, sharp and jagged when she snaps her head and adds a rasp to her voice, a complete turn from smoothness of her original voice. When the build up to her longest note begins, you hold your breath in anticipation for her to spin.
The dark fabric of the dress skirt, with its layers of maroon, lifts to expose its white underbelly. A flock of matching white doves escape through the gaps, circling counterclockwise with her movement—pulling gasps from yourself and other audience members. She twirls for several rotations, the orange trails of chiffon spiraling beneath her as the birds disperse and rise until they disappear into the ceiling. As soon as the final bird is out of sight, she collapses on herself. Your stomach clenches in worry. She cradles herself against the ground as her note ends, the music following and coming to a lull.
A giant smile overtakes your face, tears brimming the edges of your eyes in joy. You did it, you hear through your mind, unsure if the words are for yourself or Momo. They asked and you delivered.
The crowd applauds once again when the lights dim. You wipe your eyes, months of work and stress feeling so incredibly worth it now that you’ve seen the final piece: a multitude of masterpieces and crafts that will be displayed again and again. Yours. Momo’s. The costume, the vocals, the music, the magic.
Your heart can be at ease.
The lights don't dim entirely, the faint outline of the musicians and Momo still visible. However, four more figures appear, dark silhouettes. They stand closer towards the audience, in front of the spotlight’s reach.
The act that follows is one of whimsical illusion—likely serving as an interlude. Two of the new characters walk into the light, revealing themselves to be the pink woman and the time-covered man from the beginning. They skip sprightly along the platform, followed by the two other characters that you realize are meant to symbolize their shadows. The shadow-characters carry large sheets that billow in their grasp. The blond’s shadow lifts their sheet over the violinist, smoothing her form in the draping fabric. Then they tug the top, enough to rustle the sheet, until it suddenly crumples to the ground—flattening as if there was no one there to begin with. The shadowy figures clap with joy, while the original clowns react with harsh gasps and frightened faces.
Eventually the cellist is smothered under the sheet, and then Momo. You suspect it’s a typical trick of the floor, opening at just the right time for them to fall through. You hope your dress is still intact, that it survived the fall.
The illusion takes a darker turn, the shadows now chasing their physical forms. The smaller of the shadows succeeds first, vanishing the pink woman. After she disappears, her shadow jumps and spins in glee. You blink when she faces the front once again and is fully visible. The same happens for the blond who stole your boa—still snug around his neck as he is captured and melted into the floor, to reveal the face of his shadow.
The rest of the act is less predictable, the characters moving between the visible and obscured. There are more warpings of illusion, sleight of hand perfectly executed, but also tricks that you can’t fathom. At one point the man appears to step right through the woman, and later she skips behind the man to vanish entirely, appearing behind him a minute later on a different part of the stage. You watch with wide eyes, watching for any movement of the floor, but it never happens. You wonder what the people behind you see, if it’s a matter of angles.
For their final trick, they lay themselves in the center of the stage, draping the sheets over themselves. The pile sits still for several moments before it stirs—leaps to reveal three entirely different figures. The one who stands is a man with a large headpiece, the black head of a bird that engulfs his own. Emerging next is a woman swathed in white fabric, like a fairytale damsel. Her hair falls like a curtain of ivy along her back and shoulders. The last figure sits up slowly; a man with black hair and a costume of darkness, catching shimmers of light speckled across his suit, splotches of yellow feathers sprouting at his shoulders and elbows. As his head turns you can see his eyes through the mask—
They land on you.
Your breath hitches. It’s Sero, the one you danced with and the one you briefly encountered before the show. Despite the distance, you recognize the intensity of his gaze, one you could almost read as longing. When he looks away you feel a wave of relief, but it’s short lived. He continues to watch you, to come back to you.
Three pairs of thick, silk ribbons rain from the ceiling, and you immediately think back to your first impression of Sero—that he would look breathtaking draped in silken black fabric.
He does.
Despite the act being split between three performers, with moments to spotlight each of their solos, you can’t look away from Sero for more than seconds at a time. You catch enough of the other two to differentiate their styles—the woman’s display of flexibility and intricate wrapping techniques, and the man’s show of speed and intensity, body whipping and whorling through the air.
They’re beautiful. But Sero, Sero flows along the aerial silk.
Not a single movement is choppy or without grace, body as fluid as the threads of fabric in his grasp. His solo is one that centers his relationship with his act, how he tangles into its hold, how he can move his limbs in imitation of the unstructured garment—his body an extension of the silk, another curtain draping from the ceiling. He breaks from the cloth to suspend himself in the air, feet stepping as if he were walking through floating platforms. He swims upwards through the ribbons, body liquid and shimmering as he slides back down, rolling through tangles and knots, all the while fluffing up pockets and loops of fabric, billowing like the tail of a fish as it waves through the ocean.
Watching him move is like being hypnotized, like you’re seeing something you shouldn’t, because it doesn’t exist. The world behind him fades, time slows. It’s just you and him, like last night’s dance, his fluid and rolling movements as he guided you along, sending tingles through your chest and torso and arms. You have chills, shivers of warmth. It’s indescribable. Now you’re the one yearning to watch him, hoping he’ll meet your gaze again every time it breaks.
By the end of the act you are entranced, obsessed. Your heart is heavy knowing that his performance is over and you will have to watch someone else.
The rest of the show is still objectively stunning, filled with numbers that go beyond any performance you’ve seen before. Following the aerial silks is a man who walks his way on stage on his hands, then up a series of steps to a handstand board. You watch him perform his own act of contortion: slow and methodical and with extreme displays of balance, holding himself in precarious positions. He doesn’t touch his feet to the floor once, until the next act starts and sends sparks throughout the stage. It’s a show of explosive poi, a ball of sparkling fire tied to each hand at the end of a string, twirling around its equally volatile user. Another battle-like scene plays out.
Afterwards is a balancing act, with a man in a costume with a giant tail—the additional challenge seemingly impossible when he stands on a series of rolling objects that add up to more than his own height. The show ends with the display of two giant puppets: mechanical birds floating in the air, rooted on the back and shoulders of performers ambling around the stage. One appears sizzling with electricity while the other looks jagged and sharp, made from scraps of metal. They are joined by the bird characters from the beginning, your boa still around the neck of the blond man, as they’re led through the audience, leaning over to let the crowd gently touch the faces and wings.
When they climb back onstage the music shifts, signaling the closure of the story and show. Applause begins immediately, the crowd standing as soon as the first performer—the hawk—stands at the front for a bow, blowing kisses. He’s followed by the three contortionists before they step back for Todoroki, continuing as each act has their moment of acknowledgement. When Momo steps forwards you yell her name, jumping carefully between the others next to you to get her attention. She grins and bows, blowing a kiss to you directly. You pretend to catch it.
You yell again when the aerial silk group steps forward. Sero smiles happily before the crowd, bowing shallowly so he stands upright first. His eyes find yours and this time you’re ready for it, widening your grin when he meets your gaze. His hand lifts hesitantly before it twitches in a small wave. He stands for a moment too long, and another performer has to pull him back to the others. You smile stupidly, biting the inside of your cheek.
You linger when the crowd filters up the stairs and towards the exit, the room now brightened and flooded with excited chatter. Kendou told you to meet her after the show, but not where or how. You stay in your seat until the aisles clear, swiping through your phone to see if Kendou sent any updates. Once there’s an open path to the stage, you walk down towards one of the security guards to ask for permission backstage. Your ID and anecdotal evidence are met with skepticism, the guard blinking unimpressed by your efforts. Not wanting to waste your time, you turn to exit with the rest of the audience.
A soft yell of your name pulls you to turn back. You don’t catch the source immediately, but eventually your eyes land on wild green curls peeking from the curtain. You brighten and wave.
He frowns and shoots a hand out, beckoning you to join him. You shake your head and point to the security. The large Italian man sees this and then turns in confusion, bristling when his eyes land on Midoriya gesturing you over. He averts his eyes, facing back towards the front. You frown in confusion, not sure if that means you can pass.
Midoriya continues to wave for you, so you cave. Your first step on the stairs stage is cautious, gauging the reaction of your obstacle. After confirming he won’t interfere, you take them two at a time, scurrying to the curtain to slip through the gap.
The wardrobe and backstage section of the tent has transformed since your first visit, now lined with floor padding and filled with a multitude of props and structures. It’s much livelier, packed with clusters of people in conversation, cheerfully stretching or lounging. Near the exit is a cage for the doves, their chirping softly floating through the background. You drink in the details of the scene, how people rest with one another. Todoroki and Sero stand in a quiet conversation, Ochako and the blonde girl she performed with are laying together on one of the sofas. Momo is absent, along with Kendou. Aoyama is present, helping the hawk character from the first act remove his wings.
You think they look close, comfortable around one another. You can only imagine the sort of tight-knit relationships that bloom from working on these productions for so long—training day after day on risky props, some of them constantly putting their lives in someone else’s hands.
You register someone speaking to you: Midoriya, having been rambling for some time now. You chide yourself for getting lost in thought.
“—but, what did you think?” he asks. You missed the entire prelude, but you have faith in your enthusiasm to deliver a good response.
“Midoriya, it was amazing,” you say with full honesty. “I think you were right—your show will ruin me for any other circus. The transitions between the acts were incredible, and it brought the storyline together so seamlessly—much more cohesive than any other production I’ve seen before. And, oh my god everyone is so impressive. The acts were so much longer than typical shows, and—you! How can you manage back to back performances?”
The thoughts spill out of you, your excitement uncontainable as you think about the production as a whole, recounting the many ways in which it surpassed your expectations. Midoriya beams as your response. His cheeks flush at your praise, but he collects himself as he explains the two acts and their importance to happen directly after one another. He goes into detail about balancing muscle strain: the springboards are exhausting for the legs, but the trapeze is demanding on his arms. He and his stage partner—Kirishima, you learn—manage to make it work through sheer determination.
“He’s one of few people who could make it work,” he tells you, eyes sparkling.
You’re about to respond, to ask for details on how they fleshed out the act, when a softness flutters past your face to land on your neck and shoulders. You reach for it, gently grasping your feathered boa—long forgotten while listening to Midoriya. You turn, expecting to see the blond man in the suit, but instead find Sero behind you.
He smiles with the same ease and confidence of your first meeting, mouth stretched lazily and eyes relaxed. He must be feeling good now that the first show has passed successfully. You feel warm.
“Sorry we held your boa hostage,” he says. You can see the thief behind him, watching with a curious smirk.
No good response comes to mind, your heart busy thumping when your eyes dart back to his. Your mind flashes with that beautiful silk fabric draping over him, his fluid motions as he himself through it like his body is equally malleable. The effect of his performance—that awe and fluster—still sits in your chest. You’re drawn to him, intrigued to know more.
“You were incredible,” you tell him. His eyes grow, mouth gaping in surprise. “I’ve never seen someone move that way on silks. Is it your main act?”
You don’t expect his shyness. It only appears for a moment, shoulders starting to hunch before he stands straight again and smiles brightly, with confidence.
“Yeah! Since I was a kid. I’ve trained a couple other acts—mostly balances and other aerial props. But aerial silk is the best.”
You nod readily. “Of course, it’s my favorite to watch.” It’s ultimately a dance with fabric, one of your first loves.
“Really?” Midoriya asks. “I didn’t know that.”
You laugh. “Why? Because it’s not in my interviews?”
He laughs nervously, hand coming to scratch the back of his head.
“Verde!” you hear Momo call, grabbing your attention. She comes behind Sero, now changed into a casual shirt and pants.
“Momo!”
She engulfs you in a hug, her body pressing into your side as you wrap your arms over her in return.
“Momo, your singing is beautiful. And the birds were stunning. I can’t believe we did that.”
She smiles, eyes shining while her hand grabs your forearm. “We did.”
Once again, as you did a few days prior, you have a longing to talk with her more, deeper. You want to share what it means to you, what you think it means to her. You want to let yourself blur the edges of her position as the performer and yours as the designer, to think about who you are together. But there are still prying eyes, an audience who won’t understand. You glance at Midoriya, his face full of warmth and joy. Then they drift to Sero, and catch a twinge of surprising melancholy.
The performers happily chat with you, some new ones butting in to introduce themselves. You finally get the name of the blond who took your boa: Monoma, who also laughs at your choice of outfit. You get to meet the third woman in the act with Uraraka and Asui—Toga. Names filter in and out, acrobats and production members stopping by. Catering arrives, a selection of classic dishes from one of the high end ristoranti nearby. The aluminum trays are opened to reveal a pasta dish, its fresh scent of pesto and vegetables familiar.
Some performers rush through their meal and leave, or move to the mirrors to retouch their makeup. For the next show, you realize. There are two every night, with a two hour break before the end of the first and the beginning of the second.
Midoriya and Momo part to retouch their costumes, and Kendou orders you to stay put—that she’ll retrieve you if necessary. You’re left with Sero, somehow rating pasta shapes.
