shuntarĆ chishiya oneshot, no reader just some writing about him I suppose !!
âł â in which ShuntarĆ rethinks his medical license. was in worth it?
;;- angst . . . oops :)
i'll write something chirisu themed soon,, leave me requests !
Chishiyaâs fingers ghosted over the cool metal of the badge resting in his palm, his thumb tracing the engraved letters like he was trying to rewrite the truth with touch alone.
ShuntarĆ Chishiya.
His name glared back at him in bold, unforgiving fontâstamped onto a symbol of achievement, of triumph, of success. A surgeon. He had made it. He had done exactly what was expected of him. Followed the blueprint. Matched every shadow of the man who raised him.
And yet, as he stared at that nameâhis nameâit felt like a strangerâs. Something hollow.
He repeated it silently in his mind, over and over again, like a curse spoken under breath.
He was a licensed surgeon nowâhe should have felt proudâshould have felt something. A flicker of satisfaction, maybe. Fulfillment. Joy. But it was only bitterness that bloomed in his chest. Bitter, biting, choking.
It was the kind of irony that gnawed at bone. The kind that laughed in the face of children who once believed they could earn love by becoming useful.
Because if his father hadnât wanted a childâif he hadnât desired a sonâthen why have him at all? Why sculpt a boy out of expectation and indifference, only to refuse him affection?
A child born out of duty, perhaps. Out of obligation. Or worseâout of nothing at all.
His father hadnât lacked love entirely. That was the most maddening part. He had seen it. His father mourned the patients he lostâgrieved them with a quiet anger. He rejoiced when he saved lives, allowed himself small smiles, gruff nods, a deep exhale as though he'd saved the world. He was capable of care. Just never for him.
Chishiya spent most of his life watching the man extend compassion to strangers while his own son sat across the dinner table like a ghost.
He learned early that silence was his inheritance. That love, if it came, would be earned through excellence. Through brilliance. Through becoming exactly who his father wanted.
Maybe, just maybe, if he were clever enough, perfect enough, extraordinary enoughâhis father would finally speak to him like he mattered. Would finally see him.
But he never did.
He still remembered the day he saw the Mona Lisa. He was ten, maybe eleven. Small enough to get lost in a crowd, but old enough to feel like he was already vanishing. Theyâd taken a rare family trip to Paris to see his mother's parents, the kind where photos were staged and smiles were mechanical.
But the Louvre had been his escape. And there she was, hanging in that crowded roomâsmall and subdued in a sea of noise and awe. The Mona Lisa.
Heâd become obsessed with it. Not with the painting itself, but with the way it made him feel. How it stirred something he didn't know how to name. His cold little heart, so still for so long, had twitched in his chest. A flicker. A pulse.
There were theories, of course. Endless analysis about her smile, her eyes, her meaning. One in particular clung to himâthe idea that the Mona Lisa was Da Vinci himself, painted as a woman. A self-portrait in disguise. A man trying to see himself from another angle. Trying to understand who he was through someone elseâs skin.
That theory lived in him. Because doesnât everyone want that? To be understood? To be seen completely, stripped of pretense, of masks, of roles and reputation? To be known without having to perform?
He wondered if Da Vinci had ever felt like a fraud. If heâd ever stared into the mirror and wished he was someone else, anyone else, just so he could finally feel real.
They said the Mona Lisa symbolized happiness. And maybe thatâs why heâd been drawn to herâbecause happiness was always something he saw from a distance. Something always promised, never possessed. A rumor passed around by others but never spoken in his home.
His life, on the outside, was painted happy. A masterpiece of fabrication. A beautiful lie.
His father, head of the hospital. Revered. Respected. A man of strength and precision. People praised him for his dedication, his intellect, his apparent stability. They called him admirable.
And at his sideâoh, his pristine wife. The quiet, obedient woman with soft eyes and a softer voice. His mother. So easy to overlook, to forget. Chishiya often wondered if sheâd been painted too. A figure in someone else's still life. Her smile was always stitched in place like a threadbare puppet. Had his father ever loved her?
Had anyone?
He doubted it.
And then there was ShuntarĆâthe quiet prodigy. Brilliant from birth. Well-behaved. Cold. Always watching, never speaking unless prompted. Just like his father. Merely a reflection.
He was everything they said he should be. He drank his coffee black, like his father. He memorized anatomy textbooks at thirteen, just like his father. He learned to suppress, to detach, to observe without sentimentâjust like his father.
Maybe too much like him.
But in the quietest corners of himselfâin the seconds between blinking and breathingâChishiya wondered if he had become a ghost of a man who never really existed. A shadow chasing another shadow. A hollow echo of someone else's legacy.
He had been raised to save lives. But no one ever taught him how to live one. And now, staring at this badgeâthis proof of his worth, of his achievement, of his usefulnessâhe felt nothing but the cold press of failure. Not the failure to become a surgeon.
But the failure to become himself.
The badge sat heavier in his palm the longer he held it, like it was absorbing the weight of everything it represented. Everything it took from him. Chishiya closed his fingers around it slowly, letting the edges dig into the skin of his palm, just enough to feel something. Just enough to remember he was still real.
That there was still blood beneath the surface. That the hollow inside him hadnât completely devoured the boy who once stood in a museum, wide-eyed, heart twitching for a painting.
He had gotten everything he was supposed to want. The degree. The respect. The sterile white coat, ironed and gleaming. The steady hands that could cut into another human and fix what was broken. Calm. Brilliant under pressure. They didn't see the truth of itâthe truth that heâd mastered detachment not as a skill, but as a survival tactic. That his stillness wasnât serenity. It was absence. A carefully curated silence where no one could hear him scream.
He had spent so long performing competence that he no longer remembered what it meant to simply exist.
Did he even want this?
Blasphemous. Treasonous. He had spent years clawing toward this finish line, but now that heâd crossed it, the road ahead stretched on, endless and bleak. Like he was walking deeper into someone elseâs life, a path paved by his fatherâs approval and societyâs applause.
And yet, no applause felt louder than the silence at home. There was no congratulatory hand on his shoulder. No embrace. No fatherâs proud smile. Just the quiet sound of air, recycled through hospital vents. The sound of becoming something he thought would save himâonly to realize salvation doesnât come from imitation. It comes from being seen.
And he never was.
His mother hadnât even looked up when he told her. Her eyes stayed downcast, folded into her lap like she was always praying for something but never sure what. Perhaps she had stopped seeing him long ago. Perhaps she never had. There was a softness in her that had withered too early, dried out by decades of living in a home that only looked happy from the outside.
Their family dinners were a ritual of performance. The table set like a stage. Every dish perfectly placed. Every word filtered through politeness. Every silence deafening.
His father would talk about surgeries like they were sacred stories. His mother would nod along, sip her tea. And Chishiyaâhe would sit there like another piece of furniture, consuming food without tasting it, waiting for someone to notice he was drowning quietly in plain sight.
Sometimes he wondered if he ever spoke at all, or if heâd imagined his own voice.
He had learned not to cry too young. It was inefficient, his father had said after Chishiya had let a few tears slip. Unproductive.
Pain was a teacher, not a companion. He had learned to swallow grief like water, learned to dress it in logic and restraint.
But even still, there were nights heâd lie awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering if there was something fundamentally wrong with him. Why he could cut into a personâs chest without blinking, but couldnât look someone in the eye and say, âIâm not okay.â
He was the boy who dissected his own heart years ago and never bothered to stitch it shut.
No wonder he felt so cold all the time.
There was no fire left in him. Only quiet calculations. Sterile thoughts. The ache of wanting to be human, while fearing that he no longer was.
Sometimes, in the quiet of the on-call room, he would watch the pulse in his wrist and wonder what it would feel like to let it slow. Not to dieâbut to disappear. To shed the weight of being someone elseâs expectation.
But even that was too much like surrender. And he wasn't weak. He couldn't be.
