Just wanted to say that I love your writing and absolutely loved your ino x curse!reader fics!!
(referenced series here) Hi, thank you for this, it motivates me a lot right now. Currently, I think it’s for the best if I don’t continue it yet because I’d probably end up letting the higher-ups exorcise reader, which is not what I originally intended for her, nor what she deserves. Also I got the feedback that the latest chapter was too complicated so I’m a little embarassed to continue it. I’m sorry if it turned out bad, I was just in a weird headspace. I will try to get back to it soon.
Ino x curse!reader ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა
p4 | p3
cw: angst, toxic dynamics, self-destructive behavior, low self-worth/self-hatred, power imbalance, psychological distress, fear of authority figures, morally gray characters, loss of autonomy, mentioned exorcism of reader
Gojo sits in his office, hunched over the endless amount of files, reports, and other bureaucratic clutter spread out over his desk. He is supposed to be working on two things right now:
Thing one, more of a philosophical question than real paperwork, involves a past incident, a disgraced sorcerer, and his cult. It all depends on how much Gojo thinks he knows his best friend and if he thinks the little curse wandering Jujutsu High’s walls would be worth said best friend’s attention.
Thing two, a pesky and tedious email exchange chain, potential meetings, and script-based research all coming together to drive Gojo to the edge of insanity.
He is not thinking about either of those things. Instead—
“Sensei… this is so heavy…”
“Mhm.”
“I think you’re supposed to paddle too.”
“Nah, this is good for your stamina. C’mon girl, put in the work.”
“The stream is coming from the side, we’re gonna— ah, sensei, we’re turning.”
“Don’t crash the boat, sweetheart, I believe in you.”
“Sensei…help, stop filming…this is so heavy…”
“Oh look, there’s Ino’s boat, he’s totally watching you struggle.”
“Aaaaah!”
“Heh, there we go, that’s more like it. Also, could you keep us in the shadow? I don’t want to be sunburnt, I haven’t applied sunscreen.”
“I want to switch boats. Nanami is helping Ino.”
“Denied. We’re shaking a lot, pay attention to how you stabilize and—“
The light of the screen shines onto Gojo, deepening the shadow of his jaw and nose. A deceptively neutral expression sits on his face as he rewatches old recordings from his gallery. It has become a habit of his to quench his nostalgic urges regularly.
That, or he’s just hurting himself emotionally to try chasing his guilt away.
A flat pill cracks between his teeth as he chews and sucks on it. Ieri gave it to him, to help alleviate those tummy aches. It’s the kind people usually take after being extremely hungover. Makes them puke less.
The voices in the video are sometimes overpowered by the gentle wind that was blowing over the steep river that day. It was a relatively fun activity. At least you were a bit less passive and more lively. And your relationship with Gojo was okay.
What you and him have right now is not okay. But Gojo isn’t even ready to face the fact yet that he wants his student back. He’s the Strongest, who gives all his kids tough love and stays pretty detached from their affairs, unless they are in direct danger.
The blindfold twists around his index finger as he fidgets with it, eyes still glued to the phone. There are no recent photos or videos of you, you’ve started avoiding Gojo, which is fair. He hasn’t been a pleasant presence lately.
Leading the evaluations, coming up with invasive questions, making you prove yourself to the higher-ups, plus, his latest little stunt that had you scrambling away crying.
All because Satoru Gojo is desperate to keep his little curse alive.
He’s willing to take on the role of the villain if it means you don’t get exorcised. He’s okay with you hating him in exchange for your life.
Although you don’t even seem to hate Gojo. You’re just scared of him. He doesn’t know if that’s worse.
“Tch.”
Ieri’s question echoes in his head. How far would he go to prove you’re human?
Gojo’s gaze wanders back to the papers laid out in front of him, and he tosses his phone aside like it’s the device’s fault that he lost track of time. Right. Thing one and thing two.
Geto’s activity suggests he’s collecting curses. Not surprising, given his technique. Based on his ideals, your story could or would interest him.
It proves his point, and he has a soft spot for broken things. They’re similar in that matter, it just shows differently.
The question is, how much of an effect his technique is capable of having on you, now that your cursed energy’s nature resembles that of a cursed spirit? No matter how much compassion Geto would have for you, you’d be more useful under his control. Unless he’s able to convince you to fight for his cause with all your heart. Gojo doesn’t think you’d choose the curse user life. So, in short, the threat is cursed spirit manipulation.
The blurry picture of Geto standing at that KFC reflects a streak of light, making it hard to make out anything in that curved, horizontal line. Gojo’s nostrils flare, the only sign that he’s still affected.
About the other thing now.
An appalling suggestion by a higher-up, one that Gojo refuses to consider. It’s hypocritical of him, since he’s contributed quite a bit to your dehumanization.
Sukuna’s cursed markings, or simple tattoos, are a result of an ancient Japanese practice. People found guilty of committing crimes were marked with symbols on different body parts, depending on the crime. However, in Gojo’s opinion, these markings would make no sense for you since you’re not guilty of anything.
Of course, there are more options. Cursed energy-infused ink of sealing symbols could tamper down your strength, making you harmless. Like the declawing of a tiger. Or a kitten, in Gojo’s eyes.
“Idiots…” Gojo mumbles to himself as he rereads each justification for the procedure.
He reaches for one of the pages and crumples it in a loose fist.
Just in that moment, someone knocks on his door. Gojo’s fingers stay relaxed around the folded paper as he glances up with a bored expression.
“Come in,” he speaks louder now, voice rough from the lump he has been keeping in his throat as he watched old footage. “If this is about the first year’s missing assignments, I may have—“
Gojo cuts himself off in surprise. He was expecting a scolding from Yaga, instead, the door opens to Nanami standing at the office’s entrance.
“Ah, look who it is.”
Nanami only scowls at Gojo’s immediate playfulness. He doesn’t seem to be in a good mood, then again, who is when they have to interact with Satoru Gojo.
The white-haired man has been on a high horse about Nanami’s withdrawal from your case too. He doesn’t bother standing up, no, he leans back in his seat, spreads his legs confidently, waiting for Nanami to take a seat.
Nanami doesn’t. He steps inside and leans against the wooden counter by the door. Doesn’t even speak at first. He loosens his tie before either of them even open their mouths.
“You look like shit, is the correct term, I believe.”
“…Nanamin… how vulgar of you.” Gojo was hoping to bait the other man into a little verbal spar, but Nanami doesn’t react. An uncomfortable silence settles, stressed by the awkward cracking of the pill between Gojo’s teeth.
Enough time passes like that, without either of them saying anything, that Gojo becomes just a bit nervous about what Nanami might want. It throws him off when he’s not the one creating tension. Nanami’s expressions are annoyingly neutral too.
“As much as I enjoy the romantic atmosphere of this staring contest, I’m sensing you have something unsettling to say. It makes me impatient,” Gojo declares, not bothering to swallow the medicine yet. He’s rude enough to speak with his mouth full.
Nanami’s gaze doesn’t soften until it lands on Gojo’s phone, like he can guess what the white-haired sorcerer was doing before he entered. Not to be mistaken for empathy for Gojo. Instantly, Nanami schools his expression into a stricter one.
With a quiet exhale, he approaches the desk positioned at the other end of the room and drops a stack of papers onto it unceremoniously. They’re neatly pinned together in the top right corner, however, the writing doesn’t match Nanami’s.
“Received this a few hours ago,” is all Nanami has to say, while Gojo flips through the pages. Not that reading the details is useful, the most important information is on the first page. Gojo is just buying time for himself to react.
Lead operative. Kusakabe Atsuya, Grade One sorcerer.
Assigned Support. █████, Grade Two sorcerer*
*Student assigned per request.
By now, everyone knows the redacted part is basically synonymous with your name. Just a funny administrative decision by the higher-ups, to keep you from getting a promotion. If your name doesn’t have the required amount of missions, you can’t be recommended for promotion. At least your official job title is still sorcerer.
Aside from the bureaucratic bullshit, the real issue is with that last line.
“Hah?”
Gojo’s voice comes out deep and offended, suddenly too loud in the previously quiet office. He’s not sure if he feels insulted by you, by Kusakabe who must have approved it, or by the situation in general.
“It seems she has a self-destructive streak,” Nanami states, looking at Gojo as if he was personally responsible for that.
Yeah, no shit, Gojo thinks to himself, but he’s so stunned, the words stay in his throat.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Seeking out the one person who is openly in favor of your exorcism is…
“Fucked up. That’s fucked up.”
“Eloquently phrased, as ever,” Nanami mutters and finally slumps down in the diagonally angled chair at the corner of the desk. His posture is not as straight as it usually is. It’s surprising that for someone who doesn’t even accompany you to the evaluations, Nanami seems invested, if only a little. The dim light shining through the circular window catches on his glasses for a second, reflecting brightness.
“Take the mission over.”
Gojo’s eyes widen in surprise, not at the suggestion itself but at the fact that Nanami is actually asking that of him. Impartial my ass.
“I’m glad to know you think you have to ask,” he replies with a subtle smirk. Nice ego boost for Gojo, and it means his little facade of indifference is working. Nanami, and hopefully others, must believe he doesn’t care if you live or die, to some extent anyways. He crumples up his blindfold and throws it at Nanami’s face lazily. “Ah, yes, the Strongest will once again save the world.”
Leaning in, he tilts his head to fake a playful mood. “But what’s in it for me?”
Nanami’s eyelid twitches instantly. “Your student won’t harm herself emotionally. Is that not enough for you?”
“Ha!”
Gojo slaps his abdomen abruptly and barks out a laugh. His shoulders shake theatrically as his head tips back. “Who do you take me for, some kind of saint?”
The last words come out more biting than intended. Gojo does not appreciate any efforts to put him into a good light, as if he’s some movie hero.
It doesn’t sit well with Nanami, but he holds his tongue. It’s not like he’s much better, none of the Jujutsu High faculty members are good people. He just takes the elastic material that has fallen into his lap and places it back on the desk, folded into a square shape.
“Tch. What do you want then?”
…
“Take the third years.”
Nanami blinks, caught off guard by the blunt request. ‘Taking the third years’ can have several interpretations. Pf, take the third years, where? On a vacation? A mission? Take them as a class? Nanami hopes it’s not the latter.
“Gojo, what—“
“You heard me. Take them. They’re yours.” Gojo rubs his cheek with the heel of his palm, the first sign of exhaustion slipping through the cracks. He takes the neatly folded fabric and starts wrapping it back around his head like he’s putting up his walls again. He takes his time tucking each strand of soft hair out of the way. Getting that undercut was a really good decision, it makes tying the knot in the back much easier. “Ino already works almost exclusively with you and clearly, between you and Kusakabe, you’re the better choice.”
“What about you?”
That question is loaded, embedded with traces of your and Gojo’s relationship.
First year was the most fun. You didn’t quite understand when Gojo was making fun of something, you took his words and silly antics at face value. He thought that spoke of a phenomenal type of personality, truly, he was fascinated. Your teacher was excited to see you get stronger. He had high expectations. He thought what he was doing was finally worth it. Raising a good generation of sorcerers.