“Hey,” he suddenly says while you’re still mid-thought—musing whether farfalle or penne would work better for this sauce. You sense a topic change. He looks nervous, chewing his lip before speaking. “Are… Do you—”
He glances to the side and pauses, instead switching to a small smile.
“Hey ‘Roki.”
Your eyes linger on Sero thoughtfully, wondering what he was trying to ask, before greeting Todoroki.
“I wanted to tell you that we’re about halfway through the book,” he says seriously, like he’s delivering an important message. “We just finished the chapter where Santi is pulled into Marco’s world.”
You beam with delight. He’s at the same part you’ve reached since you started reading it again, after dropping off Momo’s dress. “Oh yeah? What do you think? When I was a kid I would read that part almost every night before bed.”
Todoroki nods. “That chapter is my favorite so far. The imagery is quite vivid, and I found myself getting excited—like the kids.”
You hum in agreement before laughing. “I always had so much energy after reading that I couldn’t sleep. I have a dress inspired by that scene, I’ll have to wear it for the final show.”
“You know the book he’s reading?”
At the sound of Sero’s voice, you turn to him and nod. “It’s my favorite, since I was a kid.”
“Really?” he asks, face suspended in disbelief. “Me too! I’ve never met someone outside of my family who’s heard of it.”
Your eyes grow to match his, the two of you now staring at each other curiously.
“Me neither,” you answer. You don’t even remember how you acquired it, whether by gift or if it was something that had always lingered in your peripheral until you finally took notice. It’s a mysterious little book, with almost no online presence.
“Do you speak Spanish?” You ask, recalling Sero’s dancing.
“Sí. Mi mamá es de Ecuador,” he explains. “A small town on the Northern coast.”
Ecuador. You’ve been before, to the capital for a parade. You smile at the memory. “Sudamerica? I’m from Costa Rica. Also on the coast, almost directly west of San José.”
He grins. “We’re both on the Pacific, then.”
You let your gaze linger on his face, the eager shine in his eyes. You want to ask more, to talk about family and life and culture. You get the sense that he does too.
“I thought you said you only knew a little Spanish?”
You blink in surprise at Todoroki’s voice, face heating at your lie. “I got nervous?”
He squints. “About speaking your native language?”
The disbelief in his voice makes you laugh, recognizing your own absurdity. “Maybe? I don’t speak often these days. It makes me sentimental.”
Sero hums. “Sí, speaking Español can make me miss home. Being in Italy has been strange.”
You agree—the transition was a difficult one for you when you first arrived in Milan. You could estimate most of what people said, but had no idea how to respond. You remember awkwardly stumbling through conversations, dealing with nearly a year of clumsily translating before you could speak with ease.
You continue your chatter about the book, enjoying Todoroki’s observations and thoughts. He’s serious about his reading, even for a children’s story. Sero is too, but he becomes quiet, focused on listening to your discussion.
A call for the performers ends your conversation, leaving you to yourself as they gather to run through the schedule. You hang towards the exit of the tent, curious to see the logistical side of the production. You feel a poke at your arm.
“Are you staying for the festival afterwards?” Kendou asks.
You shake your head. “Only for a little. I need to grab some fabric on my way home, but the shop closes at ten.”
Kendou pouts. “You should come tomorrow.”
“I will,” you promise. You’re planning to come most nights regardless. “Do you think we could talk? About the… job?”
Her eyes nearly sparkle, like the twinkle of sunlight across ocean waves. “I can’t during the festival, since I’m working every night. Can you come during the show again? Aoyama can cover for me.”
You nod. “Yeah, is one better for me to come than the other?”
“Please—You’re welcome here whenever you want.”
“Don’t say that,” you answer. “Or I will be here everyday. You’ll get sick of me.”
She laughs. “Good. Maybe that means you’ll accept our offer by the time we leave Milan.”
You bite your lip at the comment, forcing your smile away. It’s a conflicting place to be, with your heart beating proudly but aching at the same time.
The show is flawless once again, still breathtaking even after seeing it hours before and only rewatching snippets through the screen backstage. You have the urge to interrogate the performers after their acts, brimming with questions and comments. But you notice their tiredness, always coming back panting, immediately chugging water or laying down. You watch Todoroki slosh a cup of mouthwash before sitting next to you with a bottle of juice.
“Your act is the most insane,” you tell him.
He nods.
You’re later joined by others, including Midoriya and briefly Momo, the chirping of the doves re-entering with the end of her performance. When the aerial silk performance starts, your eyes are once again glued to Sero. He’s still devastatingly beautiful during his number, aweing you with his routine. You don’t think you could ever be tired of the way he moves. You want to talk to him, to talk more about his art and of home, but he disappears when he finishes. You shovel down your disappointment. He’s most likely resting, or has other things to worry about.
When the show ends, there’s hardly a moment to breathe before the cast is changing costumes, from feathered birds into their eclectic festival jesters. You can only stay for another half hour, so you wave goodbye to those still in your vicinity, letting Midoriya know you’ll be back tomorrow in case you don’t see him tonight.
The festival is the same as the previous night, littered with lines of market stalls displaying work by local artists and artisans: Milanese food, traditional textiles, niche jewelry. You walk by Hoshi no Sākasu’s tent, the waffly scent of taiyaki a comfort in the chill of the evening. An array of Hyottoko masks are on display, their cheeks large and noses long, eyes varying from pinched closed to painfully wide. You want to walk slowly, take in the string lights and the classical guitar, but you force yourself to move along. The boutique that sells the lace you need won’t be open tomorrow, and you want to get started on the sleeves of the dress in the morning.
None of the performers make an appearance by the time you finish walking through a line of stalls. You carry along, turning through the next row and passing a table of wine sampling—a mix of sparkling and red. You pause and step back to ask for a sample of the Champagne blend, the little paper cup rough against your fingertips as you take a sip before continuing your stroll.
By the time your sample is finished and the cup is tossed in the garbage, you’re walking through the last row of markets, nestled furthest from the street and closer to the duomo. It’s quieter on this end, away from the music and the clinking pans. This section hosts mostly artists, you notice while passing a display of watercolor paintings. They’re vibrant and rough, capturing candid moments of people, energetic gestures brushed onto textured paper. The woman in the booth is old, with crinkled eyes and grey hair tucked behind a cloth. She watches you blankly.
“Buonasera,” you say, smiling gently. She grins back, eyes nearly disappearing with the rise of her cheeks.
You continue forward, eyes catching a smear of crimson in your peripheral. You frown, stepping towards the center of the path to get a better look. It’s another market stall, but draped over with a deep red fabric, the folds swaying as people walk by. It sits unassuming in this quiet realm of the fair, with no indication of what sits inside. You figure it’s a closed stall, a vendor who couldn’t make it tonight. But your eyes catch the edge of the flap; it’s lined with green feathers. You look at it skeptically, not trusting yourself to make a logical assessment of what it’s for. The color is so vibrant, that punchy chartreuse that you always use. If you were more delusional you would think that it’s… for you.
You pace forwards, zooming by tables of pottery and sterling silver jewelry to reach the front of the tent. The slit in the fabric feels like it’s calling for you, waving slightly in a chilly breeze. The tips of your fingers brush the feathers, their softness tingling against your fingerprints.
A peek won’t hurt.
You slide the flap back gently, just enough to widen the opening and glance inside.
It’s dark, too dark. There’s only the blackness of the space you can’t see. The faint light trickling in doesn’t reach far, and it sits through the air like particles of dust, dull stars in a night sky. You start to lower your hand, deciding it’s an empty stall after all, when someone in the market bumps into you. You falter, losing balance and stumbling forwards to catch yourself.
The tent illuminates.
You gasp in surprise, the space inside appearing much larger than what the exterior suggested. Warm air coats your body, a surprise since you didn’t feel it spilling out the entrance. The air is thick, almost salty with humidity, and the noise outside completely fades away. It’s just you in a quiet room, with a warm dim light that coats a series of bookshelves. They’re littered with trinkets, unorderly but with the homey energy of clutter. You blink at the sight of a large, unbroken conch shell.
It calls for you, your fingertips delicately pressing against the bumpy surface as you lift carefully. By instinct you hold the opening to your ear, immediately sighing with a smile at the sound of ocean waves. You close your eyes, imagining clear blue water and white bubbles of seafoam, spilling out onto black sand.
Then there’s a series of bird calls, the screeching of scarlet macaws as they soar through the air. Your eyes widen, pressing the shell further against your face and covering your other ear to listen closely. You catch the faint sounds of wind and rustling palm leaves in the distance. It sounds just like home, like the coast. You pull the shell away skeptically, the noise cutting into silence, before pressing it to your ear again. The sensory immersion floods back full force, birds and waves and wind surrounding you.
Your eyes land on a jar on another shelf, half-filled with cacao beans. Reluctantly, you return the conch to its place and lift the jar, glass with a metal lip sealing it tightly. You give it a couple shakes, the soft rattle making you smile—memories of abuela cutting open a long pod, you and your sister greedily eating the sweet, white flesh of the fruit on the outside, spitting the remainder on a sheet for abuela to ferment.
You undo the clasp, glass top clinking against its body. You’re hit strong with the initial scent of vinegar before it fades into the rich aroma of dark chocolate. Again you think of home, one of your tíos helping you grind the beans by hand, twisting the crank for you when you wanted a break.
There are other trinkets, ones you don’t understand but wonder if they have their own story—who would pick them up with a similar fondness you carry now. They’re clustered tightly across the other shelves: a little smiling buddha with a round belly, a toy bird, playing cards, scented candles, candies, a carved wooden frog, rings embedded with jewels, a pocket watch, another jar, this one filled with mandarin oranges. You let your eyes roam around, taking in more trinkets and stories that you don’t understand. You pause at a bundle of shiny silk fabric, black as the sky tonight.
You lift your hand to reach for it, but your phone rings.
Cursing to yourself, you put the jar on the shelf and pull your cell from your pocket. The sound is your alarm, set thirty minutes before the boutique closes. Grimacing, you quickly debate your options: to stay and continue exploring your trinkets, or having to rush to get the fabric you need. Your heart yearns as you set the jar on the shelf. You tell yourself that you’ll come back tomorrow, that the more headway you make on the dress, the more you can play afterwards.
Before you exit, you sweep your eyes through the room once more, promising to the trinkets and yourself that you’ll return. You step outside reluctantly, swarmed by chilly air and the yearning to run your hands along those shelves and stories.
Since Suna has me in a chokehold I'm wondering what kind of fic I could write for him but unfortunately all I'm thinking is that I NEED to be sandwiched between him and Kita sorry sorry sorry...
smut, reader has breasts and a vagina (no pronouns)
Suna's greedy when he fucks—hurried between your legs, iris blown as fox eyes flitter to yours. He eats you hungrily, two lithe fingers sliding into you as you arch with a gasp, your head falling onto Kita's shoulder behind you.
A sharp grin slides into the corner of his cheek, eyes dropping to the softness of your belly—clenched as he thrusts his hand against you. He moans at the sight, lashes fluttering closed as he presses his face harder against your mons, breathing in the sweetness of your skin and slick.
You're in Kita's lap at the edge of the bed, Suna's figure kneeling before you. The former holds you carefully, gently, as you whine. He trails kisses up your neck, one hand firm on your side while the other cups your breast—rolling your nipple between his fingers.
"Bein' s'good love," he breathes beneath your ear. Shivers roll down your spine, compounding with the shock of your pinched nipple, of Suna's ruthless tongue against your clit.
You whine from the intensity, jerking your legs as each touch shoots straight to your cunt. Suna groans when your knees squeeze together, head squished between your thighs. His fingers slip from your movement and you whine again, this time from the loss.
"Uh-uh," Kita chides, hands snaking down your body. When he reaches the inside of your thighs, they push firmly, spreading you.
Suna groans, fingers immediately slipping back inside your heat. He adds a third, curling harshly, and makes a choked sound when your slick runs down his wrist. His free hand comes to one thigh, holding it so the other's can return to your breast. Kita pinches your nipple harshly, a warning, before his fingers slide further to cradle your neck.
"Stay good fer us," he demands right against your ear. "Y'can do that, yeah?"
You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.
[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]
part 1: one brighter than the rest.
sero hanta x reader
ch 1/6 | 12.1k words | fic masterlist | ao3
cw: mentions of past death of a family member
notes: chapter song is gloria by kendrick & sza
the circus arrives in Milan, and you arrive at the circus. someone special welcomes you personally.
✰.
"Inside every adult there's still a child that lingers. We're happiness merchants—giving people the opportunity to dream like children."
-Guy Laliberte, co-founder of Cirque du Soleil
The circus is coming. For you.
✰.
The knock on your door is five minutes late. It raps with firm rapidness, demanding a sense of urgency. You scramble to stand from your seat, dishes clattering against the table when you bump it with your knee, and scurry to greet your guest. He looks unamused when you tug the door open, eyes barely darting over unkempt hair and wrinkled clothing—maybe because he looks the same. You don’t bother with greetings, instead informing him that you’ll open the garage.