His father had taught him that weakness was the enemy. That feelings were clutter. That empathy was a luxury you couldnât afford in an operating room.
But Chishiya wasnât in the OR now, and he felt just as fucking shitty.
He was alone, sitting beneath the sterile glow of a flickering hallway light, a badge in his hand and an ache in his chest that logic couldnât touch.
He had tried so hard to become perfect. And in doing so, he had forgotten how to be real.
And yetâsomewhere, somewhere deep in the marrow of himâhe still remembered that boy in the Louvre. That moment. That painting. That strange, electric feeling that he wanted something. Not for his father. Not for the world. For himself.
He didnât know what it was.
So he ignored it. He pushed the door open to his patient, resignation already settled onto his face.
The room smelled like bleach and loss of hope. Death clung to the air in ways the sterilizers couldnât cleanse.
Chishiya stood at the manâs bedside with his hands folded neatly behind his back, white coat sharp, his face unreadable as always. He didn't blink much. Just watched.
The man was gauntâskin like paper stretched over bone. His lips trembled as he spoke, voice a ghost of what it must've once been.
"Doc..." the man rasped, swallowing. âI donât have much time.â
Chishiya said nothing. He didnât offer false hope. He didnât lie to comfort. He never did. His silence was sharper than honesty.
âIâI wrote a letter,â the man said, reaching with shaking fingers to the edge of the bed, pulling out a crumpled envelope. âTo my wife and kids. Please. Just⊠just get it to them. Itâs all I can give them now.â
Chishiya took the envelope wordlessly, held it between two fingers like it might stain him.
The man looked relieved.
âThank you,â the man whispered. âReally⊠thank you.â
Chishiya stared down at the manâs pale, sunken faceâeyes glossed with pain and something softer, something human. The man was still holding on to love. To memory. To hope.
He died fifteen minutes later. No drama. No gasping. Just a long exhale into stillness.
Chishiya didnât flinch. Didnât blink. He just stood there until the monitor sang its final note and the line flattened into quiet.
Later, when his shift was done, he stepped outside into the gray dusk. The city was shivering in the cold, but he barely noticed.
The envelope still sat in his coat pocket, warmed by his body heat. Heavy with sentiment. With grief. With meaning.
Chishiya pulled it out, turned it over in his hands. The manâs handwriting was shaky but careful. The edges were frayed from how long he mustâve held it, rewriting his goodbye a hundred times before it felt right.
With no ceremony, no hesitation, Chishiya tore it in half. The paper sighed beneath his fingers, a quiet rupture. Then again. And again.
He tossed the pieces into a public trash bin, buried beneath half-eaten takeout and receipts for things no one would remember buying.
He stood there a moment, then wiped his hands on the inside of his coat like theyâd been soiled by someone elseâs last words.
âWhy should I care?â he said to no one, barely above a whisper. âHeâs dead. Theyâll grieve either way.â
There was no cruelty in his tone. No anger. Just exhaustion. A numb, calculated detachment. Like heâd dissected the manâs entire life and found nothing worth saving.
He started walking people passed him on the street with their warm coats and coffee cups and winter scarves, laughing into their phones, alive in ways heâd never learned to be. He kept walking.
The letter was gone.
And in its placeânothing. No guilt. No ache. Just the familiar emptiness. Cold and clean.
It wasnât that he hated the man. It wasnât even that he enjoyed the act. He simply didnât believe in carrying burdens that werenât his. He didnât believe in love that endured beyond flesh, or memory that softened the sharpness of death.
He believed in endings. Clean ones.
He had spent his entire life watching people die, watching grief collapse in on itself, watching hope rot into delusion. And in the end, everyone bled the same.
What good were words after the pulse stopped?
He didnât cry at funerals. He didnât look at family members when he gave them the news. He never said "I'm sorry." He offered facts, data, a time of death. That was all.
And yet⊠the image of the manâs eyesâglassy and full of something Chishiya didnât understandâlingered in his mind like a shadow that wouldnât leave.
The house hadnât changed. It still sat in the same silence, preserved like a memory someone was too afraid to open. The lights were soft and golden, the hallways clean. It smelled like order. Like dust that had never had the chance to settle.
Chishiya stood in the entryway for a moment, the quiet pressing in around him like a too-familiar weight. He didnât take off his shoes. Just listened to the hum of the heater and the faint tick of a clock that had marked a thousand quiet, loveless dinners.
From down the hall, his fatherâs voice cut through the stillness.
âShuntarĆ.â
Even now, his name didnât sound like affection. Just recognition. Like a tool being called from a drawer.
Chishiya stepped into the study.
His father sat at the desk, eyes scanning something on paper. Still upright. Still controlled. His suit jacket rested neatly over the back of his chair. His collar was buttoned. His cuffs were clean.
He glanced up only once. âI heard the board certified you.â
Chishiya nodded faintly. âThey did.â
His father didnât stand. Didnât smile. Just returned his eyes to the page in front of him.
âYouâll have long hours,â he said. âThereâs no such thing as rest if you do the job properly.â
âIâm used to that.â
âHm.â
That was the extent of it. No congratulations. No questions. No warmth. Just one man giving his son an approval shaped like a weather report: detached, factual, indifferent.
Chishiya let his eyes drift around the study. The shelves were exactly how he rememberedâbooks lined up like soldiers, a pristine collection of medical volumes that probably hadnât been touched in years. Framed degrees hung in tidy rows on the wall. His fatherâs life, displayed like trophies. His expectations preserved in glass.
On the far corner of the desk was a photo frame. The three of themâChishiya, his mother, and the man now sitting across from him. He remembered that photo. He remembered being told to smile. He had, just enough.
His father looked up again. âYou still working in cardio?â
Chishiya nodded. âFor now.â
âYouâll want to transition to thoracics sooner than later. Thatâs where the future is. If youâre interested in recognition, that is.â
âIâm not.â
His father gave a small shrug. âThen youâre not thinking long-term.â
Chishiya let his lips twitch into something that wasnât quite a smile. âMaybe Iâm not.â
There was nothing in his fatherâs expression.
Chishiya wonderedâbriefly, vaguelyâwhat his father would say if he told him about the dying man. The letter. The trash bin.
Probably nothing. Or worseâagreement.
âItâs strange,â Chishiya said suddenly, almost to himself. âPeople always say medicine is a calling. Like it comes from somewhere deep.â
His father looked at him. Didnât interrupt.
Chishiyaâs eyes were distant, scanning the line of polished book spines. âIâm not sure I was ever called.â
His father, flatly and without emotion said, âYou donât need to feel it. You only need to do it.â
There was silence after that. A thick, invisible wall built between themâof years, of distance, of things neither of them ever had the language to say.
Chishiya didnât respond. He didnât nod. He didnât agree.
He just stood there, in the study where he had once watched this man stitch lives back together with steady hands and ice-cold precision. The same hands he now owned. The same distance he had perfected.
There were no goodbyes when he turned to leave. No âIâm proud of you.â No âCome back soon.â
Just the soft click of a door closing behind him.
And Chishiya walked out into the night, the city lights dull through the fog, the air too quiet.
He slipped his hands into his coat pockets. The fabric still carried the shape of the letter heâd torn.
He didnât miss it. He didnât look back.
He didnât feel anything at all.
sooo this really hurt but whatever,,, I really want to write more oneshots
"Chishiya cared about kuina" "chishiya and kuina" chishiya probably gave her that bomb bc it was the first person he could give it to. chishiya was ok never seeing kuina again. chishiya was planning to leave her behind in the manga. NO !
i find it funny that chishiya said this after he burnt niragi. looking into the quote, i actually found the statement being by a man named kingman brewster jr (if i happen to remember his name correctly), who was an american educator and diplomat of yale University. the quote itself is pretty simple: "there is no lasting hope in violence, only temporary relief from hopelessness."
