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nanami kento || day 4 prompt: traditional outfit
2.6k, You save Nanami from wearing a sherwani unprotected.
He tugs the collar a third time.
Your eyes find hazel in the mirror as he diligently sticks to twisting your hair round back, a bobby-pin at the ready to hold in place; one of many twists needed to add the decorative juda pin to. His hands are firm and much kinder than your own tend to be.
"Is it tight, Kento?"
"I think it'll hold, no hairspray right?" You aim to shake your head as he clicks his tongue, keeps his pinky pressed against the recently pinned hair, the rest of his hands at the sides of your head to tilt it back in place, Nanami refuses to have an off-center pin placed into your hair.
He does that thing again though, head tilts up to the side, your eyes drop to the collar of the sherwani, he's buttoned to the very top.
It must be stiff, even if you told the tailor to provide enough margin because Nanami Kento is disciplined. Which means he works out, which means his measurements provided a month ago would shift up slightly. But not this much, right?
You raise a hand, he stops twisting the next strand of hair, "Pause, please."
Turning, your bangles, payal, and lehenga chiming. Raising your hands to undo the top most button and aht! Your eyes narrow. "Hmmm…agar isko…aisey…"*
Your fingers sink down and in, another button falls victim to your curiosity as he inhales sharp, "Darling, we don't have time for this."
A smirk to your lips as a song dances in your head, "And what is the this, Kento? What are you imaging, huh?"
You are trying to solve his problem here, you're being productive. You are not indulging in your most favorite task of undressing Nanami Kento, please! You know better than right before an event, especially in a heavy mirror-work lehenga, "Where's your undershirt?"
"My what?"
"The tank top, or one of the cotton shirts you wear around the house?" Eyes finding his, gosh he really thinks there's some magic hidden in your iris, and your hands. Whatever you've done to add the shimmer and shine to your eyes, the crisp edge of the winged eyeliner—always waterproof—otherwise you're a raccoon for days, the soft smile radiates on his lips. Keeps his hand firm on your hips, least he do something stupid and let his thumb push over your carefully painted lips.
He's not an animal, not yet, that's for after hours.
Where all he's helped doll and dress up is also his to reset; back to his darling who wears soft clothes and rubs her eyes freely. There's that thing you use that he doesn't like, mascara was it?
Makes your eyelashes long and fan out, framing the window of your soul with entice, but he's aware it gives you a major headache. Plus it's impossible to get off with that oil thing you use, what was it? Cleansing balm that turns into oil in the heat of his palms? But it's the least abrasive thing on your skin; Nanami Kento has long stopped trusting you to be gentle when it comes to makeup removal.
Yes it takes longer if you triple cleanse your face and no, that's not a good reason to not wash it. Whatever, he'll help your skin breathe free from all these layers soon enough.
You're looking at him, soft smile, lips yet to be kissed by your favorite rosewood lacquer, "Kento, if you don't wear an undershirt it'll get real itchy."
"Thought you said I'd get too hot, it's on a rooftop right?"
"Yeah, but still, would you rather sweat and itch without protection?"
He wiggles an eyebrow up, your hand finds his mouth, shushing him, "No. Don't go there."
"You walked right into that." He kisses the top of your head as you turn back around and assess. "Hmm, red?" You note the ranihar and gulab around the sleeves, maybe using that as accent for your lips and blush would be good. When your eyes meet his you can tell he's stuck on your comment about unprotected sweating, it's an embarrassed "Shh! Forget I said it. Shoo! Go! I'll finish up."
And maybe just maybe, you aren't able to forget your comment because he, very purposefully, sits on the bed, unbuttons the sherwani. It's late enough in the day that the efforts of his weekly discipline, and your cooking, are evident on his form. He's firm and squeezable in all the right places. Shouldn't take a man like that, with biceps like that, to take an eon to don an undershirt.
The sherwani is met with a sigh, it's stiff and not as forgiving as the soft cotton on his skin, over his head, careful not to touch his carefully styled hair and the vibrant orange fabric is back on him.
When he catches your eyes, his deft and speedy fingers slow down exponentially, buttoning up one golden circle at a time, smirking to himself, because he knows that look, "We've got ten minutes, darling."
You pull away and finish applying your lipstain, "I'm already done. Unlike someone else."
As if he didn't help you into the top, as if he didn't fight with two of the world's smallest invisible zippers known to man to get your blouse and lehenga closed. As if he didn't watch reel after reel to learn how to pleat the chunni in the style you wanted. As if he isn't aware of how many safety pins are hidden within your choli. As if he isn't back, finishing off twirling your hair and applying the juda pin.
"Mmmm what should I smell like? Mother's Day Auntie Chanel or Forgotten Mother's Day Burberry Discount?" You hold up perfumes saved for these events. It's easier if you smell like the rest of the crowd, it results in less of a painful headache from all the conflicting perfumes in the venue.
"How about, this?" Mohave Ghost. His scent, least it has been the last three years.
"Smelling like my husband? Scandalous." But you spritz it all over, then remembering how Rihanna spritz her perfume and shower yourself with the comforting scent and Nanami who turns around so you can get his back.
Resisting temptation to mess up his freshly styled hair, you nod as his hand rests at the nape of your neck, thumb pressing into clavicle bone, anchoring himself for a moment. He's not one for big functions or events like this; neither are you, but it comes with the territory of maintaining family relationships and seeking moments of celebration and joy.
What was it you had said?
Creating whimsy in things you simply have to do as an adult, "We don't have to go do we?" He had asked, "And what, face the wrath of my mother who ordered our outfits months ago? Nanami Kento, we, know better." A click of your tongue had stunned him into silence, "This is how you'll get old Kento, all work and no play, Family drama is the spice of life! Or at least nonsense background music we can dance to. Do you want to lead a dance-less life? Won't be me, nu uh, puh-lease." He pulled you into his lap then didn't he? Made sure to stun you right back.
🪩
It's three am and he wished he remembered the last hour because he's on the sofa of your shared space, the lights are all off. How did he get here? Goodness golly, did he make you drive? In your lehenga with the cancan underskirt? How did you even fit in the driver seat?
But there you are, on the phone, warm amber signaling your movements around him, soft voice informing your mother you've arrived home safely.
Pretty ghulaby and ranihar embellished blouse with soft black workout shorts, how'd you get one of those sneaky zippers open on your own? Kento reaches an arm up, outward in your direction, your head turns as your feet automatically start to walk over, still listening to your mother who is irate. How dare Seema Aunty even suggest Nanami Kento is anything but perfect?
It makes your heart sing, as your hand can finally mess up that too perfectly styled pushed-back hair of his. "Why would Kento-beta do pairi-pauna to her? Her own son doesn't even fold his hands for namaste! Besides, what's she trying to show off? Knock-off sandals!" It makes you laugh as Kento's arm snakes around your torso, pulling his head into the softness of your belly, "I'm sure she didn't have anything else to nitpick, Ma, are you home now?"
"Ten minutes out." In the background you hear your father correct her, "8 minutes." It's a bit of light chatter before the tell-tale sign of the garage door opening and closing occurs, "Okay I need to turn the house-alarm off, goodnight darling. I'll call tomorrow."
"Not too early. Let me call you, sweet dreams." Nanami pulls you even closer the moment the phone lays on the coffee table. Your hair is half undone, some of it free and wild, still soft long curls, nothing like your usual hair texture, his hands itch to correct this. "Sleepy man, don't you wanna get out of this itchy thing?"