You kick the door closed as you start down the hall. The floorboards squeak under quick steps, feet threatening to slip from the softness of your socks. They’re struck with a chill on the soles when they land on bare concrete, carrying you along the wall to press the button on its surface.
Light slowly floods your workspace, trickling in from the bottom as the shutter lifts from the ground. Green grass and grey pavement fill the frame, soon joined by the red brick of neighboring buildings. The chilly air of February rushes in, prickling your uncovered arms with goosebumps. Grating sounds soak the air, rusted joints running along the frame of the large garage door.
The man is still by your front door, typing rapidly on his phone, when you step out onto the driveway.
“Qui!” You wave him over.
It successfully grabs his attention, pulling his head up and starting towards you. He looks annoyed.
“I don’t know Italian.”
You blink in realization. “Oh,” you say, preparing your brain to switch to English. “Sorry, I was telling you to wait by the garage.”
He nods curtly, eyes moving from you to the mannequin near the center of the room. He slips his hand into his pocket, digging out a key. “I’ll back up the van.”
You use the time to wheel your work to the edge of your studio. Tender fingers carefully grasp the waist of the wool figure—now draped in layers of delicate fabric and feathers—as you press your foot against the latch of the wheels, unlocking them. The mannequin gently rolls forward with your guidance until you step on the lock again. You look fondly at the gown, recounting the many transformations it went through to get here. Sleepless nights, panicked phone calls, trial and error. Despite the vexation this dress throttled you with for the past few months, a tremor waves through your heart knowing that you’ll part with it soon.
You turn to retrieve three other items. The first is a massive headpiece, delicate and jarring as you walk the display head to sit next to its counterpart. The other two are boxes, one filled with extra fabric and feathers, folds and wispy tufts spilling from the rough cardboard, smaller containers of beads and faux jewels shaking within. Another is a carefully organized plastic bin: your essential tools, the only orderly part of your process.
The man stops the van just before the garage door, right as you set the box behind your mannequin. He moves to open the metal doors, the click of the latch and squeaking hinges welcoming you into the dark space. There’s an assortment of cardboard boxes coating the floor—makeshift cushions, so the mannequin won’t slide en route. You unlock the wheels of the figure once again as the driver pulls out the ramp. Once it rests steadily on the ground, you push forward carefully.
You pause at the sound of rustling behind you. Turning to see the man lifting the box of fabric, you relax at the sight and continue your journey onwards. You nudge boxes with your foot, still bare of shoes, and slip the support of the mannequin between them. When it’s far enough inside to put you at ease, you hurry back down the ramp to retrieve the headpiece.
Once your supplies and costume pieces are secured in place, the driver looks at you expectantly from outside the van. You shake your head as you walk down the ramp.
“I’ll sit back there with it,” you tell him, unwilling to take the smallest chances. He nods unbothered. “I’ll just be a minute.”
You head back through the garage and into the hall, pulling your socks off and strewing them across the ground. You quickly gather your essentials and slip on a new change of clothes—wrinkled and sloppy, but warm enough to withstand the chilly air. You step haphazardly into your shoes and inhale the remainder of your breakfast before returning to the garage. You smack the button on the wall, dash to the closing door, and then step over the sensor while crouching under the door in time to leave. The driver is still waiting, eyes passing over you when you scurry into the back.
He pauses before closing the door, metal slamming against itself with a clang. You are shrouded in darkness, eyes fuzzy as they slowly adjust. You catch the silhouette of bundled feathers, the curve of fabric wrinkled around the waist of your model. A sliver of light peeks through the corners of the van, enough to vaguely illuminate the royal red of your gown. You carefully slip your legs under the cage of the skirt, holding the support stand between your calves while your feet press against the top of the pedal. The dress is still warm from your garage, warmer than the cold bench you’re seated on. You grasp the neck of the display head at your side, holding it sturdy as the engine thrums to life. The first lurch of the car has your heart pausing in anticipation, body clenched to keep everything steady, but you relax when the vehicle presses forward smoothly.
Once you confirm the steadiness of your hold and the driving, you fumble for your phone. The time reads just a quarter past noon—you’re moving faster than expected. You open your messages and send a one-handed text that you just left your apartment. The response is immediate: ‘See you soon!!’
You cradle your projects for nearly half an hour. Despite the darkness, you can follow the journey of the van from the sensations of the drive alone—the turns from one road to another, the oscillation between smooth pavement and bumpy cobblestone paths. You know this route from the western outskirts of Milan into the Cerchia dei Navigli, a bustling center of ornate gothic structures, rich opera history, and lines of designer boutiques. The essence of fresh pasta dishes and red wine wafts through the openings of the van. The storefront of your favorite osteria runs through your mind, spilling clusters of tables and chairs into the street, along with clinking glasses and the ting of silverware.
You relax, imagining the comforts of your regular places. Their distant visuals soften the thumping in your chest.
It’ll be fine. You know your client will like your work, you know the gown functions as it needs to, and you know your craftsmanship. Your work is good. You know this. The only variable left is transportation, which has nearly come to an end. You feel the van stop, the engine quieting with it.
Your legs relax and loosen their hold on the mannequin. Clanging erupts from the back of the aluminum cage, the driver pulling the doors open. You’re momentarily blinded by a burst of sunlight, reflecting off the white and red fabric you are parked before—stretched canvas taught against the framed structure beneath. You waste no time standing and shoving boxes out of the way, unlocking the mannequin wheels to walk it down the ramp. The driver watches closely, but waits silently as you reenter to get the headpiece.
You hear a shout as you walk down the ramp. It comes from a soft voice, sounding almost nervous. “Aizawa-san!” It calls, a stream of Japanese following. The driver turns his head at the sound. You realize it must be his name, recognizing the honorific.
When you step down onto the plaza, you catch sight of the owner of the voice: a man with striking green curls, some sticking against his forehead and cheeks. He wears a tight-fitted top that reads “practice shirt” and a pair of athletic shorts. He converses with who you assume is Aizawa, and you realize he must be one of the acrobats.
His eyes dart to you, then the mannequin head. His eyes brighten, almost shine, and suddenly you are bombarded with a slew of questions, spoken in heavily accented English.
“Wow! You must be the artist Kendou commissioned! Is that Momo’s costume? It’s incredible! It reminds me of Carnival in Asakusa—”
The rest of the words pass through you, a jumble you can hardly understand—both from the speed of his rambling and his accent. But you smile brightly at the compliment. The mention of Asakusa Samba with its feathers and accessories, patterns blending traditions from across the globe, was exactly the vision. Yours takes a much more modest approach, but the influence is clear—at least for someone who knows their Carnival. You appreciate someone who can trace those lines of inspiration, pick apart your brain and your thought process. It strikes you with a special sort of pride.
Before you can respond, the man you’ve decided is Aizawa interjects. “Midoriya.”
The mumbling halts and now the curly man is blushing, waving his arms around. “Gah! Sorry... I—”
Aizawa cuts him off, saying something in Japanese and gesturing to the van. To get your boxes, you think. He turns to you. “Which one should I carry?”
Your stomach clenches. You don’t like the idea of either being out of your control, but the answer is obvious. You hand him the mannequin head, watching as he grasps it by the neck and then immediately turns to walk away. You hold the waist of your mannequin and follow him slowly. The eagerness in your heart, the prospect of being so close to finished, calls you to sprint forward, to see this through. But you force yourself to walk slower than normal, to let this final moment stretch on a little longer. You know when you return home later, to a studio empty of its recent fixation, you’ll feel hollow inside.
As you wheel the dress along the giant tent, your eyes drift up its shaped canvas cover, stark against the blue sky. Yesterday this piazza was empty, holding its usual clusters of tourists and performers and lingerers. Overnight, a structure large enough to hold a stage and an audience was erected. People knew the circus was coming—Hoshi no Sākasu, Circus of the Stars—and yet as per usual, it appeared in an instant. Impossibly.
You feel giddy, brimming with curiosities about the magic these people can conjure. How does an auditorium simply appear? And in the middle of one of Milan’s most notorious attractions, now fenced along the edges. But Hoshi no Sākasu is notorious for these sorts of stunts. You’re familiar with the circus, having been a fan of costumes and impossibilities since a child, but you’ve never known magic like this.
Your eye catches a gap in the fabric, a flap gently brushed open. You can see the stage setup at the front, the congregation of various athletes on their props. You yank your head forward, away from the tempting preview of the show to come. You don’t like to spoil these events for yourself, too invested in viewing the delivery of a performance as an unsuspecting spectator—a blank slate for a story to unfold.
You hear a huff beside you: Midoriya, having caught up somehow carrying both boxes—your plastic bin awkwardly small under the larger cardboard box. You feel some unease at his determination to make one trip, but your watchful eyes don’t catch any real problems with his method.
“It’s okay to have a look,” he says somewhat breathless. “Knowing what happens behind the scenes can make the performance more enriching!”
“And ruin the surprise?” you ask. “I’ve never seen a Hoshi no Sakasu performance. I want my first time to leave me blown away.”
He gapes. “You’ve never seen one? I thought circus costuming was one of your biggest inspirations. You said you’ve seen nearly a dozen of Cirque du Soleil’s shows, and you’re familiar with most other major circus productions.”
A wave of embarrassment rolls over you. The feeling festers in your shoulders, making you want to hide behind your mannequin. It’s one thing for people to know your work, mostly opera gowns and period dresses. It’s another to meet someone who’s read you, articles and interviews you couldn’t force yourself to relive. Not that you made any particular fumbles, but you never do well under spotlight. You prefer the shadows of the costume rooms, creating opulent or kitschy regalia for others to flaunt.
“It is. I have,” you respond. “But your circus has only toured in Asia. And I can’t watch online performances before the real thing.”
Midoriya makes a thoughtful noise beside you. You worry that he’s going to launch into another tirade of mumbling when you see Aizawa enter the next flap of the tent. You decide to speed your walking to a normal pace.
“Is this the wardrobe?” you ask.
Midoriya brightens, switching gears with ease. “Yes! Kendou and Momo are there now. These tents are such interesting spaces—”
You see it for yourself when you enter, carefully pulling the loose canvas aside to roll the mannequin along. The room is large with awkward corners, the chord of a circle. You catch the section of the wall with the stage entrance where the performers are currently congregated behind, separated only by a curtain. Chattering and clattering waft through the opening, the ambiance of their practice. There are props strewn about backstage, scatterings of belongings laying on tables with giant mirrors, and an array of costumes hanging on moveable coat racks. Your hands grip the waist of your lay figure, itching to sift through the final designs for the show.
You stop yourself when you catch fiery orange hair. “Kendou,” you say excitedly.
She leaps to you, away from Aizawa and the headpiece, and gasps, eyes twinkling with excitement as she calls your name in return.
“Wow,” she says, running a hand slowly over the dress. She gently lifts the base of the first layered skirt ruffles, threading her fingers along the wrinkles, the transition of red to white beneath. “You dyed it perfectly. And the details... just wow. I knew you were perfect for the job.”
That sensation of pride creeps back up your body, pulling you to stand straight with a grin. This piece was one from your roots—reaching back to your early works of parade dresses and costumes based on the birds of your home. You consider yourself an expert on the matter, emulating silhouettes and movements of macaws, toucans, hummingbirds. Even the mythical creature you were challenged to emulate for this dress, the mighty phoenix, you knew was well within your wheelhouse.
The process, admittedly, was the most challenging part. Rather than starting with fabrics and textures, design for this production began with a clear goal: the phoenix, and the mechanics of the gown in the illusion that would unfold. You started with white fabric and a silhouette, working with the proportions of Momo’s body and the creature in your objective. Then you iterated through textures, round after round of cutting fabric edges, stitching, adjusting, deciphering the best method of wrapping the fabric on Momo’s body. Afterwards came sizing, which involved a plane ride from Musutafu to Milan, for Momo to try on the prototype, finalize the details of the fit, and test how the fabric and headpiece would move during the choreography. Once you knew her patterns, it was time to dye and cut and stitch, a grind to complete the final work in just two weeks. You finished the base of the dress in two days, the headpiece in two, and spent five grueling over details—sewing in stones and feathers, and making additional fabric details to fix in place. You gave yourself a few days to stop thinking about it as best you could, before spending the past days fine-tuning the details.
Momo approaches, eyes glassy with awe. “It’s incredibly beautiful. We were right to trust you. I can’t believe this is the result.”
You appreciate them, their trust. The gown was just a swath of white fabric when they visited, still rough around the edges. Enough to understand how it would move and appear in silhouette, but requiring an active imagination to see it as a finished piece.
But enough praise. You want to see it on.
“Shall we?” you ask.