Second year, that was when you started figuring out that maaaaybe Gojo doesn’t always know what he’s doing, his plans are sixty percent improvisation, and he has an unreliable side. You got so serious. Unbeknownst to Gojo, it wasn’t his fault. It was something else.
Then, summer. He still doesn’t know how to process that one summer.
Finally, the thing you are now. And somewhere along the way, Gojo became torn, taking more and more desperate measures to keep you safe. See: last weekend’s evaluation incident.
So, what Nanami is really asking is if Gojo really wants to throw all that away. The past and the potential of something special in the future.
What about Gojo?
“I’m not that selfish,” Gojo waves dismissively after not saying a word for half a minute straight. “I mean, c’mon, you’re way better at this kid stuff, which is frankly just weird, because I’m supposed to be good at everything and—“
Gojo deflects with a few more sentences, but he knows Nanami stopped listening the moment Gojo started subtly insulting him.
During all of this rambling, the white-haired sorcerer doesn’t even notice how the sharp edges on Nanami’s face soften.
Nanami doesn’t interrupt. He just watches.
Watches the way Gojo talks too much when something actually matters. Watches the way his posture stays loose while everything else about him tightens. Watches how easily he hands things off under the guise of logic.
He never thought it would ever happen, but for the first time in his life, Nanami pities Gojo.
“…Fine.”
The man has to force the word out of his throat. It leaves an uncomfortable claw mark against his tongue and scratches at his lips stubbornly.
Gojo quiets down in his monologue. He leans a bit forward, his posture relaxes. It’s irritating how obviously a heavy weight was just lifted off his shoulders.
He’s that happy to spend less time with you. He only hurts you. Nanami is better for you. Gojo just has to take over that one mission from Kusakabe and you’ll be safe, as much as a curse living at Jujutsu High can be safe.
“Great,” the sorcerer clamps his hands together and glances down at the documents again. “I’ll get this change in plan approved, easy-peasy.”
How unfair it is that you end up seeking out a reminder of what hurts, the person who cares about you most is the villain in this sorry ballad. A cross Gojo is willing to bear, but God, what a stupid, what a sad little curse you’ve become to find comfort in pain.
Kusakabe reinforces every harmful view you have of yourself, and your teacher can already imagine you getting high on the self-hatred he’ll fuel in you.
“Will you ever talk to her?” Nanami interrupts the spiral.
Gojo grimaces. He busies himself by starting to pack his things together. Now he has Thing Three to add to his collection of worries.
“About what?” Now, he’s just playing dumb.
“You know what.”
“Ah,” the white-haired man waves lazily. “I’m not her mother.”
“Could have fooled me.”
Gojo clicks his tongue and rolls a shoulder. The documents are all locked away under his desk. God knows what kind of top-secret stuff hides in the drawer of the Strongest. “You know what, I don’t think I like it when you’re funny,” he muses.
As the two men enter another verbal catfight (foreplay, as Gojo calls it), you have your own little spar inside your head, on the other side of campus.
It’s a mental gymnastics struggle. As soon as you spoke the words I might fall in love with myself, something strange happened in your chest.
A dull pressure bloomed there, it spread into your arms, down to your fingertips, and suddenly, you became very aware of Ino’s presence.
You’ve long learned what it feels like when his hair tickles your skin, how his hands travel to your wrist to hold you, and you’re familiar with the pattern of vibrations that spread in his chest when he laughs.
You’ve known all of that.
But now, your brain suddenly has a magnifying glass, and the smallest details poke at your eyes.
The hair that tickles your skin smells a lot like your favorite pillow. The hands that touch you are calling to you to mold your body into his. The laughter, it fades into sounds you want to explore more.
“I’m joking,” you had said before everything in your brain shut down. Damage control before your brain checks out. Your posture remains limp, but your eyes, they’re wide awake behind a curtain of messy hair.
Weird. It makes you forget about everything else.
“You’re not a lost cause,” Ino tells you. Normally, you reject what he says because of what he’s actually saying. Now, it is something very different that’s closing your ears, all reason falling out of the window.
You don’t dare move, you don’t dare speak. Blood vessels dilate in your cheeks, sending rushes of heat over your skin, while the cold bathroom air around you fades.
Now you’re happy about not telling Ino about your plans, which involve Kusakabe and a middle-rank mission.
Ino would want to go with you, but you definitely need time away from him to sort this out.
Besides, he’d be against the idea anyway.
It’s okay, you can’t expect others to understand it.
Kusakabe is honest, and both you and him agree on one thing: you’re a worthless curse.
Not a lost cause, yeah, right. Ino means well, but he’s way too optimistic. Still, it feels nice to pretend a little.
You lean against him and hope that he’ll take you back to your dorm, without questioning why your pulse is suddenly racing.
૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱აall rights reserved. no translations, plagiarism, modifications, reposts, or ai feeding. disturbing comments will be deleted. english is not my native language.
i lava your writing and smaus and i genuinely get so hype when i see that you've reblogged n stuff hehe ^.^
omg i love your smaus and writings too!!! you are the sweetest! here's a little brainworm I've had :). also, I love reblogging your stuff, it's incredible 😚🤌🏻
warning: plug!ino and sorority!reader.
at the party, your sorority sisters point out how much he charges other people and you. he charges people 90 for half an ounce. you just giggle and use your pretty privilege to get your weed for cheaper.
ino does not give a single shit when people call him out for giving you weed for way cheap. he just laughs and says "look like them and we'll talk," pointing at you.
he loves smoking with you. you complain about trying to roll joints, so he'll do it for you. always letting you take the first hits, lighting it for you. he knows you hate the end of the joint, so he's usually the one finishing them off when you smoke together.
he doesn't mind getting cross faded with you. you're a comfort to him and he just needs you near to feel fun and silly. he's a bit of a clingy drunk and a talky pothead, so the combo (to me at least) is adorable. he says silly things that only you can hear while he clings to you. he loves talking shit in your ear over the loud music.
summary: you aren't particularly good at your job. after one too many freeze-ups mid transaction, you're swapped to night shift to accommodate your... social hangups. ino just happens to stop by one night. and then again. and again. he's patient. easy. somewhere between late-night snacks and small conversations, he becomes something familiar. something safe. and then just when it starts to become something real- the world changes. and he does with it.
contains: canon ino, non-sorc reader. reader has a stammer and social anxiety. heavy reader pov. cute texting sections. fluffy slow burn into eventual angst post shibuya. panic attacks on both ends. ino grieving nana :(
a/n: hello yet another longfic attempt. this one will be two parts! but do not worry, the next part will be up within the next week :) i actually had a terrible stutter growing up and it still does affect me, nervous or not, so i was just feeling a little inspired thinking about how ino would be so patient about it... and then was also feeling a little angsty as per usual. <3 ty for reading!
w/c 14k~ playlist link
you don’t like talking.
it’s not like you can’t- you can, obviously. you present when needed, answer when called on, and order your own food when you really really have to. it just… takes a second.
a second too long, sometimes.
words get stuck somewhere between your brain and your mouth, caught on nerves that fire too fast, until everything tangles and you’re left standing there, blinking, cheeks warm, while someone waits.
and waits.
and then-
“c’mon now, don’t rush the poor girl.”
your manager's voice cuts in halfway through your stutter. eliciting a frustrated sigh from the customer you were failing to help, and a slew of more stuttered apologies as you finished up bagging their goods and handing them off.
“i-i’m sorry, m-ma'am.” you stammer, eyes fixed in the floor.
“that’s alright, just… just breathe next time, yeah? they can wait.” a soft hand tentatively pats your shoulder, offering a little squeeze of reassurance.
the owner was a family friend of a family friend. an older woman with a brisk walk, a smoker’s laugh, and enough patience to see you freeze mid-sentence during the interview and still sigh, wave a hand, and brush it off with a "we can work with this."
so she did. worked with your stammering greetings and your fumbling hands. the way your face burned hot whenever too many customers came in at once and you forgot how to do anything but blink.
it was her decision to switch you to nights.
"less traffic," she'd said, leaning back in her chair as she flipped through cash in the office. "less pressure. you'll do better."
it shouldn't have stung as much as it did. she even offered you a smile and a small, "your drawer is even. good job." before sending you off. still, you couldn't help but feel as if you were letting everyone down. you had a habit of feeling that way.
night shifts were quieter. softer around the edges. most customers came in half-aware or dead-tired, too concerned with their own lives to pay much attention to the girl behind the register quietly fighting for her own.
you’re grateful for that, at least.
it’s easier. she was right, as dissappointing it is to admit that.
less people means less chances to mess up.
less chances to feel your throat close up when someone looks at you expectantly.
less chances to-
ding!
the bell above the door rings. bright and animated as always. even in the dead of night.
in a second, you’re looking up from your phone, pulling your shoulders in, and swallowing your fear like you’re bracing for impact.
“w-welcome in.” you squeak out.
tall. brown, messy-hair peeking out his beanie. black shirt a little rumpled, like he’s been wearing it too long. there’s a faint scuff of something darker along the sleeve you don’t look at too closely. looks young- maybe your age?
and he’s looking back. a small smile worn on his boyish face.
"morning," he hums, glancing over at you with a small smile and a wave.
the strain in your posture eases up the moment he speaks. he didn't glare or grumble. that's comforting. this shouldn't be too bad.
you try not to watch. you do anyway.
he moves around the store without hurry. seems tired, like most who come in at this hour. the kind of tired that makes him drag his feet a second too long with each step and laces his sighs with discomfort. maybe a labor worker? kinda looks like he's been through the wringer tonight.
after a visible internal debate in front of the hot case, he grabs a nikuman to finish off his purchase.
one customer. it's just one customer. and he already seems nice enough. you can handle this.
big deep breath.
"f-find everything okay?"
"sure did," he hums, setting everything down, "never been to this spot before. you guys got the goods."
your mouth opens. shuts.
"oh- um... yes. thank you."
geez. you're really bad at this, huh?
but he doesn't seem to mind. just offers you that sweet smile once more. which does little to quell the shake in your hands as you start to scan his items.
the tea goes fine. the first riceball, fine. the second- no dice.
you turned it. tried again. nothing.
"it's- sorry," you chirped, trying a third time. "i- sorry, one second- i-it just... d-does this..."
so embarrassing. you could hear yourself- thin and flustered. caught in that awful spot where the more nervous you got, the less your body listened.
"hey."
you freeze, eyes flicking up twice before you're able to manage eye contact with him.
"you're good," he says, not a tinge of impatience or annoyance in his voice. "take your time. no biggie."
you nod without meaning to. the words softly wash over your frigid figure, bringing heat back to your fingers so you can turn the ball over and scan it with the handheld scanner.
beep.
you don't realize you've been holding your breath until you let it out. eyes lighting up at the sound and darting back to him like he's the one who did it.
"see?" he adds, nudging the next item closer. "easy."
your face warmed further at how he also seemed somewhat satisfied by the tiny victory.