He let's all willpower leave his arms, they fall lifeless, as you smooth over his forehead and cheek, "Oi, Kento Kento, Suno*, Mr. Nanami Kento, I'm speaking to you."
"Too tired."
"Then the bed, na? Chalo."
"Too far, you'll have to leave me here."
"Arre? Here? On this cold cold leather couch in this cold and dark room?" There's a mirth to your voice that moves closer and closer, lips to his chin as his hands find life, up the back of your neck, into your hair, all those juda and bobby-pins poke at his finger tips but it's worth it, it's worth finally getting his own lips stained ghulaby red. He expects to taste the jalebi, needlessly sweet that dessert, but from your lips the perfect potion of everything mint and joyous spills into his.
Chases after the kiss as you move back, "Nu uh, I wanna wash my face and sleep on a real bed, my feet hurt Kento."
There is, very little leeway in being stern with him, especially when he makes that muffled gruff sound, claims your lips as his own. Isn't it easy to get lost in this? The faded cedarwood and magnolia that clings to you both, the way starved off impatience returns with appetite—"Nain, Uth jao! Chalo!"*
Reason enough for him to move quickly, with staggering accuracy, hoisting you over his shoulder, not stopping until he's carefully settling you on that bathroom counter top, hands bracket your very alarmed and slightly turned on form, "Is this what happens when you stay up past your bed-time?" Nuzzling into his neck, "Wait." He's trying to get that silly zipper on your blouse loose, it's stuck though.
He's welcome to try.
You sit pretty and patient, arms on his shoulders so he can wiggle and tug fabric and a too small zipper that feels like it shrinks under his judgment, "I could cut you out of this?"
"No, sleepy, I wanna wear this for the dandiya raas we got invited to, remember?" The circle dancing with sticks thing, he sorta remembers, too sleepy to understand more than a few things at once. One - you look gorgeous still, two - he needs to get you out of this blouse carefully, and maybe three - more kisses, stat.
"Hey—I'll handle this, you take yours off and let's get to bed?" Ever the planner and sense-maker, he nods along. In some miraculous coordination, his heavy biceps and lead like forearms move up, unbutton, tug and shrug off the sherwani jacket. The doti is easy to slip off and damn, you were right about the undershirt.
It's autopilot after that, a quick body-rinse shower because he did sweat and was itchy, and then he finds you rubbing your face as if it's a washboard. "Aht aht—" firmly stopping your hands from going to scratch at your eyes, he gets a pouty whine, "Mascara! I hate it!"
He shouldn't smile but you can't see him so he does, "Gently, darling, you like your eyelashes."
A sigh, "I do."
Nanami keeps his hand in your hair, as you wash your face, even though it's not necessary, hands you the towel to pat your skin dry and softly softly, brushes a finger across your lips, "There you are."
"Here I am."
At the tip of his lips, the word you reserve for him when he's being the utmost stubborn, jaan*, he's not stingy with the ways he addresses you, however, it feels too precious, too tempting of fate.
And he hasn't had enough days or nights to gloat.
"Chalo*." He calls softly, leading you from the shared bathroom towards the softness of cool sheets lidded with promise of warmth and company.
"Ah, the carafe." You're up on your elbows, ready to bounce back to the kitchen and refill the pitcher, but a kiss to the top of your head has you momentary confused. Isn't he sleepy? "Kento, I can—"
He's already disappeared. Something warm expands across your heart. It's a small thing, something to aide you back to sleep, Nanami Kento doesn't even drink water this late at night. "I got it."
Hmm. Hiding a smile into your pillow, considering how very sweet your husband is being. Even if this is his usual demeanor, it still makes your heart beat faster.
Warm arms embrace you from behind, lazily you turn into him. Nanami waits for it, surely you aren't too sleepy to notice his lack of undershirt this close? And when you do pull back, there's a twinkle in his eyes, "What?"
"What…what. Goodnight Kento." But he doesn't let you shuffle back into him, no, you see, he was a pure and proper gentleman all night! "Darling, you aren't going to ask?"
"There's—there's nothing to ask, go to bed."
"Oh? You'd let me go to bed…without protection?"
"Nanami Kento!" But he's already kissing away at your protest, of it being so late and so not cool of him to use your innocent words against you. You were looking out for him, "If you had worn it raw then you'd—"
"Raw." He laughs, you try to stay serious you do. You're sleepy, you're not careful with words with you're sleepy.
"Stop! Unhand me—"
"Jaan." Oh oh oh, the way he says it, the way he keeps saying it into your skin, down your neck and across your chest, hands tracing up your sides.
There's a plethora of reasons why not to, the sore hands and feet, the fact it's closer to sunrise than sunset, there's some morning run or class to attend to but you only need one reason to keep going.
And it's evident, his lips on your skin.
_______
Apologies if I romanized anything incorrectly, this is how I've learned to spell them. If there's anything I haven't translated or would benefit from being explained, please let me know! Thank you for reading.
juda pin = a bun pin essentially, it's a hair accessory
chunni = is a long scarf or dupatta that is a part of outfits
lehenga = traditional ankle-length skirt, lehenga's are worn with a chunni & fitted blouse (choli)
choli = top of the lehenga
ranihar = it's like a rich jewel toned hot/red pink color
ghulabi =it's like a rosey-red color
jalebi = is a deep-fried circular shaped treat soaked in sugar syrup
agar isko…aisey…" = "if (I move) that, like(this)"
Suno* = Listen
"Nain, Uth jao! Chalo!"* = "No, get up. Come on"
Jaan = nickname, means life or soul
Chalo = let's go/come on
nanami kento || first love
2.5k nanami week day 1 prompt: first love, au professor, sfw, Reader is an older student in college getting her creative writing degree. Nanami is a Professor. Enjoy!
Contrary to what one might think, Professors do notice students.
Especially the ones who slip in mid-way into the semester and run up, requesting an extension. Someone has passed or an unforeseen accident has occurred, and Nanami Kento cannot tell you the sudden decrease of both once he shifted his 8am course to 4pm.
He almost achieved world peace.
Though currently, you stand before him, requesting an extension on an assignment that should be child’s play. You’re an adult, older than the rest of the recently emancipated crowd that warms the seats of his lecture hall.
He’d notice you right away, the corporate attire heavy on your frame, still a polished look near the end of the day. The work badge always being rolled into the lanyard and stuffed into the first left pocket, not the right—never the right.
He’s noticed where you choose to be seated too, the third front row, four seats in. No one sits on either side of you, a chair for your bag, a chair for your water, and a laptop ready to take in his next presentation. You were mostly diligent the first three weeks of school, then disappeared; his eyes couldn’t help but long for another soul who understands exactly why low rise jeans should be abolished.
And now, suddenly, here you are.
“I wouldn’t ask, another week, I haven’t fallen in love with any of my first drafts for this assignment.” A common appeal to his teaching sensibility, that you have been working it’s simply the written words that are the issue. Not ethic or procrastination.
As a writer he can attest to this conundrum, though he’s gotten a reputation. No extensions, regardless of the reason, any student will simply need to take the lower grade and do their best on the final.
However, his eyes see yours and the words easily saunter over to your side of the desk, “So, what happened?”
You make a face, somewhat unprepared, quickly though, soothing away the shock as you readjust your office blouse that wants to bunch up today of all days, “As you know I work, that’s not an excuse. However, I was abroad on a client site inspection— I had my laptop hence the few first drafts, I wrote them on the plane but nothing…” a sigh, “…it all feels like a cop out.”
He can’t have that, the theme for this particular assignment is serious business and often students surprise him with their responses. “A cop out for, first love?”