The energy shifts immediately. Kendou is behind you, taking in your instructions for the best process to get the gown from the mannequin to Momo. You first unlatch the crinoline from the waist of your figure, gently pulling it down. Kendou has to help you remove the figure from the support so you can free the hoop skirt and hand it to Momo. While she steps out of her outer clothes and brings the frame in place, you notice neither of the men have left. Aizawa watches blankly while Midoriya averts his eyes, choosing instead to stare at the headpiece on the table.
Once the support is secured, you remove the dress from the mannequin. You make a show of where the zipper starts and how far it runs for Kendou to reference. You lift the sleeves upwards, Kendo’s sturdy hands assisting you, and Midoriya steps in to help, carefully grabbing the bunched fabric of the skirt. It lifts easily over Momo, lowering in time for her to slip her arms through the sleeves. Once her hands appear from cinched wrists, you immediately begin to adjust, picking at the fabric around her waist to smooth out any twisting. Kendou traces along the neckline to straighten it. You look at Midoriya, the way he awkwardly tries to fluff the fabric over the hoop skirt. You swoop in to help, fingers confident as they unpin the bundle of chiffon at the back, letting it spill vibrant orange—hot magma, you think—onto the ground, protected by a sheet.
You hear Midoriya squeak as your hands skirt past his, essentially smacking them aside.
“Sorry!” he squeaks. “The other costume crew are out right now. I don’t normally get to help.”
You huff with a smile. “It’s fine. You like being on wardrobe duty?”
“Yes!” he says immediately. “It’s interesting to think about what types of fabric or shapes suit the acrobats and their acts. It really brings the characters alive, and yet not something I’ve had many chances to explore!”
You hum in agreement as you turn to the table with the headpiece. You gently work the elastic off, gripping at the hard plastic further up. Once secure in your grasp, you turn to hold it over Momo’s head, her hands meeting yours to catch the edges. It sits snug and straight despite the asymmetrical display of feathers. They fan to your right and sway gently with her movement. You let Kendou fuss with the details, ensuring it sits comfortably while you take a step back to admire the costume in full.
Even in the backroom, the costume has a magnifying presence. It commands attention. You let your eyes scan down Momo’s figure, the details of the feathered top that transitions into the mask, swirls of wire and mesh covering the top of Momo’s face, pointed dramatically at the ends in a sharp beak. Delicate pieces of wire frame her like a halo, tipped with feathers and sparkling gold jewels. They bounce softly with the slightest turn of her head, twinkling under the lights.
Her collarbones are framed by a heart-shaped neckline coated in sheer ruffles. They match the fabric of the shoulders and arms, cinched and falling in a classic bishop sleeve, sporting additional ruffling at the wrists. The chiffon is a bright red, tipped with the pop of orange. The bust of the dress is a contrasting dark maroon, coated with your signature detailing—intricately sewed jewels, beads, and buttons in abstract swirling patterns. The detailing trails down the waist, and fades into the front of the skirt. The fabric below the hips is generously layered, appearing dark and red as it sits upon itself and runs an inch on the floor. The transparent ribbons of orange lay elegantly on the ground, wrinkled carefully to retain volume. One of the bottommost layers of fabric is embroidered with the cursive swoops of your artist’s name: Verde, meaning green in both Italian and Spanish.
When the outfit is secure, Momo takes a few steps as a test. The fabric flutters over her arms and swishes around her waist. She experimentally spins, only about a quarter turn, and your breath hitches. The layered skirt lifts perfectly, exposing the bright white fabric below. You can imagine the act with full clarity, what will unfold on the stage.
“Ugh,” Kendou groans with delight. “It really... It's perfect. I couldn’t have dreamed of anything better. It’ll be the center of the show, like we wanted.”
Your heart swells further at the compliment. This is what those sleepless nights and raw fingertips were for, what they amount to. Not the praise, but the fulfillment of a vision—a dream finally coming to life.
Midoriya breaks you from your trance. “This is incredible! The costume crew and Momo have kept the rest of us in the dark the whole time. The others are going to be blown away when they see it.” He traces a gentle hand along one of the layers of the skirt. “Is it silk and chiffon? I’m trying to learn more about fabrics.”
You nod. “Chiffon for the sheer fabric, but a silk alternative for the skirt and bust. I’ve been experimenting with different alternative fabrics, and your team agreed to let me use plant lyocell after looking at my other pieces and how they’ve aged. It’ll be fine since Momo’s act isn’t demanding on the costume.”
Midoriya’s eyes shimmer, but Momo chimes in before he can respond. “I hope my performance can live up to the extravagance of this dress. I’m sure you have a critical eye for opera with your line of work.”
You roll your eyes. “You and your voice are stunning. It’ll be the best performance I’ve ever seen,” you reply honestly. “I’ve never been to an opera with an entire circus backing it up. Besides, I’m tired of standard gowns.” It pays well, with old money and prestige, but you inch closer to losing your sanity everytime you make another sleek, dark gown. You want flare and drama and the room to be eccentric. This commission was heaven sent, for giving you something you’ve been craving.
“Ever think about circus costume?” Kendou asks. “Full time, full commitment?”
You freeze. Your eyes blink rapidly, your heart following its pace. You tread carefully, unsure if this is a job offer or a thought experiment. “In my dreams. Never thought it was possible, though.”
You see Momo’s eyes widen at the admission. Kendou continues, “It is, for you. You should consider it.”
Your fingers tingle, body thrumming with anticipation. You think you might be sick. You look at her pleadingly. “Kendou, I have orders through June—”
She shakes her head. “Afterwards. Our traveling season ends in September. October is when we start preparations in Japan.”
There’s a lump in your throat you can’t swallow. You try to calm your expression, knowing you look like a deer in headlights, but your mind races with possibility. Then it fills with logistical questions—your home, your studio, the language barrier. You try to blink them away as you look into Kendou’s teal eyes. They’re strong, intense. One eyebrow is quirked, challenging you. For a moment you see the bright blue of the sea in her irises, waving against the black sand of her pupils.
She speaks before you do. “Just think about it, yeah? You have time. We can talk it over.”
All you manage is a nod, afraid of the noise you might make if you speak. Your eyes move to the others in the room, Momo’s curious gaze and Midoriya’s shining expression. Aizawa still looks bored, unbothered, and you find comfort in his nonchalance.
You clear your throat, ready to change the topic. “Okay. Is there anything else we need to run through? Adjustments? Final touches?”
Kendou waves her hand, turning back to Momo. “You should go, take the day off. You know I won’t botch your work. It’s perfect anyways.”
Despite your hammering heart wanting to run yourself out of the tent, your mind whirs at the potential work to do. “Are you sure?” you ask. You trust Kendou and her skillful touch, but this was your baby for months. Your stomach clenches knowing it’s no longer in your hands.
“Go,” she says, then turns to Midoriya. “You too, you should get lunch together. We need to get the dress on the stage, and we don’t need you pulling a muscle last minute again.”
His freckled face flushes, eyes widening comically. You see the start of a protest form on his lips before you interject. “You get to have real Italian pizza yet?”
He shakes his head slowly, eyes trailing to you.
“C’mon, I’ll treat you,” you say. You would rather run out of here alone, to call your friend Chiara and hyperventilate over Kendo’s offer. But you’re drawn to circus people, those who get paid to make a spectacle of themselves. You can postpone your breakdown to indulge in time with a professional clown.
He flushes a shade darker, before stuttering through an, “O-okay!”
Kendo’s mouth smirks in your periphery while she examines the details of the dress, fussing over the ruffles on the shoulder. “Change into something warm,” she instructs.
The tumble of syllables that fall from his mouth are incoherent—you can’t tell if they’re Japanese or gibberish, maybe both. He scurries to the tables where bags and clothes are gathered, pulling out a square yellow pack. He grabs for a pile of fabric and then rushes into one of the changing stalls.
You pull out your phone, glancing at the time before opening your messages. You send a slew to your friend, getting the main point across that you need to talk later. Desperately. You notice a recent message from your sister and quickly swipe it away without reading it.
Aizawa’s voice pulls your attention back. “Do you need a ride?”
You turn to him, shaking your head. “No, we’ll be in the area. I can take the mannequin back with me on the metro later.” You pause before adding, “Thanks for driving. I can’t stand packing costumes. And sorry for the awkward first meeting... Aizawa?”
He nods, affirming the name. “It’s fine, it wasn’t any issue. It’ll have to be packed when we’re on the road, but Kendou will manage fine.”
“Aizawa’s one of the producers,” Momo says.
Your eyes widen, heart stumbling to your stomach. A producer? You recount the way you hurried him along just an hour earlier. Maybe he was nonchalant about Kendo’s job proposal because he was planning to make her rescind it. He laughs dryly at your expression.
“Don’t worry,” he says with a dark mirth. “I know how you costume people get, especially close to showing.”
You are saved by the return of Midoriya, dressed in a silhouette you think is quite stylish, but you have to suppress a grin at the clash between the garments. Bright dotted yellow lays against patterned maroon, flush against saturated cobalt painted with white details. Primary colors. You like this guy.
You tell Kendou that you’ll be back after lunch, at the very least to retrieve your lay figure. She and Momo wave you off with smiles. Midoriya leads you out of the tent and into the brightness of the day. Cool air nips your face and hands, but it calms you, brings ease into your body.
You look around the piazza. The paved square is fenced, littered with guards outside the perimeter. Over the top of the large tent is the pointed roof of the Duomo di Milano.
“How do you do it?”
“Huh?”
“The tent,” you clarify, turning to meet his eyes. “How does it just… appear? Without warning—without anyone seeing.”
A cheeky grin crawls along the side of his face. “Can't say,” he answers vaguely with a hum, before diverting his eyes.
You huff, turning back to the blue of the sky. Is that the sort of thing you would get to learn about, to understand intricately, if you joined them? You want to whine in annoyance, but the tufts of clouds leisurely drifting above catch your attention. You think you can make out a rabbit, hopping to an apple twice its size. You’re about to point it out when Midoriya speaks.
“I don’t know where we’re going... ” he trails off, his smile now embarrassed.
“I do. Can we exit from the north?”
He nods. You start walking left of the duomo’s face, towards one of the restaurants you frequent when you’re in town. Midoriya trails behind you, easily falling into conversation with his questions.
“Will you be coming to the opening night?” he asks.
You grin sharply, side-eyeing him. “Of course, and with impossible expectations.”
You expect him to flush like earlier, but a determined smile crosses his face, the acceptance of a challenge. “It’ll ruin any other performance for you.”
Your face lifts in surprise at the declaration, teeth sinking into the smile you try to fight. You believe him, having heard nothing but genuine and limitless praise from anyone who’s seen a Hoshi no Sākasu production. They’re known for intricate plotlines that unfold through deliberate acts, ones that overlap seamlessly. This show in particular, Gōyoku, has garnered immense hype leading up to its first performance, only a couple nights from now. It seeks to blend their usual rich use of Japanese culture and aesthetics with Italian influence, specifically through the addition of an opera performance. The eve of the first show will mark the start of a festival in the piazza. They’ll perform for five nights, ending the day before the Ambrosia Carnival begins, bringing four more days of festivities.
You’re somehow lucky enough to exist at the perfect intersection of opera gowns, bird costuming, and Italian residency—the exact background the costuming team sought. You nearly leaped out of your skin when you saw the email, ready to shelve any and all projects out of the way for this opportunity.
“I don’t doubt it,” you tell Midoriya honestly. You’re not hard to entertain when it comes to the circus, awed at performers in general—especially when they’re pushing the boundaries of their bodies. You had naive dreams for yourself at one point, visions of swinging through the air or twisting yourself in knots, but it didn’t take long for you to realize your heart was in the creation of the gowns instead.
You converse with Midoriya easily. He likes to talk about designers, asking your opinion on gowns or looks that have been circulating lately. By the time you reach the trattoria, sunken between the walls of the adjacent establishments and coated with ivy, you’ve managed to switch the conversation onto him: what pulled him to be a circus freak.
He’s as talkative when he’s the one answering questions, mumbling as he recounts an old figure in a notorious Japanese circus who inspired him.
“Toshinori Yagi was big in Japan for a long time. His range was incredible—he would perform up to seven acts during a show.” You let your eyes linger on Midoriya’s turtleneck while he talks, the bright yellow stark against the creamy beige of the wall behind him. Primary colors, you think again, like the notorious Yagi—or All Might, his stage name.
“Yeah. And then got Houdini-ed out of showbiz,” you add with an amused grin. You remember the news, when another performer asked if it was true he could withstand punches to the gut, landing one on him before he could prepare. He only lasted two more shows before his body gave out on stage from the abdominal trauma. Luckily unlike Houdini, Yagi survived the incident, but could no longer perform like he used to. “Only to turn around and become a legend in costuming.”
Midoriya beams. “Of course you’d be familiar! He’s one of my mentors. I met him as a kid, and he encouraged me to train and audition despite having a late start.”