"r-right." you dip your head in a gentle gratitude- and to also obscure the flush you feel biting at your nose and cheeks.
you finished scanning the rest with renewed concentration- and thankfully, the register seemed to take pity on you. accepted his payment without rebellion. as you bagged everything carefully, separating the hot and cold items into two.
"thank you very much," you hum, bowing as you hand off the bags with care. "h-have a good night."
“no problem.” his eyes landed on your face again- on the nerves you probably still wore plainly enough to read- and his expression shifted, just slightly. softened. “you too.”
"mm." you nod, avoiding the pressure of his gaze. interaction over. you fulfilled your customer service script... enough. better than usual. but still poor. you'll give yourself a C.
halfway through the door's chime, though, he doubles back- just for a second.
"hey, don't be so nervous, okay?"
you go still, the night's draft hitting you as you look back up.
"you're doing fine."
your lips part, again, but no words come out. while he grins- quick, lopsided, like he knows he said something weird and maybe a bit overbearing, but doesn't feel like taking it back.
"see you around."
and then he's gone. bell ringing softly as the door shuts behind him.
you stare at where he once stood longer than you should, hands taut in the fabric of your apron. heart pittering in a rhythm that's more than just social anxiety.
you don't know his name. don't know why his words and smile stick with you the rest of the night. just that, when the next customer comes in, and you fumble the first scan, you hear it anyway.
"you're doing fine."
the second time he comes in, you recognize him before the door even fully shuts.
same messy hair. same easy slouch. same look of someone who’s been awake too long and is pretending that isn’t the case.
"yo."
the little peace sign he throws up sends a dagger right through your chest. your script is fully abandoned now, the words 'welcome in' dying on your tongue.
the most you can manage is a small wave that makes him chuckle and, subsequently, drive the tip deeper into your heart.
he dips into the aisles quickly, picking out some more nutritionally void snacks compared to last time. when he comes back up, he sets everything down with one hand, leaning an elbow against the counter like he’s done it a hundred times before.
"you remember me?" he asks, pointing at himself with a pleased little grin- like he already knows the answer and just wants to hear you say it.
"mhm..." you nod quickly, reaching for his things, letting muscle memory take over as you start scanning.
"nice." he crosses his arms, smiling to himself now as you scan the last item. without a hitch this time around, thankfully.
"d-d-" you start, trying to stick to your usual customer service script. but your tongue feels heavy at the top of your mouth, and the word is snagging in your throat. you swallow. try again.
"d.... d...." heat creeps up your neck. your fingers twitch against the counter as you try to shake it loose, like you can physically dislodge the word if you just-
"i- s-sorry, i just-"
he’s watching you, head tilted just slightly.
"for what?" he asks, brows pulling together like the apology genuinely doesn’t make sense.
you gesture vaguely toward yourself, pointed finger hovering near your chest, "m-my words- i... um..."
he blinks once. then- "...oh."
not a realization like 'something's wrong'. more like, 'that's it?'
he shifts his weight, straightening just a little from the counter. “nah, you’re good,” he says easily, like it’s obvious. "wanna try again?" he adds, lighter this time. not pushing. just… offering
your eyes widen a little, small stars starting to glimmer in them at the warmth. people don't usually grant you such grace, let alone give you more chances.
"ahh... did um..." you inhale, steadying yourself. "did you f-find everything okay?"
it's not perfect. but it's out. and he's grinning, satisfied. like he's stoked for you.
“yeah,” he says with a small nod. “thanks for askin’.”
he taps his card against the reader, then slips it back into his wallet.
“see you next time?"
you nod a little too quickly.
"sweet. have a good night." he hums, looping the bag through his wrists before balling his hands in his pocket.
"y-you too." you murmur, despite him already being halfway out the door.
he's so nice. too nice.
the third time he comes in, it catches you off guard.
mostly because it’s still light outside.
the sun’s already started to sink, drowning the shelves in a warm orange glow. the store feels different like this. less like a box of fluorescent stillness. softer. almost sleepy.
you’re used to seeing him later. tired-eyed but still cheery enough to let them curl up with that boyish smile.
so when the bell rings, and he steps in while the sky is still burning at the edges, your head lifts on instinct- and your chest gives a small, startled thud. you weren't expecting him. not at this time.
he catches you too- face visibly brightening.
"yo-" he starts, but stops in his tracks before his head double backs to you behind the counter. "no way!"
"you're here early." he huffs a quiet laugh, like he can't quite believe it. and if you were a little more delusional- like he's happy about it.
"i- y-yeah," you manage, quickly sorting your cash back into their slots, tucking hair that isn’t even out of place behind your ear.
"that's kinda crazy. thought you were only on graveyard shifts."
you feel the flush coming on already. this time, at his attentiveness. he remembered.
"just t-today. s-someone called out."
"lucky me," he lets it slip without much thought. your heart trips at it.
there’s an easy sort of energy to him tonight. lighter. maybe it’s the hour. maybe it’s the way the sun catches in his hair, softer than the harsh white of the overhead lights ever lets it be. he heads for the aisles with that same familiar slouch, grabbing a couple drinks.
the approach of his footsteps rips you from pretending to pay attention to your phone.
"f-find everything okay?"
"yes ma'am," he hums, dragging the words out just enough to be playful as he sets them down. he scratches the back of his head, shifting his weight.
"could i get a, uhh... pack of cigarettes too?"
your hand pauses mid-reach. cigarettes? you didn't really take him for a smoker.
"oh- umm... w-which kind?" you ask, you ask, already fumbling your keys free from your lanyard.
a leans forward a bit, peering past you.
"uh... those ones." he points vaguely, like that's any help. "the... black and gold ones?"
alright... probably not a smoker.
you nod anyway, stepping back. you unlock the case, easing the acrylic open before lifting onto your toes, nudging the pack forward until it tips into your hand. just your luck he had to pick one from the highest shelf.
there's a small snag of eye contact when you turn back- like he had been watching you the whole time. that's silly though... no?
"i um... i need to s-see your ID," you hum, looking away first as you set the pack down with the rest of his items.
he pauses. then pats at his pockets.
“oh. damn. right.” he mutters, mostly to himself, before looking back up at you with a sheepish little wince. "my bad."
it's so kiddish. horrifyingly endearing, really. if it were any other clerk working right now, they'd have turned him away without even looking at his ID, just for how clueless he's acting.
"here ya go." he pulls the card loose and holds it out to you.
you pull it closer to your eyes as you squint at the information- and then back at him to compare the photo.
ino takuma.
his grin is minimized to a tight-lipped smile that still manages to reach his eyes. no beanie- so his shaggy hair is on full display. along with a scar along his forehead you've not caught before. looks like he's wearing something that's not black for once, too.
still him, though.
still... cute.
ino... like a boar... you think, sounding the kanji out in your head.
"huh?"
your head snaps up.
ah. you said that out loud.
"s-sorry-" you hurry, heat rising fast as you hand it back. "i didn't m-mean to-"
"nah, nah, you're good," he cuts in quickly, waving you off with one hand while taking it with the other, very obviously trying to smother a laugh behind his grin. "what'd ya say?"
"what'd ya say?"
you hesitate. how could you even lie?
"..your n-name," you murmur, quieter now. lips pulling into a small, embarrassed pout. "i just... i w-was reading it."
“oh.” he glances down at the card in his hand, like he forgot what it said.
“yeah. ino,” he says, hooking a thumb toward himself. “takuma.”
"like a boar." he echoes.
you nearly drop the water bottle as it scans. so he did hear you.
but then he laughs- light, easy, warm enough that some of the tension drains from your shoulders as you reach for the next bottle like it might save you.
"you got one too?"
the question stops you cold. your eyes flick up to his- twice. just find him still there. waiting. easy and patient like always. like he has all the time in the world.
that familiar stall creeps up, settling heavy at the back of your tongue. made worse by the butterflies escaping from your diaphragm each time you try to vocalize.
"...i-"
your chest tightens as the air stutters in your windpipe. say it. it's just your name.
"i-i'm-" you swallow. "it-it-it's... y/n."
quiet. but clear. clear enough for his face to light up almost instantly.
he repeats it like he's testing it. like he’s making sure he gets it right.
like he wants to.
"that's cute," he adds, easy.
like that's not enough to send you into a miniature crisis, poorly veiled by finishing scanning his items.
"th-thank you," you manage. barely.
you bag his items up with a tremor in your hold, and read out his total.
he takes the bag in the same motion he pays, slinging it over his shoulder.
“they’re not for me, by the way,” he adds, nodding toward the cigarettes. “just my boss’s little errand boy.”
"r-right." you hum, tearing his receipt free to hand off.
but he doesn't go right away. instead, he huffs a quiet little laugh through his nose, shifting his weight like he’s debating something. like he's a little flustered for once.
"it was nice to meet you, y/n."
your fingers tighten where they were once holding the receipt.
"...y-you too."
he eases back a step, glancing toward the door- then back at you.
"see you around?"
a guarantee. reassurance that he'll be back.
your chest tightens.
"...y-yeah."
he flashes that same little peace sign as he heads out.
"cool. later, then."
the bell rings. door shuts. and you just stand there for a second. both of your names echoing in your ears.
and then bury your face in your hands. giddy noises that have no place in this building- and at this hour- squeak from you as you sway back and forth on your heels. fully aware that you're at too big of an age to fluster like this. and still doing it anyway.
it's not every night he shows up. but it's enough. enough for the bell above the door to not ring in such a dreadful, foreboding way anymore.
sometimes it’s late enough that the windows are black mirrors, throwing the fluorescent lights back at you in harsh white smears. sometimes it’s earlier, the sky bruised purple and orange outside, the shelves washed in sunset instead of convenience store glare.
but no matter what, it's always got that boyish smile and that careless little peace sign. that same loose posture like he's not in a hurry, even when he clearly is.
you try not to react to it. you fail each time.
he speaks to you like you've given him way more than you actually have. like he knows you despite your short words and thick walls. leaning on the counter while you ring him up, chin propped in his palm.
"so tired... work sucks." a pout is smeared across his face as he whines- quite dramatically. dramatic enough for you to have to stifle a small laugh. small and breathy and startled, like your body forgot you're supposed to keep these things neatly tucked away.
before you can start to apologize, he's laughing with you. so very easily.
your stammer doesn’t vanish. your tongue still catches. some nights the words still jam so hard in your throat you have to point instead, or shake your head, or start over three times before anything comes out right.
but it works. because when it’s him, it isn't as dreadful a task to complete. he never looks at you sideways. never clicks his tongue. he just lays out the rug for you to walk on, and smiles idly while you do. offers a hand each time you stumble.
"how'd your exam go?"
the letter 'g' hiccups in your mouth thrice before you sigh, defeatedly.
"good?"
"...mhm."
"niiiice. good job."