A soft nod, your mouth opens and closes, editing and re-writing your thoughts in real time. Nanami finds it fascinating, as you prepare to speak again, “It’s super open ended, which normally appreciated but given… well, work, I haven’t had an inspiration ping.”
An inspiration what? His eyebrows raise slightly, you wonder if that’s a smile or a smirk on his lips. Is he amused or is he…. well he’s always been handsome but ignore that. He’s your Professor in this capacity! Not a colleague to review creative writing with, not someone to sit in a bougie coffee shop and count up the use of commas, not someone— “Ping?”
You lean into the most uncomfortable wooden chair known to humans and narrow your eyes, “A ping. It was mentioned in the ‘what’s your writing process’ reflective work.”
“Reflection journals are for you, I can’t say I read each one that is submitted in the portal. There would be…. too many of them.” Huh, a mandatory daily assignment that the dear Professor doesn’t even read but gives you automatic points for? Noted. “Tell me about it.”
“Considering I already have, Professor, what is your writing process?” He leans back himself, an arm dangling on his office chair as he considers the question, “It starts all the same for us, doesn’t it? A bubbling up of a scene or sentence, the chase to make pen to paper before it gets washed away in the sink.”
Bath metaphors, interesting. “So you understand then, why I need more time?”
The worn wood of the desk creeks under the pressure of his elbows, the roll of his chair is slow, almost deliberate; Nanami is not a fan of the carpet getting caught in the wheels and embarrassing himself, especially in front of you. “Tell me about it, inspiration ping?”
An inhale to brace yourself as you start, “I wanted to get back into writing after being away for so long… and the way I forced myself into it was, simply—once the inspiration pings—a song or a scene or a object—to go! Start writing and let it all map itself. Without a draft or an outline, as I know those are important now to really hone in on a narrative but…” he notes the way your eyes fall from him, roam the many big serious books on writing that outline his office walls, the rows of filing cabinets and the window where the sun has set, shoot—you need to move your car out of the timed park zone soon.
“But…?”
“It hasn’t happened for this. A ping.” You shrug, “Usually it does and I can whip out a couple hundred words, let them settle and use it for the proper way to write an outline and then the narrative.”
He’s frowning, why is he frowning? It’s not like you’re cheating, you make a first pre-draft of what would be a solid piece of work—“That’s wrong.”
You click your tongue, looking at him annoyed, “How exactly? It’s still my original idea and words being used to draft—“
“No, forgive me. What I wanted to correct is ‘the proper way to write’ — doesn’t exist.” He leans back now he’s not so sure if you really did submit a reflection journal, he would’ve remembered something like inspiration ping. It’s so direct, simple, succinct.
You look at him with furrowed brows, “You said to provide a logical structure—“
“That was for the kids who haven’t written an essay by hand ever.” He holds his hands up, “Not saying you aren’t young but we’re not, kids are we?”
“We?” your arms cross over another, he swallows hard, for a creative writing professor he finds himself fumbling his own argumentative structuring, “You listen to James Brown.”
Oh now he’s on thinner ice.
“What I mean is, from everything I’ve read, you already have an established writers voice, a point of view for each assignment. It's effectively illustrated and adapted to meet every requirement, you don’t need the ABC’s of creative writing, you’re already writing creatively. If your process works for you, then keep it.”
“Well it’s not working, right now, hence the extension request.” He nods, right, you’re not a friend saddled with writers block or lack of confidence, you’re his student struggling with an assignment. “Show me the drafts.”
You scoff, “You don’t believe I did them?”
From this little interaction, he knows it’s better he not speak and let you act, what he expects is a laptop with a document full of started and stopped ideas but instead is a journal, the surprise on his face is evident. “You’re not the first to recommend an actual writing journal, Professor.”
“And you aren’t a new student to creative writing, when did you start yours?” You hand the diligently cared for journal over, with all it’s stickies and tabs, “That’s almost as bad as asking how old I am.”
“You started that young?” But there’s a smile to his tone, which leads a smile to yours, “Maybe. I always liked making new things up.”
“To be a writer, you have to know how to lie.” He’s enjoying this, god when was the last time his eyes have read cursive like this? It’s almost textbook how your r’s look and how every t is crossed. You even write the letter g the proper way and—
“OR know how to use the truth.” You smile at him, “It’s a delicate balance between the truth, a lie and something else.”
“Something else.” he parrots, not sure what he’s seeking in your eyes but he drops his back down, the writing alone has him captivated and when he reads the first few words he’s hooked. The sound of pages being flipped over fills his tiny office, is he aware he’s licked his thumb and with great scrutiny cards his thumb over the edges of each page? Is he that hungry for your next sentence?
One idea ends, another beings, each hold him hostage, glued to the edge of his seat and then he flips a final page and empty narrow ruled margin laughs at him. He looks at you, mouth hanging open, a big of a shrug to his shoulders, “You could take one of these ideas and…?”
“Polish it off or wait for a new one to ping me and polish that off.” He flips back through over your writing before slowly closing the journal and handing it back, “Any one of those would be excellent to explore, what feels off about them?”
You scrunch your face at him, shit it’s cute, “You need a bit of truth with the lie, right?”
He nods. He nods and then he let’s his brain process, the assignment is about first love, your writings are dreamy, airy, whimsical, how anyone’s first love should be but —the truth—what’s the truth needed here? “An extension?”
“An extension if—you turn it into me, not the TA. I want to read it myself.”
“So not only do you not read the reflection entries, you don’t read out weekly assignments?” There’s two hundred students in one lecture hall, and with his four TA’s that leaves about 80 papers for one human to consume and grade, maybe direct feedback is asking for too much. Damn, maybe larger universities aren’t everything their made out to be.
“I read what I can, I do.” You want to believe him, “But as you know,” he gestures around the office, “work.”
____
The thing about you, and your writing is that it's a bit too honest. For all the big talk about dancing with the truth and lies, you… really can't submit work you're not proud of. And this stupid assignment, even though it's only 30 points and in the grand scheme of all assignments, missing it won't hurt—(you have an excel spreadsheet to verify this)—even then! This is a prompt you want to complete.
First Love.
It's so open ended and there's so many types of love to write about, and you did. Granted, you didn't really annotate 'draft one - my love for flowers' 'draft two - my love for bakeries,' 'draft three - the love of crunchy texture' — all of those seemed to captivate Professor Nanami…and yet, none of them were actually about romantic love.
You've wondered if that's what Professor Nanami wants to read and was basing all his comments on, that if he found out you wrote about your favorite dutch bread sandwich, would it make your entire essay a whole bunch of bologna?
You feel like a fraud.
But you can't necessarily create a truth that doesn't exist, maybe if you stretch your writing a bit, maybe jog your memories, perhaps you got close to romantic love, once, but…. ugh!
Writing is hard!
Can you reset your brain and get a new inspiration ping? Why is everything you love edible?
You're not gonna do it.
You won't submit the paper. Claim work got busy again and he won't even notice.
____
Only he emails — no subject line, no hello or sign offs, simply 'Extension granted.' Every. Single. Week.
____
The semester ends, you pass with flying colors but are called to his office anyways, not that you have to go he can't rescind a grade that's already been posted but…. since it's not totally in the student handbook you go to meet him anyways. Sitting across from him, in much cooler weather, that sweater of his, the bronzed version of the frames that sit delicately across his nose.
Does he swap out his frames for autumn?
"I've never had a student miss an extension request." He's at the fancy kettle, making himself a cup of tea, you had denied his offer to make you one.