"no lasting hope in violence" refers to violence feeling empowering or strong, ultimately fixing a problem temporarily using brute force and such, but in the end it doesnt fix anythingâjust creates more violence.
"Temporary relief from hopelessness" refers to feeling hopeless, acting violently to release a feeling of control but it ends up fading, leaving whatever you felt in the past. it also refers to the cycle of those deceptive creators of violence, all continuing the cycle of rage and hurt.
I think this is VERY fitting, especially for someone like niragi, and even chishiya knew that.
his ability to understand people like that is what makes him so intelligent, for one. though he doesn't understand their direct feelings, he uses logic to find a meaning and i think the reason he quotes people so often/references certain media is not only because of his knowledgeable mind, but because he, himself, can't put it into words. i also find it ironic that he conveniently knows what utopia means in greek, i think due to his philosophical beliefs he'd maybe be into mythology as a whole instead of Christianity
âł â [shuntarĆ chishiya was not one to care for othersâhis brilliance was the only thing he needed. That is, until you show up.] ÂĄ! â
;; slight fluff, HEAVY angst (no comfort), sorry in advance.
Chishiya knew, from the moment he met you, that you were a liability .Not because you were weak. Weakness was measurable. Weakness could be exploited, accounted for, discarded. He had survived long enough to understand that.
And not because you were stupid. Stupidity was loud. Stupidity announced itself with bravado and bad decisions and an inability to adapt. You were none of that.
You were dangerous because you noticed things. Not the obvious thingsâanyone could see who held power, who was armed, who was desperate enough to turn on others when the pressure mounted. No. You noticed the quiet fractures. The micro-expressions. The infinitesimal delays between thought and action.
You noticed him.
The way his smile lingered a fraction too long when he was lyingâtoo deliberate, too polished. The way his eyes flicked away when someone invaded his personal space, just for a second, before the mask returned. You noticed how his speech sometimes stalledânot from uncertainty, but from fatigueâhow the calculations occasionally lagged when exhaustion crept too deep to suppress.
Worst of all, you didnât treat him like an asset. You looked at him like a person.
That was unacceptable. The Borderlands did not reward empathy. They did not spare those who allowed themselves to see others as human beings rather than tools, obstacles, or expendable numbers.
The first time you worked together, it was strictly practical. A Diamonds game. Cold. Precise. Merciless. The kind that punished emotional thinking and rewarded logic stripped bare of morality. Players dropped like pieces off a board, eliminated not by cruelty but by inevitability.
You were bleeding from the temple when he noticed you properly. Blood streaked down the side of your face, dark against your skin, your vision visibly compromised. Your balance was slightly offâbarely perceptible, but to Chishiya, it might as well have been highlighted in red.
And yet you spoke up. Corrected someone elseâs solution. Quietly. Calmly. No hesitation. No flourish. âYour assumption fails at the third step,â you said, voice steady despite the way your hand trembled when you lowered it. âYouâre treating a variable as fixed when it isnât.â
The room went silent.Chishiya watched from across the space, eyes sharp, interest stirring despite his better judgment. You werenât posturing. You werenât trying to establish dominance. You werenât even looking for validation.
You were just⊠right.
Later, when the answers were locked in and the penalties were dealt, when bodies collapsed where they stoodâsome screaming, some silentâyou didnât look away. Neither did he.
You stood there, breathing shallow, eyes fixed on the aftermath, absorbing it without spectacle or denial. No flinch. No apology for surviving.
That should have been the end of it.. but the Borderlands had a way of looping people together, as if amused by repetition. As if it enjoyed testing how many times it could throw the same two people into proximity before something broke.
Games overlapped. Safe zones blurred. Alliances shifted and collapsed under pressure. And again and again, you ended up near him. Not clinging. Not seeking him out. Just⊠adjacent. Leaning against the same walls while timers ticked down. Counting the same seconds between announcements. Sharing glances that said I know without ever voicing the thought aloud.
You never asked him personal questions. That alone should have earned his trust.
But what unsettled himâwhat crawled under his skinâwas that you answered questions he hadnât realized he was asking.
âYou donât sleep much,â you said once, idly, as if commenting on the weather.
He scoffed immediately. âNeither do you.â
You shrugged, unfazed. âI donât pretend otherwise.â
The words lodged somewhere unpleasant in his chest.
He hated that you didnât lie to make him comfortable. Hated that you didnât soften truths for politeness or survival. Hated that you spoke like someone who had already accepted the cost of awareness.
Without meaning to, he began saving you. Not dramatically. Not in ways that would draw attention or demand acknowledgment. Just small, deniable acts. Redirecting suspicion away from you during discussions. Feeding others incomplete information so you wouldnât be targeted. Adjusting his position during games so that, statistically speaking, you were less exposed to immediate danger.
He told himself it was rational. You were useful. Intelligent. A rare variable worth preserving.
Except variables didnât make his chest tighten when they smiled at himâtired, unguarded, genuine. Variables didnât look at him like he wasnât already half-dead.
One night, after a Hearts game that left more ghosts than survivors, you found him sitting alone in a stairwell. The overhead lights flickered erratically, buzzing like dying insects. The concrete smelled faintly of rust and old blood.
There was red staining his sleeve. Not his.
âYouâre hurt,â you said.
âIâm not,â he replied instantly, reflexive.
You sat down anyway. You didnât touch him. Didnât crowd him. Didnât ask for details he didnât want to give. You just sat beside him, close enough to share the silence, far enough not to threaten it.
âThat was a bad game,â you said quietly.
Chishiya let out a slow breath through his nose. âTheyâre all bad.â
You tilted your head, considering. âThat one was cruel.â
He looked at you thenâreally looked. The slight tremor in your hands that you were pretending wasnât there. The way your shoulders were held too stiff, like you were bracing for something that had already passed. The way your voice stayed even, disciplined, despite the fear you hadnât let surface.
ââŠYou shouldnât linger on things like that,â he said. âItâs inefficient.â
You smiled, small and sad. âThatâs your way of saying âdonât feel,â right?â
He didnât answer.
When you stood, you paused just long enough for the silence to settle. âGoodnight, Chishiya.â
Not doctor. Not genius. Just his name.
It followed him long after you were gone, echoing in places he had sealed shut years ago.
The attachment crept in quietly. He noticed it when he began planning games around your survivalânot just his own. When escape routes subtly shifted to account for your position. When hypothetical deaths started excluding you by default. He noticed it when the idea of you dying didnât register as tragic or unfortunate.
It registered as unacceptable. That terrified him.
The game that broke everything was a Clubs. Coordination. Sacrifice. Time pressure stacked on top of time pressure until thinking itself felt like wading through water. The arena was a vertical nightmareâlayered platforms suspended at irregular intervals, sections of flooring programmed to retract without warning, lights flashing red whenever the system decided someone had taken too long.
You were paired together. Whether by chance or by something far crueler, the system assigned you as a unitâyour movements linked, your failures shared. If one of you lagged, both of you paid for it. If one of you fell, the other followed.
Chishiya told himself it didnât matter. Pairings were arbitrary. Attachments were irrelevant. You were capable. He was capable. Together, statistically, you were efficient.
The screaming started early. Someone misjudged a jump two levels above you. The sound of their body hitting the lower platform echoed, followed by a wet, final silence. The timer reset. The lights pulsed faster.
The air smelled like dust and burnt circuitry. Every step vibrated faintly beneath your feet, the platforms groaning like they might give up at any second. Your breathing was too loud in your ears. Chishiya noticed. He always noticed.
You were keeping upâbarelyâbut something was off. Your timing was usually immaculate. You anticipated shifts before they happened, adapted mid-step, recalculated without panic. Now, your eyes lingered too long on the moving sections, tracking patterns with a hesitation that didnât belong to you.He almost said something.
Then the floor vanished. It happened between one breath and the nextâno warning tone, no visible cue. Just the sudden absence of solidity beneath your foot. Your balance pitched forward, weight dropping into nothing.