"th-thank you."
the two of you learn each other in pieces. he points out the charms on your lanyard. lets you ramble about the little acrylic characters and whatever show they're from. even when his transaction is far past over, he lingers around to talk about your schoolwork, commute, interests. anything, really. always prompted by him.
you do the same.
he buys cigarettes for his boss, never himself. said boss, is quite the icon to him. sometimes, he comes in with a visible glow and gushes about being praised. he gravitates toward the junk food aisle like he's being called home. on rare occasions, he comes in to restock on alcohol halfway through a night of drinking with his friends.
he could hardly make eye contact with you the first time it happened. kicking his feet and staring at the floor like a guilty kid.
"e-everything ok-kay?" you hum, nudging his bag across the counter.
"y-yeah... s' just..." he hiccups, running a hand over his mouth and down to the side of his neck.
"...i'm embarrassed..."
you could melt at the sight of it. you've never been the one with the stronger grasp on their wits.
"how c-come?"
"cuzzz... i feel like a... like a... i dunno..." he drags his hands down his visibly flushed face. "some fuckin'... frat boy... swear m'not..."
it's awfully endearing. just enough to pull a giggle from you, that's got him falling apart even worse. flush shining a bright red at his ears and cheeks. it's the alcohol, surely.
he always looks a little worn around the edges, but some nights more than others- hoodie rumpled, knuckles scraped, shadows clinging beneath his eyes like he forgot to rest properly.
you eventually build up the courage to check in on him without feeling like you're overstepping. it becomes normal to ask how the other's doing.
some nights, both of you shake your heads.
"it's all good. tomorrow will be better."
"...mhm."
you learn the cadence of him too.
the way he says your name like it’s become easy in his mouth. the way he always gives you some kind of goodbye, even if it’s just a lazy little, later, over his shoulder.
the way he notices things you’re sure no one else does.
“new hair clip?”
your hand flies to the side of your head.
he grins.
“it’s cute.”
you hate how much you look for him now.
how your stomach sinks, just a little, on nights the bell rings and it’s only some office worker grabbing canned coffee. how you look for him on the nights he never shows up, glancing around the dim street on your way out and subtly scanning the subway train on the way home. how you stare at your ceiling, replaying conversations.
"b-busy recently?" you murmur once, absentmindedly. he hadn't shown up in nearly a week, which is a new record. the words escape before you realize the implication that you definitely had been keeping score.
then, his mouth curls.
"damn," he says, hand curling into the fabric at his chest. "you missed me?"
your entire nervous system lights on fire.
"n-no- i- i just m-meant-"
"i'm joking," he cuts in quickly, already laughing as he leans away from the counter. "yeah. just a little. came by once, but some older guy was workin' the counter."
you nod wordlessly, too frazzled to even dare utter a word that's sure to crack. just for him to absentmindedly drop, "missed you too," as he pays.
and later, after he leaves, you stand in the same spot for a long time with your face hot and your chest aching with something too soft to defend yourself from.
because that’s the problem, really.
it’s all too soft.
he never crowds you. never makes your shyness feel like a flaw to be fixed. never looks embarrassed for you when your words refuse to come.
instead he waits.
or guesses.
or smiles like the answer can take all night if it has to.
and with every visit, every peace sign, every stupid snack and easy yo, something inside you starts giving way.
you start to wonder more. if he's as tired as you think. wonder where he goes after he leaves. wonder if means to keep coming back the way he does.
ino tells himself it's because the store's convenient. because it's on the way. it's 24 hours, so it makes sense to stop before or after missions. occasionally both. because grabbing some snacks, even if the ones from the past two visits are still untouched at his apartment is normal, actually.
it's bad enough that nanami glances at the plastic bag in his hand one evening, and then at his watch with an unreadable sigh.
"you went out of your way for that?"
ino, halfway through pulling out a sad little sandwich, pauses.
"...what's that supposed to mean?"
"it means there are three other convenience stores between here and the station."
ino's shoulders sag dramatically. he'd never give lip to his mentor, but it's taking everything in him to not hit him with a "okay, and?"
"it's... got good food," ino mutters, ears a little warmer than they should be.
nanami adjusts his goggles once before turning to walk. "i see."
he does not see. or maybe he sees too much. either way, it's not brought up again. but he doesn't stop going.
because every time he thinks maybe he should skip it, maybe he’s being weird, maybe he doesn’t need another bottle of sports drink or a pack of gum he won’t finish, he thinks of you behind the counter.
your careful hands. your shy little wave. how your stutter calms when you're talking about something you like. how it tightens when he gets a little bold. the way your face lights up whenever he steps in.
and then he’s already there.
already pushing through the door.
already smiling before he can help it.
by the time your shift ends, you've already told yourself not to be disappointed. three times. maybe four. it's stupid, anyway. he doesn't come in every night.
you just... you just really hoped he would tonight. because you had spent the entire day prior to clocking in that this would be the day you finally ask him for his number.
a feat initially considered impossible in theory. never to be fulfilled, because it's you, for heaven's sake. it was always silly to think anybody could reciprocate feelings for you when you hardly spoke to them. and when you did, it was met with a sneer or cut short because they had no patience. snuffing out the flame before it grew any brighter. but ino- ino just burns so bright.
he glows when you say his name. looks at you like what you have to say means something. prods you for more, like he wants to learn. like he can't get enough of you, but the responsibilities of both your nights always cuts it short.
you could really see yourself managing to pop the question. mulled it over in your head throughout your lectures. practiced in the mirror. straightened each time you heard the bell ring, with a momentary panic washing over you-
just to dip and sigh the adrenaline out when it wasn't him.
a woman buying a magazine. a tired man in a wrinkled suit. two teenagers loudly debating which energy drink tasted least like battery acid.
people have lives. schedules. better things to do than show up at the same convenience store every other night and smile at the same awkward girl behind the register like she’s the highlight of their day.
still-
when you finish counting out your drawer and trade places with the morning clerk, something in your chest sits a little heavier than usual.
“night,” he says, barely glancing up from his phone as you slip your bag over your shoulder.
“g-goodnight.”
the evening air is colder outside.
halloween’s close enough now that the wind has teeth, biting at the highs of your face as you make your way toward the station. the sky’s gone dark, streetlights humming overhead, staining the sidewalk in dull amber.
you slip your earbuds in with a heavy heart, tapping your phone to play something that drowns out the disappointment.
past the vending machines. past shuttered storefronts. past that same abandoned bike that's sat there for weeks- still chained to the rack with a bent front wheel.
your mind is already half elsewhere by the time the station comes into view. already on the train schedule. the walk home. the assignment waiting half-finished in your bag.
then-
"wait!"
you stop so suddenly your shoe squeaks against the pavement.
you turn-
ino.
half-jogging toward you from down the block, one hand lifted, the other gripping his beanie like a baton. very clearly out of breath. hair disheveled from the cold wind against his face.
your heart lurches so hard it almost hurts.
"i-" he slows as he gets to you- then curls in on himself with his hands braced on his knees while he catches his breath. "damn- huff- okay- pant- hold on."
you stare, fingers tightening around your bag strap in disbelief. he's here. he's actually here.
he looks up- laughing, breathless. the station lights catch on the flush high in his cheeks. he looks a little embarrassed. a little wired. kind of cute. really cute.
“i came by the store and-” he gestures vaguely over his shoulder, still breathing a bit hard, “the other guy said you just left, and i was like, no shot, ya'know? i can still catch up-”
he straightens, rubbing the back of his head. suddenly looking a little less confident than he probably wanted to.
"which- i uh... i did. obviously."
your brows contort- and he almost looks afraid at the new expression unlocked. eyes wide, nose bitten pink by the cold. baggy hoodie hanging loose on your figure- not in your apron, for the first time.
"you... r-ran?"
"yeah." his mouth quirks. "just a little."
your blood turns hot- cold air standing no chance.
for a moment, neither of you says anything.
cars pass somewhere behind him. a train announcement crackles faint and garbled from behind you. a group of students laugh from inside.
ino shifts his weight, eyes darting between the pavement and you. it's weird, seeing him nervous. oddly steadying.
"i.. uh..." he starts, then huffs softly through his nose. "okay. this is gonna sound kinda lame."
your lips part, but no sound comes out.
"but i wanted to get your number."
oh.
he came in, realized it wasn't you, and then ran for you the second he got pointed in the right direction. so he could ask you for your number.
all that self-induced nausea you inflicted upon yourself in preparation- the rejection you prepared yourself for- the tears that stung on the walk home- just for him to be the frazzled one asking for your number.
“just ‘cause-” he lifts a shoulder, grin turning a little sheepish. “i dunno. i see you all the time anyway, so it’s not weird, right? and if i didn’t ask now, it was gonna be, like, super over for me all week. cuz i'm gonna be busy tomorrow- and probably after- so... yeah. right?"
his jumbled gestures and scattered speech- still laced with intermittent pants- pulls a tiny sound out of you. something between a laugh at the sight and a breath at the relief.
his face brightens immediately.
encouraged, he adds, "plus, what if i need a professional recommendation on the worst drink in the store when you're out?"
you duck your head, smiling despite yourself.
"you p-picked that one y-yourself..." you murmur.
"damn." he keens. "ya got me."
your fingers fidget with your bag strap. your number. right. he wants your number.
you're suddenly intensely aware of your phone sitting in your pocket like it weighs a thousand pounds.
"ah- only if you... want to." he adds, a touch quicker now, realizing he might've come on too strong. with the whole running after you thing. "no pressure. seriously. i just.."
"i wanted to ask."
he hums, a touch softer. eyes settled gently on yours.
he wanted to. enough to run after you. enough to stand here under bad station lighting with wind in his hair and nerves slipping through his smile.
you nod, sheepishly at first. "y-yeah. o-okay."
his answering grin is immediate. bright. and the way his fist pumps into the air is enough to knock the breath right out of you.
"sick," he bites, holding back the cheery lilt, already reaching for his phone. "okay. sweet sweet sweet. nice."
the both of you fumble a little after that.
you with your cold fingers and rising pulse, him with a screen protector cracked at one corner and thumbs moving a little too fast for someone pretending to be casual.
he hands you his phone, contacts already open.
you type your name in, adding a little '^_^' beside it.
when you give it back, he looks down at the screen and smiles. like he’s trying not to make too much of it. failing a little.
“cool,” he hums, typing something before slipping it into his pocket. your phone buzzes gently in your pocket.
“now you have to text me so i know you didn’t give me a fake number.”
your eyes widen. “i w-wouldn’t-”
he laughs immediately, holding his hands up in defense. “i’m kidding, i’m kidding.”
the pout only makes him grin harder.
he fits his beanie back over his head, sorting some strands out of his eyes and back behind his ears.
an action you can't help but stare at- still, starstruck.
"alright- i'll let ya go before you miss your train."
your chest dips a bit at it. already?
but you nod. because that's how leaving works.
"r-right. okay."
he shoots another grin at you, posture loosening as he resumes his usual slouch. "text me when you get home, yeah?"
"o-okay. i will."
his smile softens.
and his hand comes up- throwing that familiar peace sign. different now- more personal.
"later, y/n."