You hum, curious. You look out the window to your side, people strolling down the cobblestone in long coats and scarves. You wonder how late a start can be, to still have time to make it in the industry. You were lucky as a kid, to have been exposed to your line of work so early—to be given these tools and connections before you even entered high school. You wonder what your life would have looked like if you tried to barrel down a different path, one that wasn’t reaching for you so tightly.
“So what’s your stage name, Midoriya?” You say his name with uncertainty, unsure if you heard it right.
He grimaces bashfully. “Sorry, I never introduced myself. On stage I’m Deku, but Midoriya is fine.”
You hum, and return the introduction. “Though it seems like you knew all that,” you say.
He nods across from you. A waiter interrupts his would-be response, asking what you’d like to order. You ask Midoriya if he has any food restrictions, receiving a shake of the head, before naming a few different dishes to the service. They nod and gather the menus before hurrying off.
“I got classics, don’t worry,” you say with amusement. “This place is a good baseline for the rest of your time here. You like Italian food?”
“As much as the typical person,” he says. “But we don’t eat it much in Musutafu.”
You hum. “The Japanese food here is pretty hit or miss, but I can recommend a ramen place if you get desperate.”
He looks at you curiously. You return the expression.
“Would... you really consider it?” he asks. “Coming to Japan for us?”
You blink, not expecting him to ask, then sigh. “I’d love to,” you say honestly. “But it’s a big change, And I have a network here. I could ride my career until the end.”
It’s true, you’d be comfortable in Milan. There’s always work, always opportunity for you. You have friends here, communities you’ve become a part of.
Your gut churns. But it’s the circus.
“But it’s the circus,” Midoriya says. You widen your eyes. “Your interviews always talk about how much you love the circus.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “Hey, I’m not famous enough to have people memorizing articles written about me.”
Midoriya’s jaw clenches, eyes widening. “Sorry!” He waves his hands energetically—very Japanese.
He averts his eyes. You think he looks guilty.
You laugh.
When the food is served, you insist that Midoriya eats as much as wants, whatever he wants. He reaches first for the pasta, eyes brightening as he shovels arrabiata into his mouth.
You nod at the reaction. “You have to admit that good Italian food makes a difference.”
His hum and eager eating is approval enough. You make a show of cutting the pizza and nudge a few slices his way. In return, he pushes the pasta forwards for you to have a bite.
By the time you finish—using your language advantage to ensure Midoriya doesn’t foot the bill, before strolling out into the cool air—nearly an hour has passed. Midoriya starts a series of rambling as you return to the tent, happily bragging about his friends.
“I’m so excited for you to see Momo’s performance, she has such an incredible voice. And the act that she put together with Hagakure and Mirio is spectacular. Based on your interests, I think you’ll really like Sero and Tokoyami’s act. And Keigo too! Kacchan has one of the most intense, so he’s a typical audience favorite. We have an incredible build team that has been working on our special effects, and they really went all out for him. Kaminari and Tetsu have maybe the coolest—”
It continues all the way back to the dressing room, and even when you open the flap to step inside. You blink in surprise at the new faces sharing the room with Momo and Kendou. The singer is out of costume, dress hung at the front of a coat rack, and she calls your name. You wave as you walk over.
Momo introduces you swiftly—to a princely man and two smaller women—before clutching your hands. “No issues! We went through the choreo and it was perfect.”
You smile, an unexpected relief wafting through you. “I’m so glad. I can’t wait to see you in action.”
You take a long look in her eyes, pools of darkness with a shimmer. You realize—for the first time with full force—that this production has its own intricate meaning to Momo, likely more than whatever it could mean to you as an outsider. You grasp her hand in return, memory flooding with countless conversations to brainstorm ideas, random calls despite the seven hour time difference to ask for an opinion or show your progress. You think about the first call you had with her, just to get to know her.
You think the costume is an ode to how you’ve learned to understand Momo: the way she moves, the curves of her body. But it’s just as much an ode to how much she’s letting you in, giving you full reign to share everything you’ve ever known and loved about creating costumes.
There are words resting on the tip of your tongue, one’s that feel like a closure you aren’t ready for. It’s too soon and you’re not willing to do this with an audience, to taint your farewell with the prying eyes of those who don’t understand.
You think Momo feels the same. She says gently in effortless Italian, “I’ll see you in two days minimum, right?” The night the festival opens, the night before the first showing.
“Of course.”
She leans in for a hug. It’s a short and gentle embrace, but its essence is layered. Complicated.
“We’re all about to head out for a break.” She nods to the others gathering their things at the tables. “I wish we had time for you to meet them properly. You’ll stay after the show, right?”
“You could not pay me to stay away.”
She laughs quietly, then slips you a gentle smile. “Perfect. See you soon.”
You nod and watch as she turns away to join the others. Your eyes linger for a moment before you begin towards your mannequin. You take a few steps, ready to rush home and frantically call Chiara. As you scurry over, your eye catches a book resting on one of the dressing tables. It’s small, but looks familiar. You stop in your tracks when you catch the title: Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda.
If We Stretch Stars Like Silk
Your breath catches at the sight. It’s your childhood favorite, one you keep at your bedside after all these years—one with yellowed paper and a peeling cover, worn and faded with love. Nearly every page has a faint crease in the corner, where you’ve folded it over to mark your spot or make a note to come back to. The copy in front of you is old, with vintage font on the front and a blotch of water damage seeping through the top half. You catch the edge of a receipt peeking through, just a quarter into the volume: a bookmark, for someone who started recently.
You can’t help the twitch of your lips as you step closer, the lull of your childhood dreamspace drawing you in. You brush a finger along the dark edge, slipping where the receipt is wedged and taking a glimpse at the pages. You blink in surprise at the neat script in the margins, hiragana and the occasional kanji. Your eyes run over the markings, wondering what they say, until they drop lower and land on a line of Spanish written with a similar diligence.
You pull your hand away, letting the book close.
“¿Hablas Español?”
Do you speak Spanish?
You snap your head to the voice, deep and a little rough. You catch two different eye colors—Todoroki, you recall from Momo’s quick introduction.
“A little,” you say in English, betraying your mother tongue. You don’t know why the lie slips from you, especially when your eyes land on Midoriya lingering with the others. Your early life is easily accessible information—one quick search would surface the real answer.
“I love this book,” you add, as if offering truths will balance your dishonesty.
Todoroki hums in agreement. “It is quite beautiful.” His English flows easily, and with a nearly flawless American accent. “Another performer is reading it with me right now. He and I have similar taste, and I’ve been working on my Spanish.”
It makes sense, the book being targeted towards children with simple vocabulary and a whimsical plot. You longed to be part of the story when you first read it—a tale of two boys in different worlds. They came to know each other when they stumbled across a pond, seeing each other instead of their own reflection, the water a portal to bridge opposing universes. They could only ever cross through at night, by grasping at the stars twinkling in the reflection. They thinned out like ribbons of thread, and could be woven into a rope to climb through. On cloudy nights they could only look at each other with longing.
In your adolescence, you imagined living in a third world, one where you could reach through the water and grasp them both, to be together forever. With you.
It planted dreams of weaving your own fabrics from scratch, like your grandmother did. But eventually you learned to sew.
Based on the bookmark, you think Todoroki has only just learned of the pond, the one Santi nearly falls into when he lands eyes on Marco for the first time. There’s a tug at your heart, calling to reach for your copy. You miss your boys, your adventures together.
“Your thoughts so far?” you ask.
You watch as Todoroki’s eyes narrow lightly with thought. You are struck by how beautiful he is, the soft skin of his face against sharp features. Your eyes trace his scar, curious towards the story behind it. You think he’d look striking wrapped in deep blue fabric—loose linens breezing against his body. With a high collar, maybe.
“It is a book that allows people to dream,” he eventually says.
Your smile is uncontainable. “Wait ‘til the actual magic happens.”
Midoriya’s voice breaks the conversation, calling for Todoroki. The taller man responds in Japanese, before translating for you.
“Sorry, but we are leaving now,” he says. “We can walk out together.”
You nod and abandon the table for your lay figure. You reattach the mannequin head before unlocking the wheels of the body. You crouch to grab the handle of your tool bin. Todoroki moves to help, but you shake your head. You’ll have to take it on the metro yourself anyways.
The others wait as you cross the room to the entrance, wheeling your figure along. They similarly try to help, but you smack away their hands. Kendou rolls her eyes, but then offers you three tickets and a plastic card. You let go of your mannequin to take it, reading your name across the top of the ID and the words “Costume Crew”.
“In case you run into issues with security,” she explains. “But you shouldn’t.”
You nod, shoveling the card away before continuing to roll the dummy along. The cast members walk with you to the station, at the northern edge of the piazza, before saying their goodbyes.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay taking your stuff back alone?” Midoriya asks.
You nod with amusement. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Deku.”
He flushes.
You say your farewells, and receive particularly meaningful waves from Momo and Kendou, before walking towards the elevator. Taking the metro home is annoying, as it normally is when you have to transport your mannequin. But it’s routine, and you manage well enough. The afternoon is unhurried, offering abundant space in the train car, escaping glares that would have pointed your way if it were the end of the workday. While you wait for your stop, you check for a response from Chiara. She messaged you an hour ago, a simple, When and where?
You respond, My place in 30?
The transfer is easy enough, rolling from one train to the next. When you finally rise back to ground level and walk through your neighborhood, you’re nearly skipping. You have to reign your energy in to not look like an idiot. When you finally reach your building, you wrestle with your keys and fling the door open at lightning speed. Once your mannequin is locked in place and your tools are safely on the ground, you inelegantly crumple onto the floor.
You bury your head in your hands as you recount the day and all that passed: your mortifying introduction to the producer, the final passing of your precious gown to its new owner, the tension of potentially being offered a job, how you forced one of the performers (with the help of Kendou, admittedly) to get lunch with you, running into your childhood friend—that precious book you want to spend the night cradling with a flashlight under your covers.
Chiara storms in minutes later, the clack of her heels sharp on your floor. You hear her yelp at the sight of you before grabbing ahold of your arm and yanking you up. You look at her defeated.
“I’m tired of your cryptic bullshit,” she grumbles in sharp Italian, dragging you to the couch. Your legs weakly oblige. “Spill. What the hell happened? Did the gown get ruined? Do I need to call Davide?”
You look at her helplessly, shaking your head. You inhale. “I think they offered me a job.”
Her flawless face holds irritation for one more moment before her jaw drops. “What!?” she shrieks, grabbing your bicep tightly. Manicured nails dig into your skin.
You nod silently, slowly.
She gives you a few hard shakes. “What did you say? Holy fuck, are you accepting? You have to accept this, right? Oh my god. … Tucano—this is incredible.” Her voice softens by the end, the usual effect of the nickname.
“Chia,” you plead. She frowns at the tone. “I don’t—I don’t know? I’ve been in Milan for a while, it’s home to me. I can’t just leave my friends and my clients, and—” you pause, thinking of your late grandmother, your abuela, the reason you came here in the first place. When she fell ill and you needed money to take care of her, later taking her with you to a country with a higher success rate for her surgery, where you hoped to extend her life just a little longer, selfishly. You already uprooted yourself and your family, only for it to be abuela’s end. What would it mean to leave again, to keep running?
Part of you knows you’re kidding yourself. You may have left home to support your family, but now you stay gone to avoid seeing them, to avoid confrontation.
“I just… I can’t just leave.”
You watch her face, the way it falls sadly. “Tucano… you can do whatever you want. I thought… I thought this was your dream, the costumes. And for a circus. Not an opera or a show, but those freaky acrobats you fawn over.”
You glare as the last words leave her lips. Your eyes bore into her brown ones, her thick lashes. They match the darkness of her hair: perfect swooping waves that end above her shoulders.
“I know, I know,” she says with a sigh. “What? Do you need help processing? Brainstorming? Pro and cons list?”
You huff, not sure yourself. Her sharp eyes watch you closely.
“Well…” she tries. “If you got a job offer, then the dress was a success, yeah? Wanna debrief me on that?”
You groan as your mind reminds you of your faux pas with Aizawa this morning. “I totally offended one of their producers. I thought they were sending some random stage guy to give me a ride and…”
A dark brow lifts in curious delight. Her mouth quirks as you relay your demise. You’re about to scowl when she laughs. “Okay, but the dress. The dress made it?”
Your shoulders drop. “It’s perfect. They loved it.”
A sharp grin splits her face. Your heart squeezes when you recognize pride, for you. “As we knew they would! And that calls for celebration.”
You smile at the sentiment, your nervous heart relaxing slightly. Chiara reads you easily by now, like fluency in a language just by watching from the outside. Despite the scoffing and bullying, all her comments and faces are expressions of love. She reminds you of your sister: observant because she cares, but also to maximize her fuel for making fun of you. All the while knowing when to soften the edges, when to remind you that you’ve done a good job.
Momo in your finished gown flashes in your mind, and you agree that you deserve to have a moment of celebration. But you can’t escape the hollowness that follows, the emptiness of an undressed form. The lack of something to fixate on, to obsess over, to give your life purpose.