And god, does he have to be nice? Just, lie to him! Get ready to shrug, just like you practice in the mirror, say the sentence about being caught up in work, he'll believe you, he has to. When the cup of tea you previously rejected ends up in front of you, like a sad balloon you deflate. "I couldn't do it."
"No ping?"
"No ping."
He nods, swivels a bit in his chair, looks out towards the window, "No ping." He says softer, quieter. "Well, how do you usually get a ping?"
You narrow your eyes at him, but it's not a joke, it doesn't feel ill intended either, so now you do shrug, "Anything, a song or show or bagel."
He raises his eyebrows, "A bagel?"
You close your eyes, sipping the too warm tea, "Sorry, I missed lunch, work's… work's been hectic." He leans back in his chair, swiveling to the side, "The best bagel I ever had was in at an airport."
Okay… what are you supposed to do with this information. "Every time I hear the word bagel, I think back to getting off a terrible six hour flight and biting into the too tough bread with slightly warm cream cheese."
"That doesn't sound like the best?"
He shakes his head, a soft chuckle to himself, "Technically true. It was probably a bit stale too, however, it's the first real meal after days of not eating well. It felt like coming alive again, something I could taste."
You get that, thinking to your own favorite dutch bread sandwich. "Food is amazing like that."
"It is." He takes a sip of his tea, "So why not submit one of your drafts?"
Oh, you don't like this man, how dare he, the heat rushes to your face, "You… no, how did you know they were… about food?"
Now a shock on his face, he smiles, "I didn't, I wouldn't have." He pauses, "Are any of the places local?"
"Professor!" He raises his hands as his shoulders move up and down, this is simply not done, he's supposed to be a professional, you're paying so much money to learn from him, despite all of this, you smile anyways. "Even if they were local, what I love and what you love wouldn't be the same."
He shrugs, "They don't have to be."
It's a bit too swift how he flicks his wrist and glances at his watch, he's got time before the staff meeting, "I thoroughly enjoyed reading your writing, and I know you'll have continued success in the program."
There he is, ever the professional.
Though when he invites you to lunch, you say yes. When he takes you to a very familiar hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop, you narrow your eyes. "Let me introduce you to my first love."
It's a bit too cute, how he half smiles, how the shop owner knows him by first name — Kento — and how your ex-Professor learns just how strict you are with your sandwich assembly.
And maybe you don't have a first romantic love, but as you bite into what could be your new favorite bread, hazel eyes watching yours expectantly, maybe that's about to change too.
nanami kento || papamin
1.7kish, reader, baby yuji, and nanami celebrate his birthday. no bears or subway employees were harmed in the making. Day 3 prompt. Yes this is out of order and Yes I am late. Shh!
"Shhhhh!"
You would not argue with Yuji for any reason as small as this, however, surely, the pad of your feet against the wooden floors at 2pm, an hour before Nanami Kento is said to come home, doesn't need shushing does it?
"Someone's—" "Shhhh!!!"
In a whisper, you try again, "Someone is excited."
"Papamin can hear."
You quirk an eyebrow up, the boy returns to his task at hand. Sawing strawberries, the long ways, for cake decorations. It's a bit lopsided, but Yuji insisted every single bit of cake was necessary.
How else would his precious Papamin know how much the youngest adores him? Every single sprinkle and crumb is necessary!
You cut the blueberries for him, because those are too small and too squishy for his child-safe knife. It's cute, watching him concentrate so much, the boy has never been silent this long, if that doesn't speak to his devotion of Papamin what else would?
The lopsided cake becomes yours and Yuji's to decorate once all the fruit is chopped up. Yuji wants more fluffy clouds and you're not sure which frosting tip is supposed to make that, but selecting a 'open star' and praying it meets the critique of your harshest grader yet.
He claps happily and then carefully holds tongs to get the fruit onto the cake, though one drops a bit prematurely and his fingers go to grab the slippery sweetness. "Uh oh…." You can see his eyes water, there's a large hole where his finger previously was. You smile all the same, "Watch this."
You've binged a plethora of cake decorating videos, grabbing a flat long spatula and dropping a dollop of frosting a top, you sooth over the hole best as possible and make a flower with the tiny strawberries Yuji has cut up. "Flowers for Papamin!"
Nodding, you decorate the rest of the cake with help from the youngster, blueberries in the middle, more sprinkles on the cloud. It's no where near the pinterest photo but it's real and here. On the table where you, Yuji and Nanami will have lazy late lunch together. "Time to put it in the fridge!"
He escorts you like a bodyguard, pulling chairs and decorative vases larger than him away from your path, opening the fridge and insisting to hide the cake behind apple juice. His Papamin isn't a fan of that, after all, it's only for Yuji.
He gives you a high-five as you set about cleaning up. He's reciting all the words you've taught him today, spelling them each while he bounces around you, mostly excited the longest word he knows how to spell is birthday. Yuji did confess earlier, he didn't think it was such a long word, "B-d-a-y-, birthday." "B-i-r-t-h-d-a-y- birthday."
🎂
It isn't as if Nanami Kento is anticipating anything big, birthdays have taken new meanings once Yuji stepped into his life. Never had he imaged actually stepping in to parent his Godson, but he is nothing if not dutiful. He made a vow to keep Yuji safe always, and if that means processing his own stunted emotional baggage, then so be it.
He's brought balloons that fly, the kind Yuji will enjoy. He smiles picturing the blue and gold balloons floating around his kitchen, Yuji hidden by the island. Maybe Nanami should keep balloons on Yuji always, this way he'd always have awareness to his location.
You may not be a fan of that.
You and your sweet smile, kind eyes and, happy-to-help attitude. You work at Yuji's day care, one illness gone on too long, you staying by Nanami's side late into the emergency room, and he… he's a selfish as any man isn't he?
"You don't have to do this alone, Nanami." You had said it so matter of fact, as if the entire world would conspire to help protect Yuji if Nanami dared to look for hope.
Either way, his heart fills and is ready to spill over hearing, "Papamin!", upon entering the apartment. He tucks his shoes into the cabinet, places his coat and briefcase on the chair on the side, meant for these things, and keeps himself in a crouching position when Yuji's tell-tale feet pad across the floors. Your huff of "Yuji!" as he rounds the corner, giggling into Papamin's arms who raises to his full height.
He squeezes his arms around Nanami as best he can, "B-e-r-d-a-y! Happy Birthday!"
"Is it mine? Already?" Yuji laughs at that, you sigh, "He does know how to spell it, properly." Yuji does a 'Nu uh' and hides into his Papamin giggling, kicking his feet. "Happy Birthday Nanami, Yuji—" "Shh!"
You lift your arms, "Alright alright, all we did today was spelling." Yuji lifts his head, "Spellings." Nanami tilts his a bit, assessing your words, does he allow this little secret you two are in on? "Spellings."
🎂
The "stuffed" bear Yuji has made for Nanami is a hoot. It's tiny head and entirely too beefy middle body has the Nanami Kento laughing in ways that feel too precious to share with the world. And somehow you're allowed here, on this sofa, to watch him soften in safety. "Papamin!" Yuji lifts the bear in triumph, clearly his gift for Nanami will be the one snuggling him for weeks on end.
You pull out a miniature stuffed teddy bear, "Yujimin."
Yuji gasps, dropping Papamin teddy into Nanami's lap before crawling over the sofa cushions, stepping into your thighs and raising his arms for the teddy. It's a bit painful, he's starting to get too big for this kind of climbing adventures, but you drop the bear into his hands. He sits in your laps, tiny gasps and oohs, "Pink! Like me!" He points to the fur, you nod, brushing his pink hair from the back of his face, "Like yours."