"l-later," you echo quietly, adjusting your bag before lifting your hand in a lazy wave as you turn to walk off. eyes stuck on him and his own- full arm wave- before he disappears as you take the last descending step.
you don't open your phone until you finally take a seat on your train, hands shaky and heart still thumping happily.
ino :)
this is my official anti-fake number investigation
you laugh right there on the tram. helplessly giddy. thank goodness it's too early for your carriage to be full.
you
it's not fake
you don't make it far before your phone buzzes. once. then again.
you continue down the sidewalk leading home, fingers fumbling slightly as you pull it out. screen lighting up your face in soft white.
ino :)
okay good.
i was about to be devastated fr
your lips press together, trying (and failing) to hide the smile spreading across your face.
you
i wouldn't do that
then, before you can overthink.
i was gonna ask you today too
but you didn't come
you force your eyes away from the screen in shame- turning a street corner. too much? no, right? not if he was gonna ask. but is admitting that kind of pathetic? and then,
ino :)
no fuckin way
i almost fumbled
i would've never forgiven myself
your laughter comes easier when he's not right in front of you.
you
nooo it's okay
i'm glad you did
ino :)
i am too
my legs are gonna hurt tomorrow
you
how hard did you run??
ino :)
it was a light jog at most
you
you were out of breath
his typing bubble stutters for a moment
ino :)
alright u got me.
another message comes in right after.
ino :)
you made me nervous
you stop walking completely- brain stalling. you reread twice before your pulse catches up with the words- heat fluttering in your chest and tummy.
you
i did?
ino :)
yeah
you're kinda...
idk
you hold your breath.
ino :)
you're just you
you release it with a whiny sigh. you don't know how to respond to that. let alone process it. so you just hold it to your chest like it's keeping you warm, taking the steps up to your apartment. unlocking the door and only texting when you shut it behind you- back to the wood.
you
i'm home
his response is immediate.
ino :)
good
you goin to bed?
you
yes
soon
have to shower and do some schoolwork
ino :)
busy lady
don't be up too long
you've not stopped smiling since you got off the train. but it softens a bit at those messages.
you
i will try
are you home yet?
ino :)
not yet
still got stuff to do tonight
your smile fades just a little. that tiredness you notice. how he only really shows up in your life at night.
you
oh oki
work?
ino :)
yeah p much
you
so late :o
be safe
the typing bubble holds longer than usual. but when his message comes though, it's only one line.
ino :)
thanks :)))
your chest flutters at the vision of him smiling at his own screen. for the moment, you click your phone off as you toe your shoes off at the door and shrug your bag off as you reach your bedroom. just for it chime once again on your bed as you're shrugging your hoodie off.
ino :)
you working tomorrow?
you type with one hand, interchanging it halfway as you slip each of your socks off.
you
yes
8 pm to 2am
ino :)
okay bet
i got a busy week
but i'll see if i can stop by
your heart skips just a little. sat on the edge of your bed now, legs swaying idly.
you
you don't have toooo
we can text now anyway
he reads it for a moment before the bubble pops up.
ino :)
i guess
but seeing you makes the night better
even if work sucks balls
you pray that if there is a god, he doesn't bear witness to the way you fall onto your back into your bedsheets and squeal.
you
same for me... (,,>﹏<,,)
ino :)
(image attached)
you really mean it
there is no way. absolutely no way this is the same ino. but it absolutely is. if anything- it makes perfect sense. it's just. jarring, honestly.
you
yes i do
ino :)
i'm blushing
okoki have to go now
i'll see you tomorrow if i can
you
okayyy
have fun with work
ino :)
yes yes
goodnight y/n
sleep well
you
goodnight ino
sleep well whenever you do
the typing bubble appears, lingering long eonugh to make your heart pick up again. no new messages comes, though. screen dimming until you click it off and let it fall against your bed.
your room is still. quiet. still dark. unmoved despite the major revelation that has just bloomed in your life.
and somewhere across the city, ino's phone is tucked into his pocket just in time to rush after a curse he was set to scout for, nearly missing his chance in favor of responding to your texts. you, who is blissfully unaware of the world he lives in.
the next night, despite his warning, you find yourself looking up when the bell rings anyway. just once. just in case. but it's not him. and odlly enough, the disappointment doesn't sink as deep as you expect it to.
he let you know he'd be busy. and eventually makes up for his absent with a text that has wakes you up from your dozing off in your stool.
ino :)
you at work?
your chest warms instantly.
you
yes
ino :)
praying for u
you smile to yourself. fuzziness creeping into your lungs.
the conversation comes in fragments after that. little messages spaced between customers and cleaning on your end and long, work-related stretches of quiet on his.
he asks if it's busy- not really. it never is. asks what song is playing, making a joke about how he swears it's the same thing every time.
you
it's not always the same
there are like
four different ones
ino :)
i'd go crazy
why don't they put you on aux
you
i wish
i would put my earbuds in
but i'm scared i'll get in trouble
ino :)
oh please
don't you get like
5 customers a shift
you
i guess
just still nervous
ino :)
your boss scary or something?
you
nooo no
she's actually really nice
nice enough to hire me
ino :)
what's that supposed to mean
you tilt your face at your phone, pout forming like he can see it.
you
...
(◞‸◟；)
ino :)
shaddap
don't be mean to yourself
you're the best clerk ever
now, you do have a sweet tooth, admittedly. snacking on candies during the lulls of your shifts in favor over the packaged meals. but ino- ino might be too sweet. and with his almost cringe-worthy streak of honesty, you know he really thinks that.
you
but u just told me to shut up...
ino :)
no
NONONO
WAITWAITWAIT
it's easier like this. with a screen between you, there's no rush. no eyes on your mouth waiting for the words to come out right. no heat crawling up your neck when your tongue catches.
you still hesitate before you send things sometimes. still delete entire sentences because they sound strange in your head. but easier, nonetheless. you don't have to fight your own voice to reach him. and somehow, he sounds identical to himself through text anyway. lightly teasing and easygoing, which makes you picture his face without meaning to.
when your break starts, you text him first.
you
what are you up to
his response takes a few minutes.
ino :)
working
you
oh mhm
you probably shouldn't bother then, huh? another few minutes pass by before your phone chimes again.
ino :)
sorry sorrythat sounded shorter than i meant
just a teensy weensy busy
how is work going?
it's like he read your unease through the phone.
you
it's ok!!
i'm sorry about that... your work sounds hard
it is oki
just eating now
ino :)
good good
nahhh
i mean it is hard
but i'll be okay
big strong guy here
you huff a small laugh, swallowing the egg sandwich down with a small cough.
you
yes
very strong
ino :)
you noticed?
didn't think you could under the long sleeves
you you don't always wear long sleeves
it's sent before you can think twice about it. sleep deprivation seemingly fraying your wits. you're halfway through typing an apology before his next message pops up
ino :)
ohhh so you have noticed
i got a little sleeper build don't i
ᕙ(`▽´)ᕗ
you
yes...it is
nice
you clearly have never flirted in your life. but ino's beam at his phone says otherwise.
"ino. please focus."
"r-right- sorry sir."
ino :)
thank you :)
sorry work callin again :/
you
that's okay
you are welcome
don't work too hard
ino :)
ahh haha
i'll try
you too
by the end of your shift, he still hasn't come by. but your mood is lighter than it normally is. the walk home isn't as quiet and long.
the day after, he doesn't show up either. but he texts you before your shift even starts.
ino :)
clocking in?
you pause in the break room, halfway through tying your apron.
you
unfortunately
so sleepy today
ino :)
i'm sorry pretty girl
your coworker quirks an eyebrow at the way you shimmy in place.
"who's got you smilin' like that?"
"j-just a... b-boy..." you murmur, terribly masking the flush on your face with your phone.
later, while you're absentmindedly flicking a display lighter on and off, he sends a blurry photo of a vending machine drink.
ino :)
look
it's pancake flavored
you
woah
is it yummy
ino :)
yes
i drank the whole thing
now my stummy hurts
he texts you all the way through closing. nothing important, really. but that's what makes it feel important.
a three-second video of him flashing a peace sign to the camera, and then turning it to the ground, where you can make out his shoes and the steps of another.
ino :)
my boss has been quitting recently
now i can't offer to grab him more as an excuse to come see u
you
that's a good thing
smoking is bad for you
ino :)
i know lol
i'm glad he is
just sad i probably can't stop by tonight
a random:
ino :)
have you eaten yet?
you
not yet
ino :)
do that
or i'm reporting you to the authorities
i've got connections
you snort softly through your nose.
it's easy to imagine him when he texts. the way he'd probably be leaning against something while he typed that. one hand in his pocket, beanie crooked and eyes half-lidded from being tired and trying to play it off.
you
yes sir(￣ー￣)ゞ
ino :)
thank u
gna be busy the rest of the night
lmk when you get home
call me if any creepers follow u
you do. text him once you're on your train. once you're in your apartment. and as you're settling into bed- all to no response.
there's an undeniable ache. not like you're entitled to his time. just that- whatever's keeping him occupied this late into the night must really be quite burdensome.
by the day before halloween, you've almost gotten used to not seeing him. almost. your shifts feel less empty with him tucked into your phone, with his little texts arriving like clockwork whenever the store goes too still.
but it's not the same.
not the same as his voice. not the same as watching him lean against the counter like he has nowhere better to be.
so when the bell finally rings just after sunset, and you glance up to find that it's him stepping inside, your chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts.
he looks... tired. more than usual. not the joking kind of tired he waves off with a smile. something heavier sits on him tonight.
his shoulders are drawn tighter. the skin beneath his eyes is darker. he still smiles when he sees you, but it takes a little longer to reach his face.
"yo," he says, quieter than usual.
your fingers tighten around the pen in your hand. "h-hi."
his mouth curves, just a little, and he comes up to the counter with little wandering. just a drink and something small to eat from the cases closest to the register. like he came more for the store than what it sells.
"w-wasn't expecting you." you hum, already scanning them and bagging them up.
"yeah, sorry. shoulda texted," he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. "been a busy few days."
you nod, though it doesn't feel like enough.
you can feel it. that he’s quieter, that something’s sitting wrong in him, that the usual easy rhythm is there but dimmed.
your hands meet in a wary fold. thumbs fidgeting slightly before you speak.
"...are you... d-doing okay?"
the question comes out small. gentle. for a second, you think he'll brush it off. and he nearly does.
"yeah, i'm-" he goes quiet, hands nestling in his pockets as his shoulders shift. "just tired." it's not a lie. just not the whole truth either.
"w-work?"
his gaze flicks to yours. like he's the one with a streak of struggling with eye contact. a tiny, delicate hesitation.
"i guess. it's.... just a lot. lately."
your chest aches a little at the way he says it. like it's something that has slipped out- not for you to bear witness to.
he huffs a laugh, but there's no real humor in it.
"sorry. that sounds dramatic as hell."
you're quick to shake your head. "n-no," you hand the bag off unceremoniously. "you c-can be tired."
you swallow, trying to push past the little catches in your voice.