“Hey, you’re gonna see your costume again in a couple days. You can’t get your post-commission depression now. You can mope when they leave, okay?”
(Reading you like a poem—seeing meaning between the lines, meaning in mere fragments.)
You huff and nod, sulking. Chiara laughs at your grumpiness.
Her presence soothes your nerves from the day, ones you pushed aside in favor of parading the streets with Midoriya. Your conversation continues, stretching through the afternoon as you cover the rest of your day. You ignore her suggestive looks as you talk about your time with Midoriya and the embarrassing feeling of knowing someone researched you so thoroughly.
You don’t mention seeing the book. You think she’d talk about fate and signs if you let it slip, and then you’d be back to terrifying career talk.
Eventually you flip the conversation to her and her day, the clients she saw. She spent her morning at the studio, her usual dolling up of models for their shoots. It’s how you met, in your early days after arriving in Milan—you dressing up performers while she touched up their faces. She stayed with the company while you left for freelancing, preferring to have more say over your projects. Part of you envies Chia’s regular schedule, what you had to give up to keep yourself afloat. But part of you knows this is the dance you have to do with your craft: the hectic oscillation between losing yourself in a project and the following period of nothingness to recover.
You talk until the sky darkens, the creeping beginnings of evening during the winter. The clock has hardly reached six, but you want to whip up a lazy dinner and retire for the evening. The call of Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda is still prevalent. You have a yearning for nostalgia.
So you boot Chiara out of your place—with a promise to see her for the first night of the festival—and claw through your freezer for some pre-prepared meal to heat. You find a crinkly package of stew that brings another round of longing through your heart, reminding you of abuela’s cooking. You know your decision, succumbing easily to a night of swaddling yourself in childhood comforts.
And you do. Half an hour later you are curled on your couch, your fluffiest blanket strewn over your shoulders. You sink into its plushness, the tickles of its fibers brushing your arms and neck. Hot stew rests in your lap while the book rests atop the arm of the sofa, spine worn enough that it rests flat without the assistance of your hand. You soak in the story of Santi's life, his home in Colombia. The simple but beautiful prose paints pictures of beaches and mountains, of boisterous streets striped in vibrant warm hues. You lovingly run your hand against the paper, smoothed and worn, some of the words fading. You take your time, smiling when you imagine the way Santi trips and nearly falls into the massive pond, how it flawlessly reflects the night sky onto the ground.
You set the book down after he and Marco finish their chat through the mirror of the water, the portal crossing worlds—universes. You find your eyes heavy, falling like Santi’s when he rolls along the grass, laying on his back to soak in the stars above.
In the morning you find that your dreams are hazy, not an uncommon occurrence. You frown as you close your eyes again, struggling to recall the scenes you danced through. You were laying in the grass, on the edge of the lake. There were beautiful stars, the kind you only see when you’ve taken trips north to the Alps.
But there was someone with you. A boy, a similar age as your dream self, as Santi and Marco—ten at the oldest. He watched you closely, purposefully. All you can remember were his hair and his eyes: dark. So dark they felt like a void, or a portal. Darker than the night sky.
The earth spins twice and you are preparing for the opening of the festival. It’s a collaboration with the local scene, vendors and entertainers from the city popping up their own tents. Hoshi no Sākasu has a few of their own near the large auditorium top, decorated with streamers and lanterns, selling traditional Japanese desserts and street food. The circus will wander north and then west on its journey through Europe and the Americas. With each stop they’ll invite the festival cultures of each country to meet their own.
You prepare at Chiara’s, her apartment deeper in the city and therefore closer to the Duomo. You begrudgingly pull your costume from the rack in the garage and sleeve it into the garment bag. You roll the length gently before placing it into a box, the soft protective cover scraping against the cardboard. You pull the matching mask and headpiece from their shelves and rest them on top.
The air is chilly when you make your way outside, biting at your exposed forearms. Perfect weather for your costume, and a night of dancing.
You let yourself into Chiara’s, calling out into the warm space. The only response is the ambiance—the thrumming of the heater. You set your box by the door and pull out your costume to hang on the rack, then invite yourself into the hall. Faint rustling sounds from the bathroom, the click of a plastic case, the tap of brushes rolling against each other. You grin and tug on the door.
The sight is not unusual: your friend with a handful of palettes—awkwardly shoved between each finger—and shoveling through her drawer of liners, lipsticks, and brushes. Her organization is as absent as yours, a nightmare to anyone who’s had to work with you both. But it means the two of you understand the chaos of each other’s systems, their inexplicable order.
She grins sharply at you. “Ready to transform?”
“Always.”
You’re dressing as your classic tonight, the guacamaya verde, or the green macaw. Birds are your specialty to begin with, a fixation passed from abuela to you. While she spent most of her time dyeing their silhouettes and features onto hand-woven fabrics, you ode to them in the shapes and details of your costumes. Feathers and beaks and fluttering fabrics like wings always make an appearance on your body during a festival or parade—but the vibrant green is your signature, the reason you chose Verde.
Chiara sits you in the kitchen to get to work. The makeup is simple, familiar: sparkling green across your eyelids and glitter along your temples.
She watches you closely as she presses powder against your eyes, the soft edge of the brush drawing the green to reach your temple. Her eyes are wide and her mouth parts, like she has something to say, to ask. You think it’s about the job offer, any new developments on what you think you’ll do with your life moving forward. You don’t implore, and neither does she.
She finishes quickly and leaves to do her own makeup in the bathroom. In her living room you pull the costume from its bag and step out of your clothes. The pants slide on first—long and loose with a cinch above the ankle. The fabric is soft where it brushes your skin, and the brightness of green brings a smile to your face. You slip the top on next, careful to avoid smudging Chiara’s work. Your arms come through the long sleeves slowly, careful not to grab the wrong piece, and shrug your shoulders to settle the garment in place. It’s your favorite part of the outfit, more than the headpiece. Layered fabric runs down your shoulders and arms to your back, expanding like wings when you lift your elbows from your waist. Their pieces flutter against you, like a cape. Tufts of feathers spring from your shoulders to match the headpiece.
You wait until Chiara emerges in her own red version of your costume to put the mask and headpiece on, fixing the wire frame over your face before sliding on the band, unrolling layers of fabric and feathers down the back of your head.
The two of you stroll confidently down the street, the swaying of your feathers and fabric catching the eyes of passersby. You walk along cobblestone paths, warming your body in the cold. The feeling of the soft fabric sliding across your skin, the sway of material cascading through your hair, is almost euphoric. You could skip, swing your arms and twirl, even. But Chiara is stern beside you, raising eyebrows at the giddiness on your face.
You start in defense, “I just—”
“I know,” she cuts you off. “But let's make a fool out of ourselves once we’re around other fools, yeah?”
You want to say that everyone in Milan is a fool. But you walk faster, and you ask about her upcoming clients to distract yourself.
The conversation halts when you reach the entrance of the piazza, eyes gleaming under the lights. Hoshi no Sākasu’s giant tent stands tall on the northern edge, with rows of square stalls spread along the southern half. The sun set a couple hours prior, the blackness of the sky now cradling the illuminated lanterns and string lights. You breathe in the ambiance of the fair, the sounds of vendors talking with customers and squeals of children running along the market rows. You can hear faint live music, the strumming of a guitar and the long notes of the standup bass.
You squeeze your fists tightly in excitement, calming yourself to keep from sprinting your way to the entrance.
There is no admission fee, just a few guards to glance at Chiara's bag. You can’t help yourself once you’re inside, and pace through the first line of tents. You stop once you’re fully swept into the sounds, blinking happily as you take in the venue. You don’t know where to start, eyes trailing along the options to make a decision. Most of the vendors are local, but you spot the stall closest to the stage tent, carp lanterns catching your attention. Before you can take a step closer, a hand clutches your wrist.
It’s Chiara, panting. “Shit, you’re like an unleashed dog.”
You grin and let your wrist slip in her grasp to clutch her hand. Then you march along, tugging her behind you. She doesn’t complain, happily following your lead.
Your heart sings as you gravitate towards the carps blowing through the air. You compliment other costumes and you notice, and flourish under the praise you receive for your own. This is what you love, you think. This is why you’re still here in Milan even after abuela passed. The ambiance and the community, the noisiness of vendors and live music streaming through the night.
And admittedly, sometimes you like to indulge in the fantasy of being a performer, for others to look at you and assume you’d be on the stage.
You spot Kendou—your first sighting of any crew members—just before you make it to their tents. Her hair is what catches your attention, the fiery orange, but your eyes dart to her outfit next. She wears a deep teal dress that resembles a cheongsam, only with longer sleeves that fan out towards the ends. It’s layered with a black laced corset that bursts black feathers from the back, trailing down her dress like a tail. Her face sports a simple mask, the texture twinning her corset, with additional feathers sprouting from the edges and bunching behind her head.
She smiles when she sees you, running to gather you in a hug. You let go of Chiara to return it, and then swiftly introduce them.
“I love your costume,” you tell her. The blend of the Italian corset with the traditional Eastern dress is striking, and a thoughtful bridge between the origins of the circus and their first stop in Milan.
Her eyes shine as she compliments you in return. Chiara watches in amusement as you two ramble about the intent behind your designs, the methodical details. Kendou asks about your strategy for layering the fabric of your wings, while you ask about her process for the feather detailing.
A shout from the tent pulls her attention away, a slew of rough Japanese. She looks at you apologetically. “Sorry, Satou needs me to play messenger. I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”
You nod. “Any recommendations?” You ask, tilting your head to the stall.
She walks over with you. “Get some noodles, yakisoba or okonomiyaki. Then come back for some taiyaki. Satou’s desserts are the best.”
You take her advice, getting one of each and awkwardly shovel the noodles in your mouths as you stroll along the vendors. You spot other performers and crew, realizing their costumes are all an interesting mix of traditional Japanese styles with European circus garb. You recognize the two smaller women you met after your lunch with Midoriya and wave to them across the crowd. They’re dressed in conventional clown outfits, but softened in pinks and green. The smaller one has a frog mask tied to the side of her head, while the other sports a conical farm hat to contrast pink frills.
After circling back to the stall for taiyaki, your heart starts to pull towards the music. You look at Chiara knowingly.
“Itching to dance?” she asks.
You nod.
“I’ll be fine,” she tells you. “But I’ll probably leave soon—there’s a bar nearby I haven’t been to yet. Text me if you need anything? And stay at mine if the train isn’t running.”
You squeeze her hand before the two of you part, and then rush towards the music.
The musicians are gathered by the end of the market line, filling the piazza with melodies near the entrance point. People are gathered by the adjacent seating, individuals and couples and families. The windy notes of the accordion settle into your shoulders, moving experimentally to feel out the rhythm. You take another glance around the area and notice nobody is dancing.
Except for a young girl, maybe four or five. She wears a frilly green dress and a plastic Hyottoko mask, the ones sold at the circus’ stall. she jumps excitedly with the sound of the tambourine and flails her arms. You smile at the sight and skip over to her, giving your body a twirl when you’re just a few steps away. She shrieks with giggles, pointing at the faux wings settling down your back. You laugh at her reaction and reach for her hand to guide her through a spin. Your eyes scan the area, looking for her parents, and you wave when you see them.
The camaraderie of your small dance partner is what gives you the confidence to dance freely. Even after living in Milan for years, you still don’t have a grasp on their dance styles. The large, swooping movements are foreign to you, your hips instead naturally searching for the faster patterns of latin rhythms. The girl erupts into another fit of giggles at your movements. She tucks her hands behind her back and kicks her feet forwards in traditional Italian style. You smile and mirror her, the wide fabric of your pants billowing with each drive of your foot.
Eventually the song comes to an end and you stop to take deep breaths. Your body thrums with heat and energy, the beauty of movement. You squat in front of your new friend and raise a hand for her to clap. She does with a grin, and you tell her, “Grazie.”
She runs to her family, squealing as she grabs her father by his leg. He waves before standing, moving to leave. You sigh and twirl yourself again as another song starts, reaching within you to sustain the confidence for a round of dancing alone. You look up as your body slows, taking in the dark, starless sky. Your arm bumps someone and you jolt, “Scusa” already on your tongue.
It dies at the sight before you: another Hoshi no Sākasu member. Aizawa, you think for an instant when you catch dark hair and eyes, scruff along the jaw and lip. But his eyes are wider, sucking you into them with a gravity you’ve never felt before. He’s a little taller and leaner, with a crooked grin you can’t tear your eyes from. He’s charming, in a rough way—an charm of honesty, authenticity.
Your first thought is that he would look breathtaking draped in silken black fabric, the perfect coupling to the air of mystery that sits about him. Instead he wears a long jesters hat, black and splattered with yellow stars and crescent moons—shapes you just felt yourself missing from the clouded night. He has a Hyottoko mask of his own tied against the side of his head, cheeks puffed and winking. His top reminds you of a kimono, but tucked into harem pants. You smile at the clash of shapes. You love this circus.