Nanami pulls the Papamin teddy up, "Bath time."
Which is longer, because Yuji needs a story on how Yujimin and Papamin Teddy's came to be, how they found one another, where will they find honey? Do they know Winnie the Pooh? Important considerations to be made!
🎂
Yuji sleeps star fished, Papamin teddy on his belly and Yujimin teddy near his cheek. He made it through four pages of the book Nanami read to him, and then lights out. "He had a big day." You say to Nanami.
Tucking in the chairs at the dinning table, out of habit. Yuji has run into these more often than not, Kento clears the crayons and table set. A wipe down with a disinfecting wipes, down the sides of every chair's arm and he's in the kitchen. "I got this."
He notes, you trying to unload the dishwasher, it's more routine now. Him insisting on taking on the chores he can't due to his job, you meandering around the space, reluctant to leave. "How's your book coming along?"
"Hmm, still have just one fan." Your eyes dart over to Yuji's door, and then at the ground. You should get on that, finding a way to print and publish the children's book you've been working on. Nanami believes in your project, but that's Nanami, you wonder if there's anything you'd insist on doing that he wouldn't support you with.
It's not that his faith is blind, you've seen him reject the business ideas his blue eyed friend brings him, so… it's hard to say he's a bit soft on you. Cuz maybe he is, and then what does that mean?
You're an important piece of the village Nanami has mustered around him, he was suddenly thrown into guardianship. So unequipped he was those two years ago, now he understands Yuji before Yuji himself can find the right words—which he knows, he needs to break the habit of doing. Encourage Yuji using his own voice, allow him to fumble and struggle over certain words, yet he can't can he?
He wants to protect Yuji, who is too young to understand where his mother and father have gone, why Papamin is here. "Hey." A warmth that spreads only under your fingertips, your palm must be the missing piece from the sun, he turns softly, inquisitive.
A tiny blue box, a green ribbon, "Happy Birthday Kento."
You didn't have to, you know this. All the extra care you do with Yuji is the gift itself Nanami could never, ever, repay you for, but here you are again. Helplessly kind, caring, doting.
A selfish man he is, drying his hands with the sink towel, letting it rest over a broad shoulder as he takes the box, "Can I open it now or later?"
"Now." You wanna hear it, the big hearty laugh you know he'll let roar from his throat. Carefully he tugs at the green ribbon, ever gently, slides the tip of his finger into the careful folds of the paper. It's blue, which means it's Papamin, which means Yuji will absolutely want to play with it, draw on it, etc…
The plain box gives away nothing of it's contents, but as he removes the lid, the laugh he lets out is infection! Gosh, what a handsome, handsome man, he lifts the Italian Herbs & Cheese inspired seasoning, "Now, you know this could spell trouble."
"Trouble?" The smile doesn't fade from your lips, he nods, "What if Martha from Subway catches wind of this? Buying off-brand seasoning—"
"It's an artisan blend," you shrug, "if it reminds you of your precious Subway bread, that's on you." He loves when you do that, calling him out on his slightly unhealthy habit of eating at Subway almost daily. Yuji was much younger and Nanami still unprepared for what it takes to feed, raise, clothe, bathe, keep alive a toddler.
"I haven't been there in…," Gosh how he crosses his arms, hand to his chin, exaggerated thinking, "Huh, five days."
"Crazy." You lean close, hand on his forehead, "Are you catching something Kento?" You hand drops back to your side, he's tempted to catch it, you need to check again, who is he? Not eating at Subway for a whole 120 hours. And then you sing-song, "Must be all the recipes I've shown you, real food Kento, is unbeatable."
It is.
He thinks fondly of your patience in teaching him Yuji's favorite 'green sauce' pasta, an abundance of tenderness in your hands, helping him chop, stir, plate. "But… if you'd like to, scratch that craving, I guess I could be free tomorrow noon."
"Tomorrow noon?" He has a call with Gojo Satoru about thermal socks and their untapped potential, an easy thing to cancel. "Well, I can't promise a thing about the service," he holds the seasoning up, "But we could absolutely compare the two."
Are there any prompts that have caught your eye, but that you haven't had the time to work on?
Do you still have some WIPs to get to?
Fear not, because @nanamiweek has officially entered OVERTIME.
Until July 31st, we will continue to regularly check the tags and share your submissions!
The same guidelines apply, and please make sure to tag appropriately!
Words cannot express how grateful we are. To everyone who voted, created, or joined us in Discord—thank you. This week of celebrating our favorite sorcerer wouldn't have been the same without you and this amazing community. You've all made it truly unforgettable! 🩵
Thank you for everything, Nanami Kento. Thank you for being the character who has been there for us through our difficult times, thank you for making us smile, and above all, thank you for making us feel so loved
This was so much fun. Seeing so many people join in and all the amazing art just made me love this man even more. He's become such a comfort character for me and has helped me open up to people a little more 💝
Pairing: Nanami Kento x f!reader
Summary: In which you find a cold-afflicted Nanami Kento in rare form.
Contents: early relationship, fluff, humor, slightly suggestive themes.
Word count: 2.6k
A/n: A late, short contribution for @nanamiweek Day 5 in between toiling at my other tardy submissions ahaha
Through the wisps of steam rising from the soup you were diligently stirring, movement flickered at the edge of your vision, just as a soft shuffling sound punctuated by a light cough emanated from the adjacent living room.
You secured the pot with its lid, set the kitchen timer for thirty minutes, and reduced the heat to a gentle simmer before finally turning to grant your full, now undivided attention to your sweet, ailing man.
“Kento, are you sure you don’t want to move back to your bed…” you trailed off as you took in the sight before you.
And what a rare sight it was.
In the short few minutes you’d turned away from him, Nanami’s disposition had somehow slipped into something even less guarded than how you’d found him when you’d arrived at his apartment, with this nasty cold having peeled that careful polish you were accustomed to away.
It was a degree of comfort that rested above the novelty presented by the recent evolution of your relationship, which took you from mere colleagues, to good friends, to the kind of intimacy that now found you standing in Nanami’s kitchen to prepare a family recipe you’ve long associated with soothing the most unrelenting of colds, in the hopes of helping fight the one currently afflicting him.
Whatever it was, it found him like this—slouched on the chaise portion of the L-shaped couch into which he’d just settled, under a thick blanket.
The faded t-shirt and loose sweatpants he wore gave him a startlingly casual allure, even for what you knew him to wear at home. His collar sat slightly askew, with one sleeve rolled higher than the other. A slight fever had painted a stubborn flush across his cheeks, and golden strands disheveled by sleep and restless hands fell over where his tired eyes peered over the rims of his reading glasses.
When Nanami’s eyes finally found yours, you found his expression to be softened, his gaze holding a raw, unvarnished quality, stripped of any pretense, vulnerable in every minute wince, in each sleepy blink, and with each sniffle escaping him uninhibited.
It only made him more charming, even more so as the corners of his eyes slightly crinkled, and he finally responded.
“No, I’m fine here.”
“It might be more comfortable if you just—”
“I’m comfortable here,” he maintained. “The truth is, I’ve been stuck between the same four walls for two days, so this change of scenery does me a world of good.” He paused, his lips shifting into a slow, knowing smile. “Besides, I like the view I have here now.”
As the compliment landed, a wave of warmth bloomed beneath your skin, catching you by surprise.
You were still acclimating to your newfound closeness to Nanami, still getting used to having inhibitions organically fade between you, particularly during private moments like this.