You gasped.
Chishiya didnât thinkâdidnât calculate the angle. Didnât measure the distance. Didnât assess the probability of success versus injury.
He grabbed you. The force of it ripped through his shoulder, a sickening jolt that sent pain screaming down his arm, white-hot and immediate. His fingers barely caught fabric, nails digging in as momentum dragged him forward too.
For half a second, they both nearly went. Then he wrenched you back.
Your body slammed into the wall behind you just as the platform reset beneath your feet with a violent clang. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs. The wall was cold, unforgiving, solid in a way the floor hadnât been.
For a split second, you were pressed chest-to-chest. Your heart was hammering so hard he could feel it through layers of clothing. His own wasnât much better. His injured arm burned, muscles screaming in protest as he kept it braced beside your head. Alive.
Your hands were fisted in his coat, knuckles white, grip desperateâlike if you let go, gravity would remember you again.
âDonât do that,â he snapped, too sharp, too fast.
Your eyes widenedânot in anger. Not in offense. Just⊠shaken. Raw. âIââ
âDonât almost die,â he corrected, harsher than he intended. âItâs inconvenient.â The words sounded wrong even as he said them.
You stared at him. Really looked. Then, softlyâtoo softlyââYou were scared.â
The word lodged in his chest and refused to move. Fear was a miscalculation. Fear was noise. Fear was something he had long ago carved out of himself and replaced with precision.
And yetâHe released you immediately. Stepped back like your proximity was dangerous, like staying another second might expose something he couldnât afford.
His expression snapped back into place, smooth and unreadable.
âDonât flatter yourself,â he said.
But you saw it. You always did.
After that, something shifted.He pulled awayânot abruptly, but deliberately. No more lingering near you during rest periods. No more shared watches. No more quiet exchanges when the world went still between games. The subtle protection vanished.
You noticed. Of course you did. You didnât confront him. You didnât demand an explanation. You didnât even ask if youâd done something wrong.
You just⊠adjusted. That hurt worse than any accusation.
The last game you played together was another Diamonds. His domain. Logic corridors. Choice-based traps. Doors labeled with probabilities that punished even the smallest misjudgment. He felt at home hereâgrounded, steady, lethal
.You werenât.You were slower than usual. Your eyes flicked to him more often, like you were checking something you werenât supposed to need. Chishiya noticed every deviation, every extra breath you took before speaking.You hesitated in front of a door.
âOverthinking,â he said sharply.
You flinched. Just a fraction of an inch. âI know,â you murmured. âI justââ
âFocus,â he cut in. âPeople die when you hesitate.â The words landed wrong. They didnât sound instructional. They sounded⊠personal.
Your jaw tightened. âIâm aware.â
You didnât look at him again after that. You moved ahead, shoulders squared, cutting him out of your line of sight.
He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. Safer. Efficient.
You died three rounds later. A trap neither of you had seenâlayered too deep, triggered by an interaction between choices made minutes apart. The explosion was sudden, violent, indiscriminate. There was no warning. No time to react.
Chishiya felt it before he understood it. The absence. The space where you should have been. When the smoke cleared, your body lay still, eyes open, expression frozen in shockâlike some part of you hadnât believed it would really end here. Like youâd expected him to say something. To correct you. To stop it.
He won the game. Of course he did.
When it was over and the survivors scattered, he stayed. Sat beside you.
He didnât touch you. Didnât close your eyes. Didnât say your name. Just... stared.
âYou hesitated because of me,â he said quietly, the realization settling in with brutal clarity. âYou were trying not to disappoint me.â
His fingers trembled.
ââŠIdiot.â
He had wanted to protect you from weakness. Instead, he had taught you to fear it.
After that, Chishiya became sharper. Colder. More ruthless. People noticed. They always did when something broke cleanly. No one knew why.
Sometimes, in the quiet moments between games, he still expected to see youâleaning against a wall, watching him like you already knew how it would all end. Sometimes, he imagined what you would have said. Youâre allowed to care. He hated that voice.. because it sounded like hope.
And hope, in the Borderlands, was the cruelest game of all.
âł â [you and chishiya decide to have a halloween together, one oddly domestic. it's not until he's carving pumpkins and wishing you a happy Halloween what you realize just how much you adore it. ] ÂĄ! â
;;- fluff.
The first thing you notice is how still the apartment feels. Thereâs a soft hum from the heater, the faint sound of rain against the window, and the smell of cinnamon-scented candles burning on the counter.
Youâve been waiting for this night all weekâHalloween, the one day youâve managed to get Chishiya to actually take the evening off.
You hear the rustle of paper from the couch. When you peek out from the kitchen, you find him exactly where you expectedâlegs stretched out lazily, wearing a loose sweatshirt and holding his phone in one hand. His silver hair glows faintly under the dim, amber light of the living room.
âYouâre supposed to be helping me with the pumpkins,â you remind him, leaning against the doorframe with a hand on your hip.
He doesnât even look up. âAm I?â
âYes,â you answer, dragging out the word. âYou said weâd carve pumpkins together.â
Finally, his eyes flick upâdark, sharp, and half amused. âI recall you saying that. I donât remember agreeing.â
You sigh, trying not to smile. Heâs doing this on purposeâthe usual mix of teasing and indifference that somehow makes your heart ache in the best way. âWell, I already got everything set up. Come on, doctor of logic, show me your pumpkin skills.â
Thereâs a quiet exhale that almost sounds like a laugh, and thenâslowlyâhe sets his phone down and stands. He pads over, socks barely making a sound against the floor. When he stops beside you, you catch the faintest trace of warmth in his expression.
âFine. But if I cut my hand, itâs your fault.â
âNoted,â you say, handing him a carving knife.
You end up sitting across from each other at the dining table, the surface covered with newspapers, two pumpkins, and bowls for seeds. You light a small candle between you, mostly for the aesthetic.
Chishiya eyes the setup like itâs an experiment rather than a seasonal activity.
âYouâre overthinking it,â you tease when he just sits there, analyzing the pumpkin.
âNot at all,â he replies, tone calm. âIâm just deciding how to make mine anatomically correct.â
You burst out laughing, shoulders shaking. âThatâs not the point, Chishiya!â
He doesnât laugh, but his mouth twitches. âThen whatâs the point?â
âThe fun.â
At that, he glances up at youâand something shifts.
The corner of his mouth lifts just slightly, as if heâs humoring you. âFun, huh?â
You nod seriously. âFun.â
And so, with exaggerated patience, he starts carving. His movements are precise, steady, almost surgical. You end up getting pumpkin guts everywhere while he manages to keep his half spotless. He finishes his faceâa smirking, sharp-eyed expression that somehow looks exactly like himâand pushes it toward you.
âSee?â he says, tone flat but eyes quietly pleased. âPerfect symmetry.â
You groan, holding up your own creationâone lopsided eye and a crooked grin. âMineâs⊠creative.â
âTerrifying,â he corrects.
You throw a pumpkin seed at him. It bounces harmlessly off his sleeve.
Later, the two of you curl up on the couch under a shared blanket. The pumpkins glow faintly from the coffee table, candles flickering beside them. Youâve put on an old horror movie, but neither of you is paying much attention.
Chishiya sits with one arm resting behind you, his fingers brushing your shoulder now and then. You lean against him, your head fitting perfectly under his chin. He doesnât move awayâif anything, you feel him relax a little, his heartbeat steady against your back.
âYouâre warm,â you mumble.
âThatâs biology,â he answers automatically, but his voice is softer than usual.
You glance up at him. âYou could just say âthank you.ââ
âI could,â he says, eyes still on the screen. âBut then youâd expect me to be polite next time.â
You nudge his side. âYouâre impossible.â
He hums, that quiet, content sound he only ever makes when heâs comfortable. His hand slips from the back of the couch to rest loosely around your waist, fingers tracing small, idle circles. You can feel the faintest hint of a smile against your hair.
