hi! please can you write how chishiya would react to being called kind? something like reader sees him distributing food and maybe some small toys he had crafted to the few kids that are residing at The Beach. and being uncharacteristically nice to them and the reader approaches him and tells him its a kind thing to do. thank u!!!!
*:ïŸâ§ summary: you find chishiya in the abandoned play park one night, surrounded by kids. Usually detached and bitter, you were startled to find him looking so⊠kind?
tags: 5 minute craft chishiya, soft chishiya, slight angst.
You wandered the grounds one afternoon, keeping to the edges, out of sight, merely observing. It was a habit born from necessity - spot the threats, the weak links, the ones to avoid in a team game. Today, though, your gaze snagged on something else.
Chishiya, with his hoodie perpetually zipped up, hands in pockets and eyes scanning for⊠well, whatever it was he scanned for. You had crossed paths with him a few times before â a few brief nods in the hallways, a shared game where you had barely kept up with him. He was smart, unnervingly so, but kind? That wasnât a word people usually associated with someone like him. He was detached, almost dissociated, like he was in a different world altogether.
But there he was, in a quiet corner near the abandoned playground area - overgrown with weeds pushing through cracked concrete, swings creaking in the faint breeze. A handful of kids, the rare survivors who had somehow lasted long enough to end up at The Beach, clustered around him. There werenât many children here; most didnât last long in this world. These ones - maybe five or six, ages ranging from toddler to pre-teen - looked scruffy and malnourished, but alive at the least.
Chishiya was crouched down, his usual condescending smirk absent for once, replaced by an expression far softer. One that barely suited his features.
In his hands, he held small objects: toys, it looked like. Not the flashy plastic kind from the old world, but makeshift ones crafted from scavenged junk.
A little car whittled from wood scraps, with wheels made from bottle caps.
A doll fashioned from cloth rags and buttons.
Even a puzzle box, pieced together with wire and cardboard.
He handed them out one by one, talking to them in an oddly soothing voice, not the condescending drawl you were used to.
âHere,â he said to a small girl with pigtails, placing the doll in her grubby hands. âDonât lose the arms; theyâre fragile.â She beamed up at him, clutching it to her chest like it was a prized treasure. A boy next to her grabbed the car, zooming it across the ground with an enthusiastic vroom.
And it wasnât just toys. From a small bag slung over his shoulder, he pulled out rations - cans of fruit, packets of crackers, even a few candy bars that managed to outlast their expiry. The Beach had food, sure, but it was rationed tightly by the militants. These kids werenât high on the priority list; they were afterthoughts, surviving on scraps and the occasional pity handout. Chishiya distributed the food methodically, making sure each got an equal share, his fingers brushing theirs gently, there was no rush, no irritation.
One kid, a boy with a bandaged knee - probably from a tumble during a game - tugged at Chishiyaâs sleeve. âDo you sometimes scratch yourself when you make them?â he asked, pointing to the toys, referring to how he crafted them with a small knife.
Chishiya tilted his head. âNot if youâre careful. Want to see how?â He sat cross-legged on the ground, pulling out a pocket knife and a piece of scrap wood, demonstrating with slow, deliberate strokes. The kids leaned in with rapt attention, as shavings fell like snow on the ground between them.
You stood there, half-hidden behind a tree, watching this unfold. It didnât compute. Chishiya, the guy who you watched shrug when the player next to him was exploded into pink mist, was⊠nurturing? Patient? The word âkindâ bubbled up in your mind, as unusual as it was. You had heard rumors about him â some say something to with medicine, or some say assassin - but this? This seemed like neither of those things.
Curiosity got the better of you. You stepped out, gravel crunching under your shoes, and approached the group. The kids glanced up, some scattering a bit like startled birds, but Chishiya didnât flinch. He finished handing a puzzle to the last child - a quiet girl who hadnât spoken - and stood up, brushing the dirt from his pants.
âThatâs⊠kind of you,â you said, the words slipping out before you could overthink them. âWhat youâre doing for them.â
He turned, his expression neutral as ever, those eyes locking onto yours, considering you. For a split second, something flickered there - surprise? Confusion, maybe? But it was gone in an instant, replaced by his trademark indifference. He shoved his hands back into his pockets, the bag of remaining supplies slung casually over one shoulder.
The kids were dispersing now, toys in hand, munching on their treats as they ran off to play. One waved back at him, and he gave a slight nod, almost imperceptible.
You waited for a response, but Chishiya just stared, like you were something he hadnât anticipated. Kind. That word hung in his mind, awkward and heavy. No one had ever called him that before - at least, not that he could remember. Compliments were always reserved for his intellect, his skill, never for his personality. And here, in this world? He had quickly deciphered that Kindness was a weakness, a target on your back.
He didnât do it for praise; it was⊠what? A habit? A calculation? Even he wasnât sure why he did it sometimes.
He shifted his weight, trying to summon that disinterested mask he wore so well. âIs it?â he finally said, almost sounding bored.