“Okay, if you say so,” you said, averting your gaze to his empty cup of tea on the coffee table, but not before catching his sly smile.
At least he seemed to be in slightly better shape than an hour ago.
Nanami had tried, fruitlessly so, to convince you not to intervene and risk catching his cold while he was still recovering. But a deep-seated certainty, as strong as the unwavering resolve in your voice, assured him that once you sensed the congestion he’d failed to hide on the phone, he’d be unable to convince you otherwise.
Sure enough, less than an hour later, you turned up at his door, equipped with a few ingredients and a care package you threw together to help him get through the worst of it.
Now here you were, taking notice of the teapot that sat on the coffee table, its lid discarded next to the book from which Nanami had yet to read, and its contents long gone. You crouched down to gather it along with his cup to prepare another tea.
“I’ll refill this for you. When did you last take the cold tablets?”
“The yellow pills, daytime.”
You paused to register and decode Nanami’s reply.
“Yes, the daytime pills, but when did you take them?”
Kento slowly blinked back at you, as if deciphering your question.
“Ah, around ten thirty, just before you got here,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “Sorry, I’m a little out of it,” he added with a nervous laugh, which you couldn’t help but mirror.
“No worries,” you said with a quick glance at your watch, “Alright, so just under an hour… How was your fever this morning? Did you take your temperature?”
“It was not bad.”
“‘Not bad’ isn’t a temperature, Kento.”
“I know it isn’t…” he trailed off with another nervous laugh.
“What are your worst symptoms now? Help me out here, how are you actually feeling? ”
Nanami suppressed a cough as if on cue, wincing before he offered a sheepish smile. “Better, now that you’re here. Though I do feel a bit guilty about that.”
His flushed face gained an even deeper allure, with a rosy tint spreading across his cheeks as he rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose with two fingers.
“I won’t have it, Kento. That’s what I’m here for. And I want to be here.”
As your eyes met again, a subtle spark of amusement danced in his eyes, betraying nothing of his thoughts.
“Wait…What is it?” you cautiously asked.
“So you don’t think any less of me now that you’ve seen all this?” he asked as he extricated his arm with a rustle of the blanket and gestured vaguely towards himself and the space he’d claimed.
“You’re human, Nanami Kento. You know that, right? That it’s normal for humans to get sick sometimes? Even when they’re badass Grade 1 sorcerers?”
“Oh, good, she still thinks I’m badass,” Nanami said as he closed his eyes, a relaxed and liberated mirth escaping his lips.
Yet another unguarded moment that tickled you.
“Wow, I didn’t think you had such a vain side to you,” you stated with an air of feigned astonishment.
As you pushed yourself back onto your feet, you watched as Nanami brought a hand up to his hair, disheveling it further than it already was.
“I do have a vain side. It’s why I took that hair serum of yours with me the other day,” he said, his laugh only continuing.
Nanami’s words caused you to halt mid-motion, and were it not for the mischievously expectant gleam in his eyes as they met yours, you would have convinced yourself that you’d misheard him. He spoke again before you could react.
“I intended to return it before the week was out, but my immune system clearly had other plans,” he casually added.
“Kento… You stole my serum? The castor oil one?”
“I borrowed a flask. You did say you just stocked up. Your first mistake was putting that luxurious thing in my hair. I’ve never had such soft hair in my life. Smelling like, what was it you said, baobab?”
You let out a scoffing laugh as you processed what you were hearing.
“You know, this practically sounds like you stole my serum and are somehow blaming me for it…” you remarked as you finally rose the rest of the distance back to your feet, now towering over him.
At your newly assumed position, Nanami stopped running his hand through his hair and peered up at you.
He gave you a deliberate, lingering look, scrutinizing you as if he’d never seen you before. His eyes slowly traveled upwards, beginning at the cinched belt of your dress, tracing the line of detailed buttons all the way to your neck, and then finally settling on your face.
“This dress really suits you,” he murmured.
“I—thank you…”
“Is it new?”
“It’s new-ish… I bought it some time ago but never got the chance to wear it,” you cut off as you crossed your arms. “Hey. Don’t think you’ll be dodging this thievery business with flattery, sir.”
“You wore a new outfit to come see me, and I’m sitting here looking like this…”
As you observed Nanami’s lips twist into something approaching a proper pout, you wondered whether it was his fever haze, the loopy side effects of his medicine, or some diabolical third other thing that had rendered him in such rare form.
You laughed at his reaction, because whatever it was, you certainly didn’t hate it.
“I’d sooner judge that non-breakfast you told me you had. With your crackers and canned what was it?”
“Coughing and muscle aches.”
“Excuse me?”
“Those are the symptoms you asked about.”
It took you a moment to realize that he was answering your question from earlier in the exchange, to register how chaotically comedic this conversation was going.
You gave an amused scoff as you watched him avert your gaze and pretend to be engrossed in the book he had yet to open since you walked in.
He was messing with you. He had to be. You saw what this was now.
“Alright, since you have enough energy to be in such rare form, Nanami-san,” you said as you turned your back and crossed the distance to the counter towards one of the bags you brought along with you, before fishing a small container you were now happy to have acquired on the quick pharmacy run you made before coming here.
You found Nanami carefully watching you as you approached him once more, hazel lucidity pooling like honey in his irises as you casually settled astride his lap, bracing your knees on either side of him, causing this new-ish dress of yours to ride up, just enough to capture his attention and have him linger there for a short but no less noticed moment.
You smiled at this, keeping one hand tucked behind your back, fingers curled around the instrument of your small scheme. Only once he finally met your gaze did you speak again.
“Take your shirt off.”
“Pardon me?” It was his turn to let out a baffling laugh.
“You heard me,” you said, tone and expression all mischief as you leaned in by fractions. You gently pulled his readers off his face, placing them on the sofa’s arm before planting your hand by his face to brace yourself, all without averting your gaze.
“I’m more than likely contagious, love. This isn’t wise…” he murmured, his voice lacking conviction as his hands, warm and familiar, settled on your hips.
You let a lingering moment pass before you extended your hidden hand, maneuvering it into the narrow gap between you to reveal a tiny jar of VapoRub.
“Relieves coughing and muscle aches, just as you need. I’ll apply it for you, but you’ll have to take your shirt off first.”
With a chuckle and a shake of his head, his demeanor seemed to ease.
You shifted your weight backward to allow him the room to do as instructed. Kento worked to remove his shirt and undershirt while you opened the small tub, and the unexpectedly loud pop of its lid emphasized the peaceful quiet between you, punctuated by the soft simmering sound of your soup in the background.
With your fingers, you carefully gathered a small amount of the mentholated balm, feeling it warm against your fingertips as you lifted your gaze to find his. You were so close now, close enough to take in the light layer of overnight stubble that had emerged along his jawline, granting him a rugged edge that softened his sharp lines.
There was no confusion, no drug-induced haze in his eyes anymore. As you fixed him, taking in this rare display of earnest vulnerability, your own words echoed in your mind.
You know you’re human, right, Nanami?
When you'd asked that question, it was both rhetorical and tongue-in-cheek, but as you watched Nanami Kento now, as he slowly lowered a certain wall you hadn’t realized him to hold until this very moment, all you wanted was to drill the statement into his mind until he truly accepted it.
Your lips must have inadvertently tugged into a smile because you found Nanami cautiously mirroring it before he spoke, his voice low.
“What are you scheming now?”