“Sorry,” you say instead. The sound is breathless.
His eyebrows raise while his grin widens. You can’t look away. When he speaks you think you can hear the edges of an accent—a familiar one that blurs your vowels together, one that blankets your own English. “Would you like a partner?”
A smile pulls at your cheeks, one you can’t suppress. “Absolutely.”
You receive an equally large grin in return. It’s cheeky, with a glint of impish whimsy. Your heart races at the touch against your hand, a searing heat that catches you off guard. He steps back, offering a space between you.
“Sorry in advance,” he says. “I’m not so familiar with Italian dances.”
With the accent on his tongue and how he holds your hand in front of him, your mind immediately thinks: salsa. He gives you a mischievous look before pulling you close, slotting his leg between yours. A hand comes to your waist, fiery heat gently pushing along as he takes two quick steps to the side. Your eyebrows jump in amusement, and you can’t stop the laugh from bubbling out of you. Bachata, of course, you think as you raise your free arm to his shoulder.
The current song is faster than the previous, but still not suitable for the rhythm of your dance. You don’t care, relishing in the feeling of your quick steps and the sway of your hips. He must have noticed your roots when you danced with your small friend. You wonder how the two of you must look, a vibrant exotic bird paired with a clown of three origins. His body moves fluidly with yours, hips and torso and arms gliding like the smooth curve of a wave. You fall into the feeling of him, his hands as they carefully trace under the fabric of your wings to rest by your shoulder blades. They’re so warm, solid fire tracing your skin. You take the signal, throwing your head back in a swoop that he supports. You thank your lifelong experience of costuming when you lift your head and both the headpiece and mask are still attached.
He grins sharply before his eyes narrow in a playful challenge. You feel his hand drag yours upwards, preparing to spin, and you follow his lead, twirling in three full circles. The flowing fabric of your costume billows around you, trailing your movements like an afterimage. As his hand lowers, it cradles your neck before returning to your waist, holding you close against him as you continue to step in tandem, bodies nearly molded into one another.
The song lets your body flow freely, following his guidance. You think you’re somewhere you’ve never been before, high in the clouds, between stars. It isn’t until the song ends and his dancing halts that you realize the world has momentarily faded away—only to remember that you are still on earth. Your chest heaves gently, catching your breath as you stare intently at your dance partner. His face is flushed, and a meaningful smile is plastered across it. His eyes are shining, longing for something. He almost looks nervous, the opposite of his confidence when he asked you to dance.
He’s about to speak when a shout breaks his eyes from yours, looking past you. You turn to the sound, letting your body part from him, to see another crewmember: a blonde waving your way. With disappointment in your heart you step back, giving him his opening to leave. The hand on yours clutches tighter when you start to slip away. Your stomach tightens.
He turns to you, eyes sharp as they stare into yours. A wave of conflict rushes over his face. Confusion sweeps through you. You’re sad to part too, but he looks almost desperate. You don’t know why.
His hold loosens, moving to press his palm against the back of your hand, tracing the front with his thumb. He slips the one on your waist to meet your palm, now holding your hand over his chest as if in prayer. His touch is soft, a little clammy. His eyes linger on your fingertips thoughtfully before coming to your face. They stare deeply, curiously. You start to feel embarrassed under his gaze, at how he seems to know something you don’t. Your body buzzes with a feeling you can’t describe.
“Thank you,” he finally says. A sad smile spreads across his lips.
You blink in confusion at his words, but ultimately nod. “Of course. Thank you, too.”
He drops your hand and starts to turn away. He pauses and looks back with his mouth ajar, like he’s going to add something. But he stops, then furrows his eyebrows as he looks down to the pavement. You aren’t sure what’s going on, or if you should ask. You decide to say something, in hopes to ease him.
“I’ll see you around,” you add.
He blinks in surprise, eyes jumping back to you. A small smile spreads across his face, releasing tension in your chest you didn’t know was resting there.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll see you.”
Your eyes trail the long points of his hat, watching curiously as the blond meets him halfway. You sigh and turn to the musicians, their cluster near the market tent. You resist the urge to look back, to see the man who held you so passionately. You listen for a few moments as the song floats by, the steady rhythm of the tambourine.
But now that you’re alone, you have no motivation to dance.
thank you for reading! any feedback or love is appreciated <3
i've done quite a bit of research into the cirque process/behind the scenes and i can't find much on costuming, so a lot of this is based on my own experience (not in costumes but very adjacent). every production/company has their own way of doing things though so it would probably vary.
the word "sākasu" is pronounced "sah-kah-soo" or more commonly: "sah-kah-s" since the "u" in "su" is often dropped. this also can be read as the word "circus" with a japanese accent, which is literally just how katakana works. it's not essential to the story, but i just felt like it might be important to mention.
DIE 4 YOU BY DEAN – kurapika kurta (hxh) x gn!reader, lovers to enemies!au + canon divergence!au, nsfw / 18+
genre – angst, horror
word count – ~4,400
warnings – manga spoilers, graphic descriptions of gore/blood/human anatomy, murder, references to body dismemberment, violence, major character death, slight suggestive content, explicit language
synopsis – kurapika's methodical, thorough, determined. there are very few things that can throw a wrench in his plans. for instance, he doesn't expect you to get in his way. at all.
notes – i cannot stress enough how dark this fic is - like ao3 dead dove: do not eat level dark. please, please, please read at your own discretion. there's gore, graphic descriptions of said gore and the human body and blood. also, IN NO WAY SHOULD YOU REPLICATE THIS BEHAVIOR IN REAL LIFE. DO NOT MURDER PEOPLE FOR YOUR HOBBIES. the reader is a psychopath and does fucking horrifying things like killing people for the sake of their own interest. i do not romanticize this behavior, nor do i condone it in real life in any shape, way, or form.
Kurapika’s never been happier to see Yorknew City. He should be more alert, with all the people around him, hidden alleyways and towering buildings perfect hiding spots to attack him from afar, but really, he can care less. He defeated Prince Tserriednich, and he’s made it out alive from the Black Whale – he can finally rest, with his brethren’s eyes safely at his side.
He walks up to an apartment complex, a little shoddier and older than the rest. Entering a pin code, the entrance door slides open, revealing a shaky elevator, an antique otis with rusted hinges and grimy metal plating, orange instead of black from a lack of maintenance. He steps inside and presses the topmost button marked with an “R,” and the door closes with an ear-grating screech.
Despite its battered appearance, the elevator flies up, cables pulling and spinning with sturdy force and propelling him upwards to the rooftop. And surprisingly, there’s even a bell that chimes when the elevator comes to a staggering halt. The screech returns, followed by a clang as the elevator shudders in its spot, before the doors split apart. Kurapika scrunches his eyes as he’s hit with a gust of wind. From this height, he can barely see the ground, the crowns of people’s heads no different from dots of paint. He walks to the edge of the box, presses another button that is colored blue, and he hears metal grating against stone. He peers out to see an iron ladder attached to the wall on his left unfolding.
With his right hand gripping onto the door pocket, Kurapika kicks a leg out, propelling and swinging himself out of the elevator so that he can easily catch a rung of the ladder with his left. He steadies his feet on a lower rung and hoists himself upwards. It’s a short climb, and he leaps onto the roof of the complex when he’s close enough. There’s nothing here, except for a tall rectangular unit.
Just like the ladder, the unit is composed of metal walls to withstand the loud currents of wind. Shielding his face with an arm, he paces, resisting the force of being swept away, towards a side of the iron box where there’s a bolted door.
When he steps inside the unit, he sees you sitting on the ground before an easel. Your wrists and forearms are smeared with paint, colors a little stale underneath the glow of the cheap light fixtures around the room. Your hands are wrapped around a thick and wide brush, but you’re not using it, simply staring at the large square canvas sat in front of you. You’re intensely scrutinizing your work, eyes tracing the streaks of azure and black striped over white. It seems you haven’t noticed him, so he simply leans back against the door and patiently waits.
Kurapika probably stands there for at least an hour. It’s hard to tell time in a confined box with no windows, and he doesn’t want to check his smartphone. But it’s a restful, satisfying hour as he watches you diligently work, making a few broad strokes before sitting back down, repeating this process over and over and over again. It isn’t until you run out of paint and you pick up a large tube of azure that he makes his presence known.
You’re using oil paint, there are no windows, and you’re not wearing a mask of any sorts.
He doesn’t want to scare you, though, so he clears his throat first before saying loudly enough, “You shouldn’t use that in here.”
You still startle, shoulders jumping slightly at the sound of his voice. Your head quickly swivels around, and he sighs with a soft smile as you yelp in surprise. Before he knows it, you’ve dropped both the tube of paint and the brush onto the floor and are racing over, arms stretched out above your head.
He catches you with ease as you jump towards him, his hands resting at your waist and under your thigh like always.
“You’re back!” you shout. Kurapika doesn’t respond, simply burying his face into the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply.
He can smell turpentine, wood, and your shampoo. You wrap him in a tight embrace, leaning your cheek onto the side of his head, and the two of you stay like that, unchanging and unmoving for several more minutes.
But of course, Kurapika has to let you go so that you can clean yourself up.
“You can’t use oil paint in here,” he repeats as he brings you back down to the ground.
You gasp and begin to profusely apologize. “Oh, gosh, you’re so right! Sorry, Kurapika, I totally forgot! I just had this idea last night, and something in me just knew I had to use these new paints I got, and you know, since I –“
You continue to ramble as he gently guides you to the bathroom. He listens as he helps you rinse your hands, towels them off, leads you back to the living space, and sits down beside you in front of the easel. He enjoys the sound of your voice and your stories even more.
He’ll never say it out loud – not that there’s a need to because you both know –, but he loves you and your brilliant mind. The creative and childish wonder in his body has ceased long ago, but it’s not like he was that kind of person in the first place. But you (your ability to source inspiration from lingering glimpses of your dreams that are somehow at times as grotesque and tortured as his, the coffee shop you frequent every day, even the bare walls of this unit; the way you articulate your thoughts so cogently and transfer them through the languid motions of your palms and fingers as you guide the handle of a brush; the deep-set look in your eyes, because he knows you never stop thinking and imagining and dreaming) are so admirably different.
He feels so light-headed, lulled into delirium by fatigue, the soothing pitches of your voice, the gentle swipes of your fingertips against his forehead when you brush his hair out of the way, and this high sticks with him through the rest of the day. He doesn’t know how he does it, but it’s as if he’s stuck in a trance. The heat of the stove as the two of you cook dinner does nothing to stimulate him awake. If anything, he feels himself sinking deeper into this state as the two of you shower together, condensation and body wash sticking your bodies together, before tumbling into bed, your lips and slick smooth and tacky against his skin. You make his head spin in the most pleasurable and comforting of ways, and Kurapika thinks this is as happy as he can get in this life.
–
Kurapika stirs from the incessant buzzing of a phone. He squints at the light coming from the dining table and realizes that it’s a call from his. With a grunt, he pulls himself out of your hold, upset at the loss of your warmth, and pads over.
HIs annoyance dissipates, though, as soon as he recognizes the caller.
He hasn’t told you anything – you know nothing about his upbringing or his job or his ability to use nen or what he intends to do in the future –, so he has no choice but to slip outside, even if he knows you never wake without incessant prodding. But now that he’s less tired, he can think more clearly, and even in your presence, he can never be too careful.
“Melody, what’s going on?”
Kurapika thinks he’s lucky that the night is relatively still. He doesn’t have to scream just to have his voice heard.
“Kurapika.” Melody’s voice crackles through. “Are you in a good spot to talk?”
“Yes. Did something happen?”
“I know you’re exhausted, but I thought you would want to know as soon as possible.” Melody pauses, allowing Kurapika to brace himself, before resuming, “We looked through all of the prince’s belongings. We’re missing a set of the eyes.”
Kurapika thinks he’s been punched in the gut – no, actually, it feels as if his innards have been torn out of his body, and his tormentor’s holding them in front of his face, laughing hysterically at his shock and despair.
He doesn’t know how he does it, but he manages to croak, “How.”
“I counted multiple times, but there’s definitely one less than what you told me. I’m already looking into where the last set could possibly be.”
Devastation cannot even begin to describe what he feels.
As always, though, he needs to move. He cannot rest until all of his clan’s eyes have been claimed.
“Where are you?” Kurapika asks as he walks to the edge of the rooftop.
It seems, right before the Black Whale took its leave, Prince Tserriednich had made one last transaction. Though it’s not clear what he had received in exchange, he had sold a single pair of eyes to an unidentifiable individual.
The transaction was made online with a new user. Despite intense hacking and scavenging, none of Kurapika’s sources could find communication logs between the prince and this user, aside from the prince’s first and only message offering the eyes. That must mean whatever this person wanted to trade was so desirable that even Prince Tserriednich himself would buy it at the cost of two irreplaceable Scarlet Eyes.