"i-it doesn't make you... weak. or anyth-thing. bad."
the way he stares makes you intensely aware of your words, but you keep going anyway.
"you're a-always telling me n-not to be scared- or t-to worry," you say, softly. "s-so don't be af-fuh-fuh-" ahem. "afraid of being tired. you work h-hard."
"it's okay to be t-tired."
the bag crinkles in his grip. your eyes meet his face. fearfully, at first. expecting something that matches the tightness in his hand- but it's unexpectedly soft. the furrow in his brow easing for one fleeting second, your words finding a place to land somewhere he hadn't realized was open.
"damn," he says at last, voice low and a little rough around the edges. "you always this wise? or is today special?" his smile falters- and for a moment, it almost looks like he's gonna cry.
"i-i'm serious."
"i know." his expression settles before anything else bubbles to the surface. "that's why it got me."
you can feel the words sitting behind his teeth. heavy and unfinished and threatening to spill the moment his lips part to speak again.
but then he blinks. looks away. closes the moment with purpose.
"i'll be okay. promise."
you know better than to push. so instead, you type a command into the register and hand his receipt off- despite his lack of payment.
his fingers brush yours when he reaches to take it. neither of you move right away.
the warmth of you- and realization that it's already over without him even taking his card out- makes something flicker in his expression. startled, nearly.
"i didn't-"
you wave it off, pushing the receipt to him.
"d-don't worry about it."
"...you're sure?"
you nod, adjusting part of your hair that doesn't need adjusting.
"j-just get home s-safe."
he's still for a few seconds before his posture finally loosens up with a shake of his head. "alright."
"...i will."
you don’t know why that answer makes your chest hurt.
he shifts his bag over his shoulder, still looking at you in that quiet, strange way. like he’s trying to memorize something. your face. your voice. the look of you under convenience store lights, soft and worried and sweet enough to undo him.
"thanks. i'll text you later." he hums.
you nod.
"see you, y/n."
"bye, ino."
he turns and heads for the door.
the bell rings overhead.
cold air slips in for a second before the door swings shut behind him.
and you stand there, the feeling of his fingers still warm against yours, with the oddest feeling blooming low in your chest.
like something just brushed past you. like the night shifted around its edges.
you wake up to a text from him.
not late.
not early, either.
just early enough that it catches you before you’ve fully settled into your day, phone still dim in your hand and your room washed in that pale, lazy gray that only october mornings seem to have.
ino :)
you alive?
your lips twitch before you can help it.
you roll onto your back, hair in your face, blankets still tangled around your legs as you type back.
you
mhm
slept in
ino :)
you're telling me
it's almost 3
a sleepy smile ghosts your face as you rub at your eyes as you nestle into a pillow on your side.
you
no work today
they took pity on me
it's true. the halloween night rush of drunks can get pretty hectic- so night shift had been entrusted to two higher managers.
you
do you have plans?
there's a small pause.
ino :)
something like that
you?
you
not really
my friends are going to shibuya though
you're halfway through typing a 'they wanted me to go too,' before his answer pops up.
ino :)
don't go
you blink. sit up a little straighter.
you
?
ino :)
crowds gonna be insane
like actually hell on earth
you'd hate it
there's a strange firmness to it. not harsh- just uncharacteristically direct.
you
i wasn't planning to
too many people
ino :)
good
keep it that way
and lowk
your friends shouldn't go either
that gets a small crease between your brows
you
why?
ino :)
just a bad feeling
halloween in shibuya never ends well
you can almost see him on the other end of it- phone in hand, jaw set, choosing his words too carefully for someone who usually doesn’t.
you
i'll stay home
ino :)
good
a second message follows right after.
ino :)
promise?
your chest warms at that, even as the oddness of the interaction lingers.
you
i promise
the bubble appears. stops.
ino :)
thank u
you smile despite yourself.
you carry your phone around with you the rest of the morning, checking it more than you need to. folding laundry. making something small to eat. half-listening to a show you’ve already seen.
his texts come in strange little intervals.
never enough to become a conversation.
just enough to remind you he’s there.
ino :)
you eat yet?
youyes
ino :)
okay good
later.
ino :)
you live in taito right?
you fingers pause over the keyboard.
you
closer to adachi
why
is it gonna be that bad?
there's a longer delay this time. long enough that you resume studying, despite the dread that's starting to pool in your core. immediately shocked straight once your phone dings again.
ino :)
probably not
just being annoying
ignore me
you
you're not annoying
ino :)
damn right
you laugh softly to yourself, shaking your head.
but it doesn’t fully ease the feeling.
by evening, the sky outside your apartment has gone the color of old bruises- blue-black and heavy, city lights glowing faintly in the distance. halloween noise drifts through the streets below in bursts. laughter. traffic. muffled music somewhere too far away to place.
your phone buzzes again as you finish up your studying for the day. there's a special airing tonight you don't wanna miss, and you've already got your snacks laid out on your coffee table and a blanket around your shoulders as you sit down.
ino :)
you home?
you
yes
ino :)
good
another pause.
ino :)
i might be afk til the morning btw
the warmth in your chest dims around the edges as you read it.
you
oh
you don't mean for it to sound disappointed
but it does.
ino :)
don’t worry too hard okay
i’m just gonna be busy tonight
you
party?
time stretches for a moment. bubble hovering longer than usual.
ino :)
nah
work
you bite lightly at the inside of your cheek. there's more there- but there's no point chasing it if he's already decided to keep it to himself.
so instead, you curl yourself a little deeper into blanket and text back:
you
okay
be safe
the typing bubble appears.
stays.
goes away.
comes back.
when his message finally sends, it lands heavier than anything else he’s said all day.
ino :)
if i wasn't busy i would've asked you to do something tonight
your breath catches completely. heart starting to beat harder, uneven and hot enough for you to have to place a hand to your chest in an attempt to soothe its violent thuds.
you
like what?
ino :)
idk
we could've made our own halloween plans
another message follows before you can recover
ino :)
something way less lame than shibuya
like staying at home and handing candy out
you pull the blanket up higher over your mouth- even if there is no one here to see you. you and your trembling fingers and flushed ears.
you
that sounds nice
his response doesn't come immediately. you imagine him reading it. imagining it too, maybe. whatever that would've looked like. small and simple and shared between just the two of you.
ino :)
yeah
next time
your chest tightens around the words.
next time.
something about them should comfort you. instead, a strange little ache opens behind your ribs. you don’t understand why. you type anyway.
you
okay :)
for a while, neither of you says anything. phone left upwards on the cushion beside you as you watch your favorite shows special.
then, your phone buzzes one last time.
ino :)
get some sleep tonight, yeah?
and don't go anywhere weird
you
i won't
are you clocking in?
ino :)
yes ma'am
gonna be a busy bee tonight
you
oki
be safe
after a second, you add:
text me tomorrow
the bubble appears almost immediately.
ino :)
i will
promise
you'll hold onto that. a promise.
you
thank you
goodnight ino
it takes him a few seconds.
ino :)
night y/n
happy halloween
you whisper it back to your screen like he can hear you.
and when the chat goes quiet after that, you set your phone beside you and try not to think too hard about the odd feeling left behind. the one that curls low and uneasy beneath the fuzzy, warm feeling he plagues you with. the one that makes the city outside sound a little more foreboding.
it's nothing.
he said he'd text in the morning. promised he would.
and because it's him- you'll believe it.
you don't mean to fall asleep. it's just for a second, you tell yourself.
your phone is still beside you when you drift off- while you're nestled in the corner of your couch with the tv droning low in the background. the last thing you remember is checking the time. 11:43. after. that, nothing
your phone screams. you jolt awake so hard it makes you cough- and for one disorienting second, all you know is noise.
the blare of an emergency alert. the sharp brightness of the television- suddenly too loud for the size of your apartment. voices overlapping in clipped, urgent bursts that sound nothing like the programming you fell asleep to.
your room is dark except for the flashing light of your phone and the bright red-white glow of the tv.
still half asleep, you fumble for the screen.
EMERGENCY ALERT: SHELTER IN PLACE IMMEDIATELY. AVOID CENTRAL TOKYO. STAY INDOORS. FURTHER INFORMATION TO FOLLOW.
...what?
you blink hard, rubbing one eye with the heel of your hand- refocusing your attention to the tv anchors' voices. trying to bring them to the forefront of your hazed senses.
“…repeat- residents are being instructed to remain indoors as emergency crews attempt to assess the devastation in shibuya-”
“…officials have not yet confirmed the full number of casualties-”
“…sources are now stating that the destruction may be tied to what authorities are calling cursed spirits-”
the image onscreen shifts from the anchor desk to aerial footage, shaky and distant at first, then horrifyingly clear.
shibuya is... gone.
not burning. not damage. gone.
a massive, ugly wound carved into the city where everything should still be standing. whole stretches of it erased into blackened ruin and cratered absence, smoke still curling up into the night sky in ghostlike ribbons. emergency lights flash red and blue around the edges of destruction too large to understand.
the reporter is still talking, voice taut and disbelieving, words clipping over one another as more footage rolls.
“for those just joining us, the japanese government has issued an unprecedented public statement confirming the existence of hostile entities referred to as cursed spirits-”
“multiple eyewitness accounts describe widespread panic, structural collapse, and civilian casualties on a catastrophic scale-”
“we must stress again: do not leave your homes.”
you can't breathe. you can't-
your friends. shibuya. they were going to shibuya.
your hands shake so badly you nearly drop your phone trying to unlock it.
no- no no no-
the first contact does nothing but ring. and then the second. one after another. contact names smearing together as your vision blurs.
“pick up,” you whisper, then louder, voice cracking apart as tears rise without warning. “p-pick up, p-please-”
none of them answer.
a sob catches in your throat, sharp and humiliating and terrified, and then-
ino.
your whole body goes cold. because ino-
ino told you not to go. ino said he was busy tonight. working. somewhere near there, wasn't he?
your thumb slips on the screen once before you manage to his the call button beside his name.
you can hardly hear it over the blood roaring in your ears.
"c-come on," you choke out, tears spilling hot and fast down your face now as you tremble to your feet, falling once before scrambling up again to peer outside your window. “ino, c-come on, p-please-"
nothing.
just ringing. just silence.
there's nothing outside either. dark and terrifyingly unmoving.
you call again.
the television keeps talking. footage keeps changing. the words casualties and evacuation and unprecedented blur together into something monstrous and impossible.
the room feels wrong now- too small, too bright, too hot and too cold all at once. your heartbeat pounds against your ribs in nauseating waves. your skin feels clammy. your lungs won’t fill all the way.
on the screen, another aerial shot sweeps over the wreckage. street grids split open, towers collapsed. smoke and dust and pure absence.
your stomach twists violently at the sight. this is a nightmare. it has to be.
but that bile rising in your throat feels too real for it to be just a dream.
your lurch into your hand- falling to your knees as nothing but a dry, miserable heave tears out of you.
nothing comes up.
just tears dripping off your chin while your phone stays clutched so tightly in your hand it aches.
and then- it buzzes.
your head snaps down so fast it hurts.
not him.
another emergency update.
you swipe it away as if it personally attacked you- just to hit call again with trembling fingers and press the phone so hard to your ear it leaves a mark.
ringing... and ringing... and ringing.