“No scheming. Not at the moment, at least,” you replied as you slowly reached for him, bringing your finger to the center of his chest, feeling it yield to the warmth of his skin, cooling as it slowly absorbed. With your palm flattened against him, you traced a path from his sternum outwards, continuously gauging his expression for any discomfort.
The contrast of your cool touch over his untouched surfaces made Nanami twitch ever so slightly on contact, so you went light and careful, taking in the shape of him as you applied the ointment in measured strokes, slow enough to be gentle, firm enough to create the friction needed to maximize the treatment’s effect.
By now, the scent of menthol had dominantly taken over, tickling slightly at your eyes, but still you remained focused and unhurried, reapplying enough product to allow for a thick layer to form on Nanami’s chest, as he sat back, gradually relaxing under your touch as he quietly watched you.
You worked your way up to the base of his throat, where your touch lightened further, and you slowed the further up you moved. Nanami tilted his head just far enough to grant you better access, but not so far that he couldn’t keep his gaze on you.
“I like this…” he breathed out, his umpteenth confession of the morning, perhaps his most sincere.
“You like being sick?” you teased, playfully peering at him to gauge his reaction.
To this, Nanami chuckled and momentarily closed his eyes, as if to contemplate his response.
“If that’s what it takes…” he trailed off.
“You know it’s not.”
“I know, I know…”
An easy silence found you once more, and you continued like this for a while, watching him more than your own movements, adjusting instinctively to every small twitch, to every shifting breath of his.
“I like this too,” you heard yourself say, the words slipping out after a moment. “I know you’re trying to make light of all this, and that you don’t want me to worry. But let me worry sometimes.”
Let me take care of you sometimes.
The last portion of your reflection would remain unspoken. But as your hand lingered with each pass, as you sought to support the man who was always grounding others, ground himself, to wordlessly but no less sincerely convey through your acts that he wasn’t alone in carrying any of his burdens, big or small.
Once you were done, you didn’t pull away immediately, resting your palm back on his chest again, just over where his pulse felt the strongest, your certain gaze searching his as you allowed for the moment to sink in before finally withdrawing and grabbing a tissue to wipe any excess ointment from your hands.
When you reached for his shirt, Kento moved to lift his arms unprompted, allowing you to slip his shirt back on, carefully easing it over his body so as not to smear the product out of place.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his hands moving to your hips once more as you readjusted to lean towards him and gently pressed your lips to his forehead, finally pulling back with a smile.
“I’m here, so rest up, big guy. The soup will be done in a bit. I’ll bring some more tea.”
“Can I ask you something?” His eyebrows drew together in a furrow of uncertainty.
“Anything.”
“Can you bring that serum over from the bathroom? Now that the cat’s out of the bag, I think I could use some just about now…”
AUTHOR'S NOTE: happy final day of nanami week <333
i'm so so so grateful to everyone who read my stories!!! thank you for all the support and kind words, i hope you'll stick around to see what else i write <333 (and if you don't, thanks for taking time to be with me now, i had the best time this week)
art by @/zeilorene0 on x - divider by @/pixopix
The day your husband came home from work with half of his upper body covered in burned scars was the day your world as you knew it fell apart.
No longer could he hide the truth from you about what he did for work. No longer did you wonder if he was lying to you the entire time you’d been together, because now you knew for certain he was.
“Oh my god, Ken,” your hands flew over your mouth, your body immediately began to shake at the sight of him walking through the front door. Your feet hardly cooperating as you tried to make your way to him quickly. You stumbled into the coffee table, feet still moving as you steadied yourself against the wall.
He was wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, something you rarely ever saw your husband in. A pair of unfamiliar glasses sitting on his nose as he looked at you with shame in his one working eye.
“Darling, I think you should sit down,” his words were soft, a note of agony in them as he approached you with his hands raised.
Your body collided with him, his strength steadying you as your hands frantically roamed over him, trying to make sure it was really him.
The last twenty-four hours had been hell, his service going out as he worked Halloween night in Shibuya. Only to get a call from someone you’d never heard of saying your husband was currently receiving treatment for injuries. You could hardly believe what you were hearing, he worked in finance, what could he possibly be doing late at the office on Halloween that would injure him?
Unfortunately that was all the information you were given, the number no longer in service as you spent the remaining time pacing your home. Your worries consuming you as you thought of anything and everything that could have happened to him. The man in front of you now, with burn scars like you’d never seen, hardly seemed real at all.
“Are you in pain, I’m so sorry,” you tried to pull away but his arm snaked around your waist, holding you against him as his other arm drifted into your hair.
“Baby, I have something to tell you,” his voice was filled with anguish as he held you tighter, breathing in your scent.
You pulled back, his hand leaving your hair to immediately wipe the tears you hadn’t realized were spilling down your cheeks. Your heart was beating wildly, your chest felt heavy as a sense of premonition washed over you, “What happened?”
Kento gently guided you back to the couch, both of you sitting next to each other as you stared at him. The air in the room grew heavy with anticipation, your heart constricting the longer you waited.
“I want you to know I’ll never forgive myself for lying to you,” the words were hoarse, his voice barely working as the first tear slipped down his cheek. Your mind was spinning, a sick feeling of dread creeping up your spine as you listened. “I almost died at work yesterday.”
The words invoked a cold feeling snaking down your spine, the truth as terrifying as ever once it was voiced. Your voice was quiet, filled with fear at the answer he would give you, “Ken, I don’t understand. How is that possible?”
You listened silently as your husband told you of what he really did for work, what jujutsu sorcery was, what his role was in their world, and how yesterday one of the most frightening attacks in history occurred in Shibuya.
You were silent because you could not decide what emotion was most prevalent. Was it sadness because you could’ve lost your husband at any moment and never understood why? Was it anger because you were kept in the dark the entire time you’ve known him? Was it fear because life before today was not the life you thought you knew? Or was every emotion one singular feeling that suffocated you in the weight of the truth?
The tears were hardly noticeable to you, even as they flowed easily down your face and fell onto your shaking hands. How could they be noticed when your head was pounding and your chest felt like it would implode?
“I’m so sorry,” his voice was a whisper, but it felt like a bomb going off as your body crumpled inwards.
You could hardly breathe once the sobs started, hardly forming the words, “I could’ve lost you.”
Your husband’s arms pulled you onto his lap, you could feel his body shaking from his own tears as he held you close. The pressure on your chest was unbearable as you clenched his shirt in your hands, shoving your face into his familiar warmth as you tried to come to terms with everything.
“Please, don’t go back,” you whispered, snaking your arms around his waist and pulling yourself closer.
“Never,” his hand was stroking your hair, “they’re allowing me to retire.”
“I don’t understand how you’re not in pain,” you murmured, letting your hand drift into his newly scarred one.
“Our doctor worked on me for hours, making sure I healed properly,” his voice was quiet in a way you’d never heard. “Getting used to it will be something.”
“What do you mean?” You pulled away, looking at him, taking note of his now milky left eye, his hair that had been scorched away. He was still yours, as handsome as always.
“I can’t stand to look at myself like this, I’m not the man you married anymore,” a bitterness underlying his words.
“Yes you are,” you were firm and unyielding, even as he tried to shake his head. “You think you’re not because you look a little different?”
“A little different?” He scoffed. “I can’t see out of one eye, half my hair is gone, and my wedding ring hardly fit over my scars today. You consider that a little different?”
His words were like a slap across your face, and for the first time since you’d met him, you flinched, your body subconsciously moving you away from the source of pain.
His sharp intake of breath was loud in the silence, “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“You don’t have to be strong in front of me. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to do things that make sense. None of that matters to me, I just want you,” your hands gently reached up, cradling his face as you held his gaze. “I’m here, and I always will be.”