You nodded. âYeah. The toys, the food. Most people here wouldnât bother. Hell, Iâm not even sure the kids are on the rations list.â
He glanced away, toward the horizon where the city skyline loomed. âThey found a way to survive long enough to get here, same as us. Might as well give them an equal chance.â
It wasnât much of an answer, but you pressed on, leaning against a rusted swing set. âWhereâd you learn to make those? The toys, I mean. Theyâre pretty detailed.â
Chishiya shrugged, the movement minimal. âBoredom. Scavenged materials arenât hard to find if you know where to look.â He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, âkeeps my hands busy.â
You chuckled softly, the sound surprising even you. âRight, I see.â You gestured to the now-empty spot where the kids had been. âThey lit up, you know. Like actual kids, not⊠whatever this world turns people into.â
He didnât respond right away. Instead, he pulled out another small item from his pocket - a whittled bird, wings spread as if in flight - and turned it over in his fingers, examining it like it held answers. Kind. That word echoed in his head again, unfamiliar and almost irritating. What did you want from him? Gratitude? An explanation? A partnership? It had to be something material. He wasnât used to this - people seeing through him, or worse, misinterpreting his actions as something noble.
Finally, he met your gaze again, forcing a smirk that didnât quite reach his eyes. âMaybe I like kids. Problem?â
The words came out sharper than intended, a defensive edge honed from years of solitude. But there it was - his response, the one that shut down any further probing from you. Just a casual deflection as always.
You blinked, then smiled faintly. âNo problem at all. Just⊠itâs unexpected, coming from you.â
He pocketed the bird, adjusting his hoodie. âCareful. Expectations are dangerous here. Gets you killed.â
The conversation could have ended there, but something kept you rooted. Perhaps it was the rarity of having an actual conversation with him, or maybe something else, you wouldnât know. âFair enough. Mind if I stick around? Watch you work your magic on the next batch of scraps?â
Chishiya raised an eyebrow, but he didnât say no. Instead, he sat back down on the ground, pulling out his knife and a fresh piece of wood. You joined him, cross-legged, the grass prickly against your legs. The air smelled of chlorine from the pool and the faint decay of the body bins nearby. An odd mix for the scenario you had found yourself in.
The kids trickled back eventually, drawn to him by the promise of more toys. One boy, the one with the bandaged knee, plopped down beside you. âCan I try?â he asked Chishiya, eyes pleading.
Chishiya handed him a duller tool - a makeshift chisel from a spoon handle. âWatch your fingers.â He demonstrated again, remaining patient as the boy fumbled. This side of him felt like a glitch in the matrix.
The sun set lower, turning the playground orange, and for a moment, it felt almost normal. Kids laughing, crafting, or sharing stories of âbefore.â One girl talked about her old school, another about a lost dog. Chishiya listened, interjecting occasionally with an added fact or an encouragement to talk more. âDogs are smart. Did you know their noses are 10,000 times stronger than ours?â
Hours passed like that, the group growing and shrinking as kids came and went. You helped distribute more food when Chishiya pulled out extras, your hands brushing his accidentally.
By dusk, the playground emptied again. Chishiya packed up, standing from the ground with a stretch. âThatâs enough for today.â
You rose too, dusting off your clothes. âThanks for letting me crash your⊠whatever this is.â
He nodded, already turning away. âDonât make a habit of it.â
But as he walked off, hood up, hands in pockets, you called after him. âHey, Chishiya?â
He paused, glancing back.
âIt was kind. Really.â
He didnât respond to that, just continued into the shadows. But you caught the faintest hesitation in his step, like the word had lodged somewhere he couldnât easily shove it down.
The next day, you found yourself back at the playground, almost by accident. Or maybe not. The Beach was buzzing with another party, but this little corner felt like a bubble. Quiet and safe. Chishiya was there again, earlier this time, with a new batch of toys: spinning tops made from corks, and slingshots made from rubber bands and forks.
The kids arrived in waves, and you joined seamlessly, helping him hand things out.
âWhy do you do it?â you asked later, when the kids were playing nearby.
âWhy not?â He shot back.
âCome on. Youâre not the type to waste time.â
âWho said itâs a waste of time?â His voice sounded almost thoughtful. âKids adapt easily. Quick learners. Their best chance of survival is if they treat games like puzzles.â
âSo, youâre⊠teaching them?â
âSomething like that.â He finished a top, spinning it on his palm. âOr maybe I just like the company.â
Days blurred into a routine. Youâd meet there at the same time in the afternoons, help him hand out food and whatever toys heâd crafted. Chishiyaâs crafts grew more intricate over time: a marionette from string and sticks, a board game etched into wood. Food was always there - stolen from the basement storage, you suspected, but he never confirmed.
One evening, after a particularly brutal game night, the kids were subdued. A boy had lost his older brother the night before. So chishiya sat with him, carving silently, then handed over a small figure that inteded to look like the kidâs brother. âKeep it close.â
The boy hugged it, crying silently at chishiyaâs side. He occasionally leaned into chishiya, as if seeking out comfort, and chishiya never pushed him away.
The routine continued, words sparse but comfortable. Until one day, you said it again: âThis is kind, you know.â
He froze mid-carve, knife hovering. Never been called that. It didnât fit his self-image.
He forced disinterest, shrugging. âWhatever.â
But you persisted. âIâm being serious.â
He set the knife down, meeting your eyes, and letting out a steady huff. âOnly with kids. Donât get ahead of yourself.â
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