âHappy Halloween,â you whisper.
He finally looks down at youâreally looksâhis gaze steady and unreadable, though his thumb moves lightly against your skin. âYou really like this holiday.â
âItâs cozy,â you say. âAnd it gives me an excuse to make you do normal things.â
âLike carving pumpkins?â
âExactly.â
He tilts his head slightly. âYou could just ask, you know. I donât mind doing⊠normal things.â
The honesty catches you off guard. He says it without looking away, voice quiet but sincere. For a moment, you forget the movie, the rain, the flickering lightâitâs just him, the rare warmth in his tone wrapping around you like the blanket youâre sharing.
âThen weâll do this every year,â you say softly.
âHmm.â He closes his eyes briefly, leaning his head back. âWeâll see.â
You smile. âThat means yes.â
âInterpret it however you like.â
But the way his hand tightens slightly around you, pulling you just a little closerâthat says enough.
Later, when the credits roll and the rain grows heavier, you get up to make hot chocolate. He follows after a minute, quietly joining you in the kitchen. You catch him leaning against the counter, still in that oversized sweatshirt, hair slightly messy from where your head rested.
âYouâre staring,â he notes without looking up from his mug.
You shrug. âYou look cozy.â
âObservation noted.â
You roll your eyes, but the corners of his mouth quirk again, subtle but real. He takes the mug you hand him and taps his against yours in a mock toast.
âTo normal things,â you say.
He holds your gaze, the candlelight reflecting in his eyes. âTo you making them abnormal.â
You laugh softly, and for the first time that evening, he smiles fullyâsmall, fleeting, but unmistakably genuine.
And when you both return to the couch, the world outside muffled by rain and the glow of your pumpkins flickering in the dark, you realize you wouldnât trade this quiet, domestic version of him for anything.
Because even when he doesnât say it, heâs hereâin every small gesture, every sarcastic remark that means heâs comfortable, every touch that lingers a second longer than necessary.
And as you drift off against his shoulder, you hear his voiceâlow, almost a whisperâright before you fall asleep:
âHappy Halloween.â
thankyew so much for reading,,, and i hope you enjoyed! I'D love to be more active on tumblr but im lowk just active on wattpad and tiktok lmao. anyways bye bye, happy halloween!
A lot of people absolutely no one have asked me: Soma, before the symptoms of poison start kicking into your patients, what happens during your game? Does everyone just stand around awkwardly?
The answer is no! Here at the King of Hearts we make sure our patients stay entertained throughout their stay, and one of my favourite ways to accomplish that is to show them the absolute shitshow that was the Kuina vs Last Boss fight, with director's commentary!
Just so everyone can see what you're missing if you don't come to my game and because I'm mad at Kuina, without further ado, here is my analysis of the fight:
(@kuinaoflight @iamthelastboss up your fucking games or I'll personally beat both of your asses myself)
The fight starts off strong! The tension is so thick it can be cut with a knife, and that is exactly what Last Boss chooses to do when instead of aiming for Kuina, he aims for the air beside her. Sadly, Kuina can't take any points for dodging this, because the blow was never going to hit her in the first place.
If you have any beverage beside you I urge you to take a shot every time Last Boss is so off with his blows that he ends up giving his entire back to Kuina. It is really extraordinary how I've fenced for five years and I've almost never seen this happen (maybe because these people actually know how to hold a sword), yet Last Boss accomplishes this in the first six seconds of the fight. We're also going to be counting every time Kuina gives her back to Last Boss.
It is also amazing how Kuina never takes advantage of this and tries kicking him to push him onto the floor and run away. Call it warrior's honour, call it plot armour, either way, we are here for it!
Last Boss deciding again that Kuina is too easy a target and aiming for the air beside her, and Last Boss again giving his whole back to Kuina, this time in the eight-second mark. He's on his way to claim a record.
If you notice, you can see how his sword is behind him; that's because he's 'loading' (I don't know the English word) all his blows. Instead of going for a straight cut, he brings his sword back to gather more power and then releases it, which is stupid because not only does he leave him incredibly exposed (look at how his chest is unprotected), but it gives his opponent time to see where he's aiming at. Not that Kuina needs this, of course! Because once again:
Kuina is twenty feet away from him.
Also, none of Last Boss' blows hold any balance whatsoever. He's not in control of his body, he just lets it follow the blade and leave him exposed afterwards. This would also count as an instance where he's more or less giving his back to Kuina (third shot).
You can't see it very well, but just above Last Boss' elbow you can see the hilt of his sword; he hasn't even begun to throw the cut and Kuina is already dodging out of a mixture of being able to read Last Boss' movements, and being able to read the future, because there's no way she could've anticipated it so soon.
Yet again, Last Boss is aiming for the air and not Kuina. Someone get this man some glasses.
Even though Kuina is already crouching and Last Boss hasn't thrown the cut yet, he makes no attempt to change the trajectory of his sword and swing it downwards, because it's the âšgentlemanlyâš thing to do.
Both of them giving their backs to each other. Double shot! We're at five now.
If you're wondering: how much of the fight has already happened? The answer is a whopping 12 seconds.
He is grace, he is elegance, he is wasting energy with pointless jumps, but weđaređheređforđitđ
From now on I'm going to avoid mentioning every time Last Boss aims at the air. Imagine how often it happens for me to decide I can't keep counting it.
Kuina giving her back to Last Boss, sixth shot.
Also, let it be noted that she was in a hallway and instead of trying to run away, she decided: what if I got into a closed room where I can't escape once I get in? Wouldn't that be spicy? And it was!
I know I just said I was going to stop mentioning every time Last Boss doesn't aim at Kuina (and since then I've omitted it three times), but this one sticks out in particular because he's realized the air is too easy a target and now he's got his sights on a different one: the ceiling.
Again: the ceiling!
Brief intermission to be serious for a moment: Last Boss' problems when he's fighting are the following:
As I've already said, he's not in control of any of the blows he's throwing. He blindly swings his sword, and his whole body moves with it, which causes him to have many weak points in his defense.
Already said this too, but the way he keeps pulling his sword back to throw the blow with more power, which makes his opponent see where he's aiming at, and also leaves him exposed. Last Boss' defense is non-existent.
He keeps holding the sword with one hand, and really, he doesn't need to. One reason why you'd hold a sword that is mostly meant to be handled with both hands, with just one, is to close the distance with your opponent AND ONLY DURING A BRIEF MOMENT, before switching back to holding it with two. But Last Boss doesn't need this: Kuina is unarmed. He already has the advantage of the distance, he can reach further with his sword than Kuina could with a kick or a punch. All this is contributing to is a lack of balance, and softer cuts: you don't generate the same amount of power if you're swinging a sword with both arms than with just one.
Pointless jumps, pointless moving around. He's wasting a lot of energy.
Now back to the director's commentary!
Also, I couldn't take a picture which showed it decently so you'll have to believe me: Kuina giving her back to Last Boss again: seventh shot.
Kuina giving her back to Last Boss because jumping to the side was too easy and she too wanted to test her ballet skills. Eighth shot.
She is grace, she is elegance, she dreamed of this because I can assure you this did NOT happen.
Coincidentally, just at this time, Last Boss manages to cut a table with his sword, which is also something I can assure you did not happen. Maybe they talked about this after the fight was over and decided to add some spiceâš to it.
'What if I tell them I just JUMPED over your sword, how cool would that be??'
'OH, OH, and then I CUT A TABLE with the power of my SWORD!'
Kuina decides to roll around on the floor because she's already dominated the ballet game and now wants to try her hand at capoeira. And this allows us to take a ninth shot!
And since it happens again shortly after, a tenth!
Credit where credit is due: this is GOOD. His form is good and you can feel the power behind it. Round of applause for Last Boss!
I have no idea why anyone would be this smug after not managing to land a single blow with your sword on an unarmed opponent, but we love a confident king!! I personally would be crying, but to each his own I guess.