Kurapika has been stuck in the same hotel room for days. He’s also been barely eating or sleeping. His haggard state must be significantly more worse than what he thinks because even his always disheveled master eyes him.
It’s been several days since Melody broke the news to him, and he’s made no progress since the discovery of the transaction. Any minute now, though, she should return from where the computer on which the account was made was located, and he’s praying that there’s some lead that he can work with.
The doorbell rings, and Izunavi gets the door on his behalf.
Melody can tell that Kurapika’s not up for any stalling, so even with a gentle cadence, she cuts straight to the chase.
“It was one of the computers located in the chemistry wing of a public library. I asked if anyone frequented there, but I was only able to get a list of high schoolers that attend a nearby school.”
“Interrogate them.” His voice is chilling. He can sense Melody and Izunavi tense at his demand.
His mentor’s the one to intervene. “Kurapika, they’re just kids.”
“You don’t know!” Kurapika yells. “There are children who are professional Hunters – hell, I became one at 17. You don’t know!”
“I already looked into them,” Melody speaks. He can hear the clicks of buckles being undone, no doubt Melody opening her flute case. “They’re innocent.”
He can’t hold back, seal, extinguish the curdling scream in his throat. “Then what do you expect me to do?!”
His anger is sedated by the warm and round timbre of Melody’s flute, a tune soft and slow, an adagio in the face of his collera. Try as he might – teeth piercing lip to draw blood, nails biting into calloused palm –, Kurapika cannot resist Melody’s nen, and he feels his body relax into the back of his chair against his own volition.
Melody does not sway despite Kurapika’s fury. She continues to inform him kindly and gently. “The others have decided to stay back to watch and follow any suspicious visitors. This might take a while, so I suggest” – she rests a hand on his shoulder – “you try to rest. Remember, Kurapika, breathe.”
It seems he’s always stuck in a limbo, the success of his singular, feasible goal always somehow managing to escape him. But Melody’s right. There’s nothing for him here, so he might as well go back.
–
While you know nothing about Kurapika, he knows quite a bit about you. He’s aware that you’re an aspiring artist , you have a distaste for green bell peppers, and you have a weird fascination with colors. In fact, concerning that last point, you’re very specific and precise with your colors. Kurapika’s no art aficionado, so he doesn’t get it at all, but for each painting, you spend most of your time constructing and mixing and swirling the exact palette of hues you plan on using.
This time, when he comes back, you’re on the bed staring at an open notepad and a large color palette in your lap while balancing a graphite pencil with an upwards quirk of your lips. You spot him instantly, so there’s no delay between Kurapika stepping into the room and you hopping onto him.
As always, you cheer. “You’re back!” You don’t comment on his appearance.
And as always, he breathes you in, smelling faint wisps of charcoal, eraser shavings, and laundry detergent.
“What are you working on?” he asks as the two of you pad over to the bed.
Before the two of you sit down, though, you twirl around with a beaming, excited look on your face. “Kurapika,” you yelp, “I’m holding an exhibit!”
He leans over to congratulate you with a kiss on the cheek. “Congratulations,” he says as he pulls away. He glances at the notepad, now sprawled on top of the covers, and says, “I’m guessing you’re drafting then?”
“Yes!” You begin to explain the theme of your gallery, something about how colors are perceived similarly, even by vastly different cultures. You explain how purples are usually associated with royalty, golds with wealth and prosperity, reds with sacrifice – it seems you’re very interested in the psychology that undergirds all of these relations. “It’ll be the central piece of the whole thing!” you exclaim as you gesture with your whole upper body.
“Will you let me come see the exhibit?” he asks once you finish.
You laugh, eyes closed and head thrown back. He loves it when you laugh like this – without a goddamn care in the world.
“Of course! When have I ever denied you?” you giggle.
After a bit, Kurapika excuses himself to take a shower. On his way to the bathroom, though, he passes by your oil paints. They seem a little flatter. He simply shakes his head, noting to remind you later to not use them inside again.
–
It’s quite rare for him to be at home while you’re out. And recently, you’ve been going out a lot, always leaving with a pep in your step, either going to speak with the exhibit manager or to a studio where you can paint without choking on fumes. There’s been no news from his colleagues either, so really, Kurapika’s never felt so aimless or restless in his life. He considered taking on a few brief missions, but he was sternly told off by Leorio to “just be.” Usually, he has no qualms about defying Leorio’s desperate pleas, but given that his friend really saved his ass on the Black Whale, he has no excuse but to listen to him for once.
Kurapika alternates between sleeping and reading books. He never realized how many books you had in this unit. Now that he thinks about it, this place is practically all yours at this point. He owns this place – bought it as a shelter – but had asked you to move in here out of concern for your safety. At the time, he was still hunting down the Spiders and was afraid they’d target you. But in this bleak, isolated space, you’ve managed to create a brimming sense of life.
Anyway, Kurapika comes across a row of environmental science textbooks you’ve stored in a cupboard meant for mugs and glass cups. He’s not surprised when he sees all the dog-eared pages and sticky tabs jutting out of it, but it’s strange that you’re reading such things. He never knew you were fond of science.
But there’s nothing better to do, and Kurapika would take any opportunity to learn more about you, so he thumbs through one of the textbooks, spending extra time chuckling over the pages you’ve practically made illegible with your penned annotations and doodles.
–
Melody doesn’t contact Kurapika until three weeks later. Basho had been tailing a man and arrived at a theatre four towns away. Apparently, during Izunavi’s and Melody’s shifts, they also followed separate library-goers to the same place. Though there was never a specific time or frequency at which these visitors came and went, they always sat at the same computer, reading up on the same topic of odorants. After some digging, it turns out the theatre is home to a collective of Fine Arts Hunters.
Kurapika wastes no time in reconvening with his colleagues at another hotel. After thorough investigations, he learns that, though the collective is large and a community for many musicians, artists, writers, and more, there’s a sub-group of members who’d go to extreme lengths to collect their desires, whether that be specific artworks or coveted tickets to ballet shows or even artists themselves. When he learns about this, a chill runs down his spine. Kurapika almost wishes that you won’t make it big, so you won’t ever be in such danger.
The next step then is to find the specific member who placed the transaction. Melody is more than happy to take on this infiltration mission.
“It might help me locate the Sonata of Darkness. I’ll report back soon.”
While it’s impossible for his anger to subside, even by the slightest degree, it’d be remiss of Kurapika to not feel immense gratitude and appreciation for his colleagues. Not only did he drag them into the succession fiasco, but he’s also now bringing them into his personal business. It’s almost ironic, really. Kurapika doesn’t like involving those that are important to him in personal matters, whether that be out of safety concerns or fear of betrayal, but it seems receiving aid once in a while can be immensely gratifying and beneficial.
Kurapika spends the next two days waiting for Melody’s return. As promised, she returns swiftly. Though she has no name, she is completely confident with her information.
“They’ll be at the exhibit.”
–
You don’t expect Kurapika to come home in the middle of the night. It’s not that you usually know when he comes home, but rather, you know he cares for you so much that he’d rather sleep outside than come back in the middle of the night with the risk of disturbing you, even though that’d never happen.
The unit is dark, aside from a single lamp that stands beside you. There’s also a stool placed next to your canvas, the largest that you’ve ever worked with, and your reference placed on top of it. It’s normal – and actually very encouraged – for artists to use references to aid them in their work.
You look at Kurapika’s frozen expression.
“Kurapika! You’re back!”
There’s no jumping into arms or tight holds on each other’s bodies or deep breaths of each other. You realize, then, scattered around you, on the floor, are several uncapped tubes of oil paint.
You scramble and fumble with your apology. “I-I know you said to not use oil paint inside, but you know, my exhibit’s in literally two days, and I’m still not happy with this painting, and –“
“Why do you have that.”
It’s not a question.
You can’t answer, regardless. You’re confused, so instead, you follow his line of sight to your reference.
“Oh, that?”
You drop your brush onto the ground, paying no mind to the smears of burgundy against the stone floor, and walk over.
You’re always mesmerized when you look at it. You mumble, feeling yourself entering an entranced daze, “It’s my reference. They’re really pretty, right?”
You have no idea what’s going through Kurapika’s mind. You’re no longer paying attention to him, so you can’t see the way his face contorts and distorts. You can’t hear the roaring in his ears or the pounding of his heart or the terrified, desperate, furious scream that is itching up from the pit of his stomach, up his esophagus, threatening to spill forth from his pharynx.
All you can think about is the red of these Scarlet Eyes you managed to get and how you want to replicate the same red in your painting.
“You know,” you whisper, hands delicately stroking the canister that holds the eyes, “I can never seem to get the right shade. But that’s because it’s not just red. There’s… gold, some flecks of hazelnut… For once, I can’t even describe a color with words…”
Kurapika swallows thickly.
In as steady of a voice as he can manage – which is not at all, so his voice just sounds low and is only a little louder than a grunt –, he grits, “Why do you have that.”
This time, you look up. Again, you don’t comment on his appearance. “I told you, it’s for my painting.”
“I didn’t know you were a Fine Arts Hunter.”
You startle at this. “Kurapika,” you gasp, “are you a Hunter, too? I didn’t know!”
“Answer the question.”
“Yes!” you chirp. “But just collecting is no fun, you know?”
“What do you mean.”
You shrug. “Well, I’m an artist, too, so I want to create the very paintings I want to collect! It’s a little weird idolizing those of my own kind.” You say the last part in a whisper, as if it’s some inside joke or reference that he’s supposed to be understand.
Kurapika knows he’s no damn artist. Now, more than ever, he’s glad that creative part of him, if it ever existed in the first place, is gone and dead.
“Why do you need those eyes.”
“You’re so interested in them. I can give them to you as soon as I’m done with them!”
He wants them now, but really, he wants them after prying it out of your cold, dead, rotting hands. Kurapika lurches forward, but you jump back in response.
“Hey! If you really want them, you can take them now!”
He lunges again, but you move away just in time again. This ferocious chase continues around the entire unit with you screaming at him to calm down while escaping his every attempt to catch you.
“Kurapika!” you yell, as you leap into the air, almost touching the ceiling of the unit. “I’m going to help calm you down, alright?”
He’s seething, but his combat instincts tell him to pay close attention at this very moment. “What are you going to do!” he shouts, frustrated that he’s missed you once again.
But before you can answer, Kurapika suddenly feels a sharp pain in his head, forcing him to still in his movements. You try to approach, but he backs away with every step you take, even though every movement makes him feel dizzier and dizzier. Eventually, he collides with the kitchen counter, where he can barely hold himself up.
“I’m a Transmutation nen user,” you explain. Kurapika doesn’t understand why your voice sounds so distant, as if it’s muffled by water or several compact cotton balls. But you don’t know that, so you continue explaining, “I can change the quality of air molecules, so I’m going to put you under for a bit.”
Kurapika can only manage to lazily look up at you. You’re chewing on your lip, guilt evident on your face. “That’s why it never really bothered me to use oil paints here because I studied how to neutralize the turpentine.”
That’s the last thing he hears before collapsing.
You scream in terror, running to catch him. But it’s too late as the side of Kurapika’s head collides with the sharp edge of the stone countertop. You hold onto his shoulders, preventing his unconscious body from slipping further down onto the floor, and you take off your apron to dab at the blood trckling down the lines of his neck and ears.
But that’s when you notice it. Or rather, that’s when it clicks.
You’ve always been annoyed at yourself for this, but Kurapika loves this about you. You’re so inconsistent, inspiration only coming in waves and bouts, but when it does hit you, you’re on a roll until you’re done. It’s frustrating, especially since becoming a professional artist usually necessitates having to consistently produce bodies of work to make a living, but it’s never been an entire hindrance.
Truly, though, you’ve never had as big of a revelation until now. You heave Kurapika’s body over to the lamp that is now lying on its side, most likely having been knocked over by your game of tag earlier. You swipe at his blood again, this time with a crumpled sheet of notepad paper, and you watch as the color blooms and spreads through the corner.
It’s not like you’ve never used blood, or the human body for that matter, before in your work. Now that you recall, the one who gave you the Scarlet Eyes made you create a series of artworks out of some dismembered body parts he had. You crinkle your nose at the recollection, having remembered how horrible of an experience it was given that man’s fetishes.
You come back to the thought of Kurapika’s blood, and you know that he’s what you need. Your artwork lacks the haunting depth of the red in the Scarlet Eyes, and no amount of blue or purple or brown can fix it. Kurapika’s blood, though, is already so vivid and striking against the cream of the notepad, and you have no doubt it will blend beautifully with the snow white of the canvas, as well as the other colors you already have painted on.
You make a mental note to check how blood reacts to oil paint. It shouldn’t change much in color or smell, you hypothesize, but you’ll have your friends look it up for you like always.
You lean down, kissing Kurapika softly on the lips.
In a loving, gentle whisper, you say, “You know, Kurapika? You’re always so kind and helpful to me.
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