“please,” you whisper this time.
you don't even know who you're trying to get your voice to reach. just anybody, really. you friends. ino. anything to speak back and tell you that you didn't just lose everything.
all the while, the tv keeps blaring. the city keeps ending.
and in the middle of your bedroom floor, curled around your phone and your own terror, all you can do is listen to the silence on the other end and pray it breaks.
morning comes anyway. despite a tragedy so heavy you wondered if the sun would ever rise again.
gray. thin.
you don't think you've slept since the alert. and if you did, it wasn't enough to count.
you spend the rest of the night curled against the side of your bed with your phone in your hand and the television talking at you in fragments from the other room-death tolls, evacuation zones, missing persons, government statements repeated over and over until the words all blur together.
shibuya collapse. mass casualty incident. cursed spirits.
every now and then, you call again. your friends. ino. just to be met by rhythmic ringing and voicemails that you let play just to hear their voices.
by the time the sky outside turns pale, your eyes burn so badly it hurts to blink.
your mother calls first.
"m-mom-"
“oh, thank god,” she breathes immediately, and the sound of her voice-frayed, terrified, real- nearly breaks you all over again. “are you home? are you safe?”
you can’t get the words out at first. just nod- like she can see you.
“y-yeah,” you choke out finally, pressing your fingers hard to your mouth when your voice starts to wobble. “i’m h-home.”
in the background, you can hear your father saying something you can’t make out. pacing, maybe. the television at their place too.
your mother keeps talking, too fast now, asking if you need anything, if your doors are locked, if you’ve eaten, if you’ve heard from your friends.
that last one catches in your chest like glass.
"...n-no."
silence hangs for just a second. softened by that careful tone only your mother could take with you.
"it took us a while to reach you. the lines- i'm sure they're overloaded. give it a little time."
all you really want is someone else in this building with you. your mom to come get you like she would when you'd freeze up and start to cry at school field trips. your friends passed out on your couch and in your bed beside you from their night of partying.
ino.
you promise you'll keep your phone. promise you won't leave your apartment.
you don't even realize you've started crying again until a tear slips off your lips and lands on the screen, back to the blank homescreen as your mother hangs up.
around seven, one of your friends finally texts. your whole body seizes at the text chime.
mika
OH MY GOD IM OKAY
I DIDNT GO
i lost signal and everything was insane and i crashed at rena's place
are you okay??
a pitiful moan leaks out with a warbled sob as you sit on the edge of your bed.
you
yes
holy shit
you guys didn't go?
mika
we were gonna but trains got weird and then we lost signal for hours
bunch of suits started telling us to go away at like
idk 9
none of my calls are going through still
we're okay i swear
another friend checks in after that. then another.
a dead battery. plans changed at the last second. train blocked off.
none of them were there. none of them are missing.
the relief is real.
it just doesn’t reach the place in you that’s still screaming.
because ino still doesn’t answer.
you call him again before noon.
and again an hour later.
and again when the news starts naming neighborhoods still under emergency restriction.
you text him too, because maybe that’s better. maybe he can’t call. maybe his hands are full. maybe he’s asleep.
you
are you okay?
you
i stayed home
you told me to
you
please answer when you can
i'm really scared ino
i don't know what to do
they all sit there, cold.
the hours smear together after that. you don’t eat much. can’t, really.
the television stays on.
you mute it eventually. because hearing the repeated doomsday-like updates provide no real solace to you. but the footage keeps rolling in silence anyway. shibuya- reduced to a hole in the earth.
sometime in the afternoon, you end up in your bed instead of the floor. curled on your side. phone charging beside you. eyes locked on it for any moment it lights up.
you keep his contact open. thumb hovering over the call button. every so often you press it, not really expecting a response. just something to lull the panic in your head, like dialing it is different from just lying in wait.
you whisper his name once the voicemail passes. just once. a weak, tearless sob leaking out of you along with it.
ino wakes to white light and pressure in his skull. for one long, ugly second, he doesn't know where he is.
then the pain in his face pulses hard enough to answer for him.
medical room. the school. safe... enough.
his body feels heavy. not the full-body wreckage of something broken beyond repair- just the bone-deep ache of getting the absolute hell beaten out of him. bruising swelling through the right side of his face, ribs protesting at every breath he takes, exhaustion clinging to him like wet cloth. someone had patched him up- someone told him to rest. but he hadn't listened well enough to remember who.
drowsiness is quickly replaced by a small flicker of panic as his hand can't find his phone on him.
he sits up too fast and regrets it within the second, nausea pitching low in his stomach as his vision swims.
"shit-" his voice comes out rough. dry.
there's a shuffle from nearby.
someone- not ieiri- looks up from wherever she'd been before.
"you're awake," she hums, already moving toward him.
"my phone," his cuts in, voice thin with urgency. "where's my phone?"
"the table- ino- you need to lay down-" her figure fully comes into view. akari, that blonde girl he'd debriefed with before. trying to get him back on his back as he's yanking the charger his phone is attached to free from the wall.
"just- just give me a sec-" he winces, forcing one eye open to focus on the slew of notifications on his phone screen.
so many missed calls texts stacked in notifications. friends. drinking buddies. his parents.
you.
i'm really scared ino. i stayed home. you told me to. please say something. i don't know what to do.
okay- you stayed home. good. that's good. you're safe.
that should be enough to settle him- but it doesn't. he promised- promised he'd let you know he's okay. but morning already came, and he wasn't there for it.
and then it really hits him.
your fear.
the news is saying cursed spirits. i don't know what's happening. nobody is answering me.
"nitta-san," he speaks, suddenly still.
why do you know about cursed spirits?
his thumb flicks to the rest of his notifications.
sweet angel baby boy shinji
yo bro
what the fuck is going on
are you seeing this cursed spirit shit?
yosuke :P
i'm freaking the fuck out yo
my girl still hasn't responded
she went out with her friends in shibuya
junpei (big bro)
are you good?
call me when you can dude
i really hope you're okay
"...what happened in shibuya?"
her brows furrow in a way that only deepens the grout in ino's chest. dread settling into it with ease.
the question hangs heavy in the room. wrong. too late. too obvious.
"...ino," she says, softer now. "you need to lie back down."
he doesn't move.
you know about cursed spirits. the whole country does. that wasn't supposed to happen. never. not in his lifetime.
"...how bad?"
his lip curls at her hesitation. he knows special grades were involved. knows gojo was there. knows things went wrong. but wrong was supposed to mean sorcerer casualties in reports. cleanup. grief buried where it always is. not this.
"they're still assessing," she answers carefully. "a lot of people were trapped."
civilians. trapped inside shibuya. trapped with curses organized enough to build a plan around human bodies. trapped while sorcerers ran themselves ragged trying to keep the whole thing from splitting open.
his stomach drops. the barriers. the coordination.
we failed.
he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face and immediately regretting it when pain flares bright.
"fuck-"
"how bad?" he repeats, facing her fully now.
becauses this isn't about property damage. not anymore. this is about bodies. names. people he knows. people he should've been beside.
"ino," she warns, firmer now. aware of the shape of what he's really asking. "lie. down."
"i'm not- not until you tell me-"
"gojo is sealed."
"i know that-" he jerks, ripping his hand from her grasp as she tries to get him to settle. "that doesn't-"
"sukuna opened his domain."
the room seems to tilt from the sick, impossible enormity of it. his mouth parts. shuts. opens again.
"i don't- i don't fucking care- who-"
because there's only one name clawing at the inside of his throat now. the one that matters. the one that taught him. the one that should be too hard to kill. the one that always felt, somehow, like he’d be there after. after missions. after mistakes. after all of it.
"nanami didn't make it."
that answers it.
everything stops. not gradually. not in pieces. just- gone.
it's like the room has dropped out from under him. pressure building in his ears like he's been shoved underwater too fast.
nanami-
no. no, that doesn't- that doesn't make sense. nanami doesn't... nanami doesn't lose. not like that.
he stares at her. waiting for any sort of correction. for the part where she says he's stable, or critical, or anything but that.
but it doesn't come. she just keeps talking.
words that don't reach his brain. three special grades. protecting others. fighting. transfigured humans. mahito.
that name lands. sticks. but it doesn't sink. because his head is still stuck on something else.
nanami.
nanami?
nanami-
he should've been there. the thought hits sharp- cutting through everything else- and twisting at the settling realization. words keep coming, but they stop meaning anything in order. they crash into him shapelessly, each one only driving the same thing deeper.
he would've- if he wasn't taken out early. if he hadn't gotten knocked out. if he had just- if he was just there.
his body pangs with another echo of agony as he sob tries to force itself out of him. throat tightening around something meaner than tears.
something raw and adolescent and awful that wants to rewind time by force. wants to wake up earlier. wants to go back. wants to be stronger. faster. less stupid. wants one more chance to be useful where it counted.
instead, all he can do is sit there in a medical room that stinks of antiseptic and sweat, bruised half to hell, while the man he followed into adulthood is just... gone
his gaze drops to his phone. to your messages. your fear. your little i stayed home.
the softness of it all nearly finishes him off. because the world kept ending while you were scared, alone, and waiting for him to answer. because nanami is dead and you’re alive and both truths slam into him at once so violently he almost feels sick from the whiplash of it, fighting for space in one already battered body.
"...i need to text her," he mutters, voice small and cracked. more to himself than to akari.
"you need to rest." she counters immediately.
“no, i-” his voice catches, splinters slightly, and humiliation flares hot on top of everything else. “she thinks- " his grip tightens around his phone. "she thinks i'm-"
dead. missing. gone. just like-
he can't say it. his jaw clenches instead, eyes squeezing shut for just a second like he can force everything back into place if he just—
breathes.
just breathes.