Mixed feelings about Last Boss' stance here. I've mostly done rapier, and I have accidentally gotten a few cuts on the hand because if a sword is going to hit you on the chest and you can throw it off course with your hand, even if you do get hurt on your hand, it's better than having a sword through your stomach.
I could see that, if this was a smaller weapon, you might want to use one hand to block the other person's movements and the other to attack. This is actually done a lot during knife fights, using one hand to deflect your opponent's weapon, and the other to attack.
But it IS a long weapon, and Kuina is unarmed. If she tries to kick him he can just aim the sword to her leg, so it's pretty pointless, even though the stance in itself doesn't look bad.
And I haven't done karate, so Kuina gets away with hers. She's on thin fucking ice though.
And his previous stance is useless because he suddenly switches to swinging the sword like a baseball bat. He wants to keep us on our toes! Always expect the unexpected đ
ALSO, IT IS JUST NOW, AT THE 1:54 MARK, WHEN LAST BOSS FINALLY MANAGES TO CUT KUINA'S ARM. ROUND OF APPLAUSE đđđ
Barely a second later and he's back to making me furious, because this is when he starts banging his sword against the ground.
One of the strong points the katana has, is how sharp it is. But a blade needs taking care of; you need to take care of the rust that inevitably forms, and you have to keep it sharp. The sharper a sword is, the more you're going to have to work to keep it that way.
Which is why it's INFURIATING how he keeps banging the sword against the floor, or leaning on it, just for the sake of looking cool. The only thing this is accomplishing is that by the time he lands another blow on Kuina (I'm guessing, fifty years from now, given his skills), the blade will be so dull it'll bounce off her skin.
Every time someone leans against their sword, a King of Hearts dies. đ„ș Protect your local King of Hearts.
Again, because Last Boss is a gentleman, he allows Kuina to hit him and take his sword while he just sits like: you're doing great sweetie âșïž he's a supportive friend.
Could've kicked her face here, but mannersđ comeđ firstđ.
I'm realizing I'm running out of space for the photos so you'll have to believe me when I say it's time for the eleventh shot!
Kuina managed to get him in a really bad chokehold (and he did nothing to prevent this and just flailed about) and Last Boss countered with a hit to her abdomen. Good!
A liver shot is one of the hardest to take when you're fighting against someone. Trust when I say a liver shot often feels much, much worse than getting hit to the face. It paralyses you, makes it hard to breathe, and hard to keep fighting afterwards.
However, there's a tiny problem here.
The liver is on the other side of Kuina's body.
Good attempt, though, because abdomen hits in general are still rough.
Last Boss decides to keep hitting Kuina with his elbows while giving his back to her, because why would you want to see your opponent? It's more important to take the twelfth shot!
Kuina could just kick him in the back, but she also decides against this.
I have no idea what Last Boss wanted to do here. was he going in for a punch, a kick...? OR WAS HE PRACTICING FOR HIS BALLET SHOW AFTERWARDS?? Yesđheđwasđ SLAY BESTIEđđđ
It's the worst picture ever, but Kuina's kick holds very little power. I could believe that she manages to stop him in his tracks, but the show expects me to think she launched him to the other side of the room. Which, by the way, is where his sword was at, so maybe next time don't throw your opponent to where his weapon is? Just an idea.
From now on, most of the fight comes from Kuina's dreams because it can be summarized with: 'no you fucking didn't.'
Last Boss throws the glasses to the floor, which, good for him, and Kuina decides to fight there instead of trying to escape the room. And when she adopts the karate posture, she slides her foot against the floor instead of just placing it on the spot she wants it to be. Because she wanted to make Chishiya mad when he later on had to take off all the shards of glass from her foot (this happened and I know because I was there too).
I do not know karate, but I do not understand what kind of useful stance would cause you to have one of your hands so up high, and the other so low. What are you protecting with this?? Your hand is too high to be protecting your face and your other hand is facing downwards. Like I said, I don't know karate, but I don't understand what this is supposed to do.
This is her father's pose, which is the one she's imitating, and I think it seems like his upper hand isn't as high as Kuina's, and his lower hand has his palm facing his opponent.
Love Last Boss' stance, hate Kuina's. Why is her ass so far back? This doesn't feel stable at all, her centre of gravity seems way off. But I'll give her the benefit of the doubt since I don't know karate.
Again, Last Boss wastes a good stance because he immediately does something else, and this is when Kuina dodges the blow by turning her head to the side, which happened in her dreams but absolutely not during the fight.
SUCH FIERCENESS, SUCH PASSION, SUCH... a weird place to aim a kick? The neck?? You'd never be lucky enough to hit this during a fight, so why not aim for the head??
Kuina then finishes the fight and her my suffering is over.
Chishiya shuntarĆ was a man notorious for never taking days off work. It had been worse since the meteor, he had sunken himself into saving people and studying. But, as his cheerful, bubbly partner, Dani had plans. Just for today of course.
âAre you sure this is where you wanna be? We could be going to dinner instead of this childish place.â He hums, curiously skimming his fingers through the water with some hesitation as he looked at the shallow waters down below, a fish almost nibbles his finger. He grimaces and quickly pulls away. Stuffing his hand into his pocket.
âYes! Trust me, thereâs so many cute fishes. Itâll be worth it.â Her eyes glistening as the water flows, tropical fish, a little octopus hidden under rocks, sea bunnies. âLook at that one!â She points, the tropical fish bangs its head against the glass. Chishiya only stares in amusement, his eyes flickering between her and something else. Suddenly grabbing her wrist. âIâd like to show you something.â
âHuh?â She stares confused before shrugging. âOkay.â As he begins walking, Dani takes in each sight, humming before sheâs met with one of the biggest tanks sheâs ever seen. âHoly-â There were jellyfish of all sorts of colours, seals, in another enclosure, sting rays, sea bunnies, and other poisonous animals. She gasps. âJellyfish!â
He smiles, removing his hand from her wrist to intertwine his fingers with hers, âThat one looks like you.â He murmurs softly, pointing to the pink jellyfish. She giggles, a brown stingray appears, seemingly following the jellyfish, not getting to close. They seem to dance in a way, beautiful and wholesome. âThatâs you.â Dani murmurs softly, her finger pressed against the glance. Chishiya smiles and squeezes her hand. âIt is.â
âAlthough, the jellyfish isnât as.. pretty as you.â It seemed like he tried to find words that sounded sweet, Dani presses a soft kiss to his cheek. A grin on her face.
âLetâs go look at the seals, and get dinner afterwards.â Dani requests, all Chishiya does is nod and smile.
omg i love ur oneshots sm,,,,, i adore u pageee !! Can u maybe write a chishiya x reader where she has REALLY REALLY bad social anxiety and like never goes out at allđ
chishiya x anxious!reader
summary: you had never been extroverted (to say the least). But luckily for you, neither has chishiya.
tags: established relationship, fluff, social anxiety
A/N: hiiii! i feel like this is so bad so iâm so sorryđđ my writers block has been terrible these past few days so this is just whatever slop my brain could produceđđ
word count: 1.7k
masterlist!!!
Youâve always been a creature of habit, but âhabitâ feels too gentle a word for the walls youâve built around yourself. Your life exists almost exclusively between the four walls of your apartment, a soft-lit sanctuary of blankets, books, and the faint hum of your laptop. Going out? Thatâs for other people â those that donât feel their heart slam into your chest at the mere thought of a strangerâs glance.
But then thereâs Chishiya. He is different - solitary, like you, but by choice rather than necessity. You had met on one of your rare visits to the grocery store, bumping into him, literally, and, for some reason, he decided to stick around. You finally confessed your struggles with anxiety to him a few weeks after, expecting him to become disinterested like so many others, but he just said, âmeh, outside is overrated anyway.â
Heâs learned you, piece by piece, even noticing the signs before you do sometimes. The way your fingers twist the hem of your shirt when youâre overwhelmed. The shallow breaths that come when the doorbell rings unexpectedly. The way you curl into yourself on the couch when your brain thinks just a little too much.