He nuzzled the right side of his face into your hand, turning his lips to place a brief kiss to your palm. His voice was so quiet, barely audible as he whispered, “Can you do something for me?”
“Anything,” your answer was immediate.
“They don’t-” his voice was gruff, “they don’t know if my hair will grow back.” The truth was loud, something you could tell that wore down on him immensely. Your heart ached as he spoke his request, “Will you shave my head?”
“Yes, baby,” you whispered, placing a soft kiss to his lips before standing.
The entire walk to the bathroom was silent, and it was silent up until you turned on the electric shaver. You worked gently across his head, watching in tortured silence as his blond locks fell to the floor. A piece of him falling away that you could witness with your eyes. The sight of tears falling along with the strands was your undoing, your own beginning to fall along with the mix.
When you were done, he stood slowly, kissing you softly before heading into your bedroom and laying down.
The silence was unbearable, the shadows haunting his eyes at every hour of the day as he moved through life like a husk. Even the brief shuffling of feet when he finally needed to eat offered no respite, because he no longer asked what you had cooked, no longer made small talk.
Every time you noticed a new habit, it broke you, like keeping his left side away from you. The lack of physical affection you had grown used to, needed like air, was no longer a part of your life. The way he no longer drank anything warm, his familiar cup of coffee in the morning discarded. The showers that ran cold, no sign of steam in the bathroom, the only indication he had been in there was the dampness in the air. The glasses flung across whatever surface, his hatred for them apparent in his treatment of them.
Every time he spoke his voice was rough with disuse, but you feared pushing him would break him. And you did not know what you would do if you really did lose your husband.
After weeks, possibly more than a month of quiet, it finally broke when he burned his hand on the stove. You had just finished cooking, he was quietly coming in behind you to tidy up the kitchen when you heard a hiss of pain and the sound of his hand slamming onto the counter, rattling everything.
“Goddammit,” the words were biting, spoken through gritted teeth. Your head whipped over, seeing him clutching his right wrist as his breath heaved in and out.
“Kento, honey, are you okay?” You asked quietly, standing slowly in the fear that you would say or do something wrong.
“No,” the word was a groan, a quiet admission that set off a bomb inside of him. You watched as his hands started to shake, his back still to you as he slammed both of them on the counter. “I’m not, and I probably never will be. I can’t fucking live like this anymore, pretending like I’m fine when we both know I’m a walking disaster!”
You gently placed your hands on his back, keeping your voice soothing as you spoke, “You don’t have to be fine.”
“You deserve a husband who functions normally, who is normal” his head fell forward limply, but he did not shake off your touch.
You let your hands drift apart, grabbing his hips and softly nudging him to turn around, your voice pleading, begging him to understand, “I want you, as you are. I need you as you are. Ken, come back to me.”
“I don’t think I can, not like this,” the words crushed down on your chest, your windpipe burning as you processed what he said. His eyes closed, the tears falling down his cheeks were reflective of your own.
“Then we need to do something, I’m not going to lose you,” your hands drifted up his chest, settling on his cheeks. “Look at me, baby.”
“I can’t,” his voice was broken, a silent plea for you to give up on him.
“You have to, I need you here with me,” you pulled his face down closer to yours. “I ache for you, in every meaning. I will always love you, please let me love you.”
His eyes finally opened, that familiar hazel color and the unfamiliar milky one gazing back at you had a small smile turning your lips upwards. His arms snaked around your torso, pulling you closer for the first time in weeks.
A breath left you, weight slipping off your chest as your smile became more genuine, your words a whisper between the two of you, “You have no idea how much I wish you could see yourself like I do.”
“I love you,” he whispered back, his lips meeting yours and that familiar wave of warmth rushing through you at the contact.
“I love everything that you are, there is nothing that would ever make me stop loving you,” you murmured, pressing your lips back to his as his arms wrapped around you tighter.
He pulled back, setting his face in the crook of your neck as he inhaled deeply, “What did I do to deserve you?”
“Existed,” you answered simply, letting your body mold to his as you held him, the feeling of tears falling on your shoulders had you clutching him tighter.
“I’m going to get better,” it was a quiet conviction, a promise to the both of you that he saw through.
You saw his effort when he started getting professional help. Saw how hard he tried when he placed kisses on the back of your hand, let his fingers drift across your hair as he passed, saw the shudder run through him as you placed kisses across his scarred hand.
He started drinking tea, letting the bag steep for longer than necessary in order to let it mostly cool, but it was a step that made your heart swell. He asked for your help picking out a chain for his glasses, letting you know that it was the feeling of them that bothered him. He threw them around because he wished to take them off so often, the foreign feeling on his nose and ears grating.
The first time you saw him smile, weeks later on Christmas Eve you almost cried. He saw your expression and smiled harder, turning away from you in an unfamiliarly shy gesture. You were bounding across the room, forcefully turning him back to you as your own smile met his. He caged your face in his hands and kissed you deeply, groaning in your mouth at your eagerness as you met his tongue desperately.
When you two stumbled into bed, his first sign of hesitance hit as he reached for his shirt. Your hands closed around his, a silent offering that he accepted as you both slipped it over his head.
He was so beautiful, so strong, you couldn’t help yourself as you started kissing all over him. Both sides of him. You missed him so much that you kissed every part he let you until he was dragging your face to his and kissing you so passionately your mind emptied.
When he finally slid inside of you, your hands holding his face near yours as you looked into each other's eyes, the first tear slipped from you. His lips met yours gently, the slow rocking of his hips as he moved inside of you, so familiar, so full of love. The two of you held each other closely, savoring this intimate touch you shared as your bodies remembered one another.
He began finding himself, remembering who he was before he was a sorcerer. Reading more often even as he began preparations to open up a small bakery. Cooking meals for the two of you again, surprising you with your favorite after a long day at work. Letting you run your hands through the hair growing back slowly, evenly across his entire head. Even mentioning a trip to Malaysia that the two of you took in February before the grand opening of the bakery.
Nanami truly found himself again, understood his purpose in life the day you handed him a takeout box from the bakery. His brow furrowed as he looked down at the small box, wondering why you’d gone out of your way to visit the bakery when he could’ve gone.
“Open it,” you encouraged, your blinding smile entirely too contagious as he began to take off the top.
Inside, staring up at him, was a test. A test that showed two full, unmistakably pink lines.
“What?” His eyes were wide as he looked at you, his glasses slipping down his nose as he shoved them up higher to get a better look. “What is that?”
“You know what it is,” you smiled, pulling a mug from the cabinet, hidden behind all of the ones he started buying as a hobby. You held out the newest one, three words spelling it all out for him.
WORLDS BEST DAD
He blinked slowly, looking between you, the test, and the mug.
“I’m going to be a dad?” His voice was a mix of joy, confusion, and utter disbelief.
“I think that’s what that means when I get pregnant,” you laughed lightly, watching as he slowly set the box down before taking the mug from your hand and setting it down gently.
He kissed you, so tenderly, the silent words passing between you as his hands settled on your face. He pulled back ever so slightly, his words a soft brush against your lips, “You are the light of my life, and I promise to you now I will cherish you and our baby until I take my last breath.”
He kept that promise, you thought as you watched your grandkids run around your backyard. Their laughter carried to you as you looked over at your husband's familiar face, the slight dusting of gray at his temples becoming a rush of happiness for you. Along with those lines that had formed around his eyes and mouth, from all the years of smiling. And those familiar glasses, hanging from the chain around his neck.