"i need to tell her i'm okay," he finishes, meek and crackly. voice pitched up as his throat closes.
akari eases off, wordlessly. she knows that an apology would do nothing for his psyche. he probably knows that too. it's the last thing he wants to hear- because in his mind, it really was his fault.
but your name on his screen is still something he can reach. something he can fix. at least a little. even if everything else is uncertain, you are a constant. you are okay and safe, just alone and scared.
your phone buzzes just after the sun goes back down.
you'd been staring at it anyway. limp and half-curled on your bed. face sticky and dry from the snot and tears smeared across it. breath ragged and interrupted by tiny momentary shudders from your hours of crying.
for one second, you don't move. because if it's another emergency alert, or your mother again, or one of your friends checking in- you don't know if you can take it.
then it buzzes a second time, and there, when you weakly lift yourself up to angle yourself towards the screen- and there-
ino :)
your breath leaves you in a sound that's halfway to a sob
ino :)
i'm okay
i'm really sorry
you're okay right
your vision goes hot and watery all at once, tears spilling before you can wonder how you're managing to muster up any more.
he's alive.
thank god
he's alive.
a broken sound escapes you- half laugh, half cry- and suddenly you're covering your mouth with one hand like that'll keep the rest of it in.
it doesn't.
your whole body folds in on itself with the force of it, shoulders shaking as the panic finally loosens somewhere deep enough to adjust into a vague relief. relief nonetheless.
you reread the message five times, just to make sure it stays the same. it's not a sleep deprivation induced hallucination.
your thumbs tremble over the keyboard, too many things fighting to come out. where are you? what happened? why didn’t you answer? are you hurt?
you delete all of them.
you
i'm home
i'm okay
you ponder it for a second, but your wits are too frayed to do so longer.
you
you scared me
the typing bubble appears almost immediately.
ino :)
i know
i'm sorry
i'm really sorry
your chest aches. his apology, mixed with the fact that he knows. that wherever he might be, despite whatever has been keeping him radio silent, he's still thinking of you- and apologizing for leaving his promise unfulfilled for hours that stretched far too long.
you press your lips together hard, fingers shaking again.
you
it's okay
don't be
what happened?
the next messages flicker long enough to make your stomach knot. small gaps between each of them.
ino :)
i can't really talk about it right now
i just wanted to make sure
you are okay
you stare at the spaces between them more than the messages themselves. it's stil him, yes, but dimmed. pulled tight. like every setnence has been checked over before being allowed out.
you
were you there?
are you hurt?
you can feel him decide in the pause he takes to respond.
ino :)
i was close
but i'm okay
nothing crazy
you don’t believe that. not really. you curl further in with a wipe of your sleeve and type again.
you
can i call you?
the answer takes longer than any of the others.
so long that by the time it comes, your hope has already started folding itself away.
ino :)
not right now
i'm sorry
i just wanted you to know i'm here
another couple tears slip through the border of lashes. because that's sweet. and awful. because it sounds like he reached through something heavy just to put those words in your hands, and now you have to sit with them without understanding any of it.
you
okay
thank you for texting me
i was really scared ino
i still am but
i don't know
still, all you can really crave is having someone with you right now. the tv is too loud. the silence is louder. and the thought of his voice does nothing but pull weak, trembling sniffles that have to be sated by the already damp sleeves of your hoodie.
ino :)
i know
it's okay to be scared
so long as you're safe
ino :)
you listened right?
you stayed home?
even now, that's what he asks. like he's making sure of it.
you
yes
i stayed home the whole night
ino :)
good
just that. simple. firm.
your chest twists around the word.
you
i'm glad you're okay
ino :)
yeah
i'm glad you are too
like really glad
you
will you text me later?
ino :)
i'll try
i'm probably going to knock out
don't freak okay
the laugh slips out before you can stop it. you can almost hear him say it.
you
i already freaked
ino :)
i know
my bad
you can hit me for it
as much as you want
your smile wobbles into something softer. fragile and gentle.
you
i wouldn't
i just really want a hug
admittedly, you thought about that one before sending it. the answer comes too quick for any pathetic self-doubt to sneak in.
ino :)
:(
me too
i'll see you soon
i promise
that nearly undoes you. a soft, crackled whine spills from your chest. you're both scared. even if he's trying to act like he's not.
you
okay
rest
and then-
nothing. the read receipt doesn't change. you don't send anything else. not because you don't want to. if anything, your mind is screaming at you to keep holding on to his presence. but because you can feel the edges of him in every text- frayed, exhausted, giving you only what he can hold up without dropping it.
painfully, selfishly, you set your phone back down and exhale long and shakily. the relief in you is real. it just doesn't settle cleanly. he's alive. he's just... something happened. something bad enough to turn his words into careful little pieces. to strip him of that casualness and reduce him to what he feels is necessary- for you.
the next day passes strangely after that. lighter, because he answered. heavier, because now there's a shape you can't quite make out about him.
your mother calls again and this time you can tell her, truthfully, that one of the people you were worried about is alright.
you don’t say how uncertain the word feels.
you answer your friends’ messages with more steadiness than before.
you eat half a granola bar because he'd want you to.
you keep the television on mute.
you keep your phone beside you.
reread the text thread, even when the tendrils of exhaustion are trying their hardest to pull you into it's hold. your thumb hovers over the chat box more than once.
each time, you lock your phone instead. because if he’s hurt, or tired, or buried under something you can’t see, the kindest thing you can do is let him disappear for a few hours without making him feel guilty for it.
the first few days pass similarly.
not silent. just… thinned out.
his messages come hours apart now, sometimes longer. gone is the easy stream of little comments, the blurry pictures, the half-serious nagging for you to eat something or to leave your studying for after you get some sleep. what’s left are shorter things. functional things. enough to let you know he’s still there.
ino :)
you up?
you
yes
ten minutes turn to twenty.
you
did you eat?
a long stretch of nothing, enough time for your chest to start tightening again.
ino :)
yea
you don't know if that's true. if that matters, so long as the word is there. you start to measure your days in his absences. like every vibration could either soothe you or ruin the next few hours.
the konbini stays closed. first for cleanup. then for "ongoing municipal restrictions." then indefinitely, in a short message sent to sound practical. saying they'll update everyone when things settle. like that's something in reach.
without work, the days lose what little structure they had. you stay in your apartment too much. watch the news too much. sleep badly. text him too carefully. he answers, but never enough to make you stop wondering.
you
how are you feeling?
ino :)
okay
you
that's good
ino :)
yea
you doing okay?
he deflects each time. never lets the topic of his well-being hang around long enough to settle. he sounds tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep now. like everything is being dragged up from somewhere deeper. like even his jokes have to be unearthed.
sometimes he tries.
ino :)
i can't lie
i look pretty beat up right now
you might not think i'm as cute (╥_╥)
you
what?
beat up?
ino :)
lol relax
just bruised
don't hug me too hard
you
is it really that bad?
what happened?
he leaves you on read for seven minutes. you count them without meaning to.
ino :)
i'll tell you about it when i see you
and somehow that hurts more than if he’d kept joking.
your friends notice you’re off. your mother notices too, in the way mothers always do. asks if you’ve heard more from “that boy.” you don’t know how to answer that. because yes. and no.
because he’s still speaking to you. but the distance between each message feels measured now. intentional. like he reaches for you and then catches himself halfway there. because every time you think maybe he’s coming back a little, he disappears again.
one night, you send:
you
i miss talking to you
ino :)
me too
he responds too quickly for the regret to get to you and manifest in you throwing your phone across the room. you type three different responses. delete all of them. settle on:
you
you can talk to me
he doesn't answer that one until the next morning.
ino :)
i know
you read it over breakfast. oatmeal gone cold and hard.
and something about those two words makes your throat ache.
because he does know. you've expressed that sentiment before, plenty of times. and still. there's the feeling that he's holding himself back.
the city keeps moving around the disaster in ugly, limping ways. news coverage shifts from panic to analysis to blame. people online talk about cursed spirits like they’ve always known the word. your friends stop bringing up halloween entirely. and somewhere in the middle of all that, the weather turns colder.
the shift in reality leaves the passage of time untouched. the november chill creeps in underneath your front door and windowsills. you start wearing socks in your apartment. go out for the first time in a week to get groceries, just to immediately step back in to put on another layer of clothing.
you
it's cold today
you attach an image of half of your face. bundled in a parka and wrapped in a scarf. dim cloudy sky behind you.
he reacts with a heart before he texts back.
ino :)
i missed your face
where are you going?
for the first time in a while, you smile.
you
(꩜/////꩜ " )
groceries
one store nearby opened back up the other day
ino :)
oh okay
be safe
text me when you're home
you
i will
he hearts that message too.
for the rest of the day, you cup that small sense of normalcy in his tone with care. don’t prod too much. don’t look too hard at it. your phone stays warm in your palm as you walk, basket bumping against your knee every other step, your scarf pulled high enough to trap the heat blooming across your face.
i missed your face.
and then-
be safe.
he says that a lot now. more than before. more seriously, too.
you’d thought it was just him being sweet. he always told you to get home safe. reminded you to text him when you did.you told yourself he was just shaken too. anyone would be. this new, invisible threat- curses- now spoken about on national television like it had always been there. delivered through the same mouths that once talked about weather patterns and election coverage.
it was impossible for the first few days. now, sickeningly real. old forums resurface. years of posts from people asking if anyone else sees things no one else does- now circulating everywhere. dissected. validated. monetized.
cursed spirits are real. they have been for a while, apparently.
which means someone has to deal with them. someone has been dealing with them.
you hadn’t had space to think about that before.
not through the panic. not through the crater. not through the calls that wouldn’t go through and the names you were too afraid to lose.
but now, there's room for memory. for the shape of things said before the world split open.
all those nights he’d show up exhausted in ways that never quite matched the easy excuses he gave. the scrapes on his knuckles. the strange hours. the cigarettes for his boss. the sense that he was always coming from somewhere, always heading somewhere else.
something like that. work. don't go.
your grip tightens around the can of soup you’ve been turning over in your hands.
that's a stupid. he already told you what he does. some kind of freelance security job. a bodyguard. a bouncer. he never gave details- said he signed an nda. jokingly asked if his mystery gave him aura.
that makes sense.
he can't be.
...right?
your stomach turns anyways.
because how did he know?
he told you not to go. made you a promise. he was working- couldn't talk about it. and when everything happened- he didn't sound surprised. he seemed like somebody who was already familiar with this inconceivable threat. didn't say a single thing about how shocking the revelation was. it had only been you expressing your disbelief.
you set the broth back a little too quickly, a wave of unease rolling through you.
if cursed spirits are real- then what does that make him?
you shake your head once, trying to dislodge the thought. that's ridiculous. isn't it? you don't even know what a sorcerer is supposed to look like. if they even have a name beyond what the television says. if there are rules, uniforms, organizations. if they're government-employed, tucked into society like the yakuza- or something stranger than both of those things.
but you know what you've seen. you know the parts of him he's given you, and are even more intimately familiar with the parts of him he's withheld.
you pause in front of the instant noodles, staring blankly at rows of cups and packets without reading a single label.
if he really was there in shibuya for more than work, for more than some vague errand or bad timing-
then how close did he come? to those... things. to whatever turned the city into what you saw on television.
on the way back, as your bags swing idly at your side and you keep your gaze locked on the passing cracks in pavement, a chill runs through you that has nothing to do with the weather.
his worry. the way he double checked you really stayed home before showing relief. because maybe it wasn't just that. something heavier. something earned at a cost you still can't see.
inside your apartment, you set the groceries down more carefully than you need to and stand there in the kitchen with your scarf still on, mind turning slow and uneasy around the same thought.
ino... what do you do?
and more frighteningly.
what happened to you?
you don't text him that. of course you don't. you wouldn't even know how to start. and if you're wrong- and if you’re wrong, you’d scorch every fragile inch of familiarity the two of you have spent all this time building.
but beneath the uncertainty, something softer aches in your chest.
because if it’s true.
then even from inside that hidden world, whatever shape it takes-