Tonight is one of those quiet evenings between you both. Youâre nestled under a blanket, scrolling through your phone, while Chishiya lounges in the armchair across from you, flipping through a book on biochemistry or something equally impenetrable.
âYouâre fidgeting,â he says suddenly, not looking up from his page.
You freeze, realizing your foot has been tapping against the floor. âAm I? Sorry.â
He glances at you then, those sharp eyes softening just a fraction. âItâs fine. Whatâs on your mind?â
Itâs nothing big - not really, just the usual spiral. You had seen a post online about a local event happening this weekend. It looked fun, like something youâd enjoy, but you were hyperaware that fear would keep you away once again. It stirred that familiar ache: the longing to be involved, to be normal. But saying it aloud feels silly, redundant even. âJust⊠stuff. You know.â
He nods, closing his book with a soft thud. âThe delivery guyâs coming soon. Want me to handle it?â
You exhale, grateful he doesnât press. He never does. He was good like that, always offering without making it seem like a favor. âYeah. Thanks.â
You eat in companionable silence, the kind that never demands filling. It never did with him. Afterward, he clears the table while you wash up, and when you return to the living room, heâs already dimmed the lights, knowing you prefer it dark.
âMovie?â he asks, settling on the couch.
You nod, curling up beside him. His arm drapes over your shoulders casually, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. Itâs these little things - the way he anticipates what you need without words - that make you feel seen.
Safe.
But Chishiya isnât content to let you hide away forever. Not in a forceful, sudden way; no, heâs far too clever for that. He plants seeds, subtle suggestions that will nudge you toward the edge of your comfort zone. Like last week, when he mentioned ordering books online but mused aloud about browsing in person someday. âLess waiting,â he had said offhandedly. You had brushed it off, but the idea lingered in your mind. It would be nice, you hadnât been to a bookstore in years.
Heâs doing it again now, as the movie credits roll. âI finished that thriller you lent me. The ending was predictable like you said.â
You smile, shifting to face him. âTold you. What did you think of the twist with the sister?â
âOh that was from chapter three.â He said with a playful smirk, knowing you didnât get it until chapter 10. âI need something new. Thereâs a bookstore downtown â itâs small, independent. Not too crowded.â
Your stomach twists, that familiar knot forming. âYou could go alone. Or order online.â
âI could.â He pauses, his eyes meeting yours. âBut I thought you might want to come. They have that section on rare editions you like.â
Itâs not a demand; Chishiya never demands. But thereâs a subtle challenge in his tone. The kind which means heâs not going to back down. He knows you love books - the smell of paper, how the pages sound when you turn thrm. Your apartment is lined with shelves, supplementing any need to go to a library, but all of those books were bought online or gifts from family if you were lucky.
âI⊠donât know.â The thought of stepping out, navigating the streets, possible small talk with a cashier - it sends your pulse racing. âWhat if itâs busy? Or someone talks to me?â
âThen we leave.â Simple, logical. âItâs a Tuesday afternoon. There wonât be many people. And Iâll handle any talking.â
You bite your lip, fingers twisting in your lap - a sign he clocks immediately. His hand covers yours, stilling the motion. âNo pressure though. Just think about it.â
The next morning, you wake to the scent of coffee. Chishiyaâs already up, leaning against your kitchen counter with a mug in hand.
âMorning,â he says, sliding a cup toward you.
You mumble a reply, sipping gratefully. It was the same routine as always: breakfast together, him reading the news on his phone while you sketch absentmindedly in your notebook. But today, you can tell heâs watching you more closely, not overtly, but you feel his eyes in the side of your head.
By noon, he broaches it again. âIâm heading to the bookstore at around two. If you change your mind, the offer still stands.â
Your heart hammers in your chest. Part of you wants to - desperately. To feel normal, to share something simple with him outside the confines of your apartment. ButâŠ
What if you get overwhelmed? What if you embarrass him?
He senses the war in your head without needing to ask. Setting his phone down, he moves to sit beside you at the table. âTell me what youâre thinking.â
âItâs stupid,â you whisper. âI want to go, but⊠my chest gets tight just imagining it. How would I cope if I canât even think about it? What if I freeze up?â
His expression doesnât change - no pity, no frustration. Just understanding. âItâs not stupid. And they wonât be staring; people are too focused on themselves. But if it happens, we adapt to it. Breathe through it, like we practiced.â
Those practices - he started those subtly too. Deep breathing exercises disguised as âmeditation for focus,â which he claimed helped his studies. You know better now; it was for you, to arm you against your own anxieties.
âOkay,â you say finally, surprising yourself. âIâll try.â
His lips quirk into an almost-smile. âGood.â
The next hour is preparation, though he doesnât call it that. He suggests comfortable clothes - your oversized sweater and jeans that donât pinch. He packs a small bag: a water bottle and noise-canceling headphones, for you, just incase.
As you step toward the door, your hands start to tremble. Chishiya notices - of course he does, he notices everything when it comes to you - and he silently slips his fingers through yours.
Outside, the world felt obnoxious: cars humming and clanking as they drive by, people talking too loudly, eyes looking your way. You cling to chishiyaâs arm, your eyes focused on the ground. âToo much?â he asks.
âA little.â Your voice wavers.
âWe can turn back.â
But you shake your head. âNo. Lets keep going.â
He just nods, continuing to guide you down the sidewalk. Itâs not far - ten minutes at most â but right now it feels eternal. A passerby brushes too close, and you flinch so Chishiya shifts, positioning himself between you and the street, like a human shield.
âFocus on the details,â he says quietly. âCount the cracks in the pavement. Or name the colors around us.â
Itâs another trick heâs taught you. You try: gray sidewalk, blue sky, red stoplight. And slowly, the panic ebbs away to something more manageable.
The bookstore appears ahead - a quaint corner shop with a faded sign. Through the window, you can see shelves stacked high, soft lighting, and only a few people.
Inside, itâs heaven. The air smells of old paper and ink, a silence which is only broken by the turn of pages. A single clerk nods from behind the counter, then returns to their book. No forced greetings, no hovering.
Safe.
You exhale, the tension in you uncoiling slowly. Chishiya releases your hand but stays close, browsing a nearby shelf. âTake your time.â
You wander tentatively, fingers trailing the spines. Fantasy, mystery, poetry - your havens. For the first time in ages, the outside world feels⊠tolerable. Chishiya picks up a volume of his favourite medical journal, but his eyes flick to you often, just checking in.
At one point, you reach for a high shelf, and heâs there instantly, plucking the book down. âThis one?â
âYeah. Thanks.â
He adds it to his stack. âAnything else?â
You browse longer than planned, the anxiety fading into mere background noise. But as you approach the counter, it surges back. The clerk - a kind-faced woman in her forties - looks up. âFind everything okay?â
Your throat tightens, the words sticking in your throat like tar. Chishiya steps forward seamlessly. âYes. Just these.â
He handles the transaction, chatting minimally with the cashier about the weather. You stand beside him , grateful for his buffer.
The walk home feels lighter than the one on the way here. You had actually done it â a small step that feels like a milestone towards a slimmer of normalcy. Maybe it was a coincidence, but the cars were quieter now, and the pavements less crowded.
âYou did well,â he says once youâre inside, door locked behind you.
âI almost didnât.â You sink onto the couch. âBut⊠it wasnât as bad as I thought.â
He sits beside you, unpacking the books. âProgress isnât linear. Today was a step. A big step for you.â
You lean against him, exhaustion mingling with the small pride. âWhy do you push me like this? Not that I mind, but⊠you are okay with staying in, right?â
âI am.â His voice is thoughtful. âBut I see how the isolation weighs on you. I donât want you to feel trapped - not by anxiety, anyway.â
Thatâs the closest heâs come to admitting heâs helping on purpose. âThank you.â
Haaaiii luvies!! this is for the bestest friend ever (i'd say we're friends <3),, they're fr the #1 urumi fan and idc i ship urumi x igi so bad!!!!!!!!!!)!))))!!!! Soooosssososoo,,, this is for them!!!!!!
TYPE: urumi x reader (no use of y/n.), gender neutral!reader, fluff, borderlands au (after a game.)
WARNINGS: brief mention of blood, injury, and death. small kiss,,, obsession with strawberry pockyâand just cuties <3 idk lmk if i forgot anything???
pocky crumbs and sweet kisses, at least you survived.
The game ends with the sound of the siren crackling into silence.
Youâre still alive. Barely.
Your hands are scraped, your clothes half torn, and your lungs ache like they forgot how to breathe in panic mode. Your legs are jelly, your body buzzing with leftover adrenaline, but your eyes sweep the space for one thing.Or one person.
âUrumiâŠ?â
You spot her near the edge of the collapsed scaffoldingâstanding there like it hadnât even happened, like she hadnât just dodged death twice with nothing but a flick of her smile and a switchblade.
Sheâs stretching her arms above her head, yawning like sheâs bored. Sheâs smiling. Of course she is.
âYou look like shit,â she says cheerfully.
Your breath hitches in a half-laugh. âThanks.â
âI mean it in a flattering way.â She turns, brushing dust from her coat. âKind of a rugged, tragic hero thing.â
You roll your eyes, wobbling a bit as you step closer. The gash on your leg stings with every movement.
She notices. Her smile fades a little. âYouâre bleeding.â
You glance down. âYeah, I noticed that too.â
She walks over, and suddenly sheâs right in front of youâclose enough to smell the faint, sharp tang of metal on her clothes. Her fingers reach out to gently pull your pants away from the wound. Her touch is light. Delicate, even. Youâre not used to her being delicate.
âYou okay?â she asks, voice soft now. Real.
ââŠYeah. Are you?â
She hums thoughtfully, then grins. âMostly annoyed you didnât duck faster.â
You snort. âI didnât realize you cared about my ducking speed.â
âOh, I donât,â she says, brushing hair from your face in a way that betrays the words. âBut I was sort of planning on flirting with you after this, and itâs harder to do that when youâre dead.â
Your heart stutters in your chest. Wait, what?You blink. âYou were what?â
She grins wider. That smug, sweet curve of her lips. âMm. I mean, if you died, itâd be a huge waste of all the tension weâve been building, donât you think?â
You donât know what to say. Your brain is still trying to catch up.
She leans in slightly, still watching you with that glint in her eye. She always looks like sheâs in on a joke no one else gets. It used to annoy you. Now itâs just⊠her. And somehow it makes you feel safer.
âYouâre really full of yourself, huh?â you murmur.
âOnly a little,â she says, her voice dropping a bit. âBut Iâm usually right.â Her expression softens, the playful spark still thereâbut behind it, something honest. Something vulnerable, maybe.
She reaches out again, slower this time, and her fingers brush lightly under your chin. âI meant it, though,â she says. âI was scared. When I couldnât see you in the smoke.â
Your throat tightens. ââŠI was scared too,â you admit.
âThought I lost you.â
Something shifts between you, the space shrinking without either of you moving much at all. She doesnât rush itâjust watches your expression, eyes flicking between yours like sheâs reading the fine print of your soul.
And then, slowly, she leans in. Not fast. Not desperate. Just soft. Intentional. Like sheâs giving you time to stop herâlike she knows you wonât.
And you donât.
Her lips touch yours in a kiss thatâs all warmth and quiet, laced with something tender that makes your knees a little weaker. Itâs not a performance. Itâs not teasing. Itâs real.
She pulls back after a few seconds, still so close you can feel her breath.
ââŠTold you Iâd flirt with you.â
You stare at her. âThat was more than flirting.â
Urumi gives you a smile thatâs both proud and soft. âIâm good at escalation.â
You laughâfully this time, a little dizzy with adrenaline and affection. âYouâre insane.â
âMmm. Maybe. But Iâm still your type.â
You should be annoyed. You really should. But instead, you take her hand, squeeze it gently, and shake your head with a grin.
âYeah,â you whisper, âyou kind of are.â
And for once in the Borderlands, it feels like surviving wasnât just about livingâit was about getting to this moment.
You didnât ask how she knew. You were starting to realize that Urumi just⊠knew things. About places. People. Vents. Pocky stash locations.
Anyways, though, luckily, the trek there wasnât long, though you winced every time your leg flared with pain. Urumi walked beside youânot doting, not hovering, but aware. She didnât offer to carry you or anything dramatic like that. She just adjusted her pace to match yours, wordlessly.
And when you stumbled once, her hand caught your elbow and steadied you like it was second nature. Like she already knew your center of gravity better than you did.
You both sat on a pile of worn blankets that someone, somewhere, had left behind.
Urumi unzipped her satchel and casually pulled out two slightly crushed snack boxes. âTodayâs dinner,â she said, holding up the red foil packet. âStrawberry Pocky. Vintage.â
You blinked. âHow the hell do you still have that?â
âI hide things better than I hide feelings,â she said with a crooked grin. âAnd I hide feelings very well.â
You laughed, gently, and took one of the sticks she held out. Your fingers brushed. Hers were warm.
The first bite was sweet and artificial and perfect. The kind of taste that reminded youâsomehowâof life before this place.
âDonât inhale it all,â she warned, nudging your shoulder as she opened a small container of what looked like broken, buttery cookies. âIâm sharing this with you even though you ran directly into a tripwire back there.â
âI dodged it,â you said around a mouthful of Pocky.
âBarely. You flailed.â
âI didnât flail.â
âYou made a noise.â
âI got startled!â
She bit into a cookie, smiling against it. âIt was cute.â
Your cheeks flushed. You didnât respond. The silence that followed wasnât awkward. It never was with her. It felt⊠settled. Like the storm had passed and now there was only this strange little calm where you sat beside someone who, for whatever reason, made the end of the world feel a little less lonely.
You looked over at her. Her eyes were closed, lips tinted faintly pink from the candy, her knees pulled loosely to her chest.
The quiet made you bold. âWhy do you always smile like that?â you asked softly. âEven when things are going to hell.â
She opened her eyes slowly and looked at you. âBecause if I donât smile,â she said, âIâll think too much. And if I think too much, Iâll panic. And panickingâs not cute.â
That answer shouldâve made you laugh. But it didnât. Because something in her voice told you that was the truth. You didnât say anything for a moment.
Then you leaned in just slightly and bumped your shoulder against hers. âIâm glad you didnât panic,â you said quietly. âBecause I needed you today.â
Her expression flickeredâlike a spark in the dark. She didnât smile this time. Not the usual cheeky grin, at least. Just something softer. Tired.
She reached into the Pocky box, pulled out another stick, and offered it to you with a lopsided look. âIâll take that as a thank-you. Feed me this one.â
You blinked. âWhat?â
âYou heard me.â
So you did. You gently lifted the stick and held it toward her. She leaned forward without breaking eye contact, bit down, and took it from your fingers in one slow move.
When she sat back, she smiled again. âRomantic.â
âTeeth kind of ruined it.â
âYou love it.â
You hated how much she was right.
The two of you sat in the dim light of the backroom for a while, trading snacks and sharing body heat and dumb little jokes that didnât mean much but also kind of meant everything. It wasnât dramatic. It wasnât confessional.
But when Urumi let her head tip to the side and rest on your shoulderâthat felt like a secret.
And when she whispered, just barely audible:ââŠDonât die in the next one, okay?â
You whispered back, âOnly if you donât.â
And she murmured, eyes already half-closed:âDeal.â
In a world where everything was cruel and loud and fast, this moment was none of those things.
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