teach me how to be soft.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ a stranger arrives, and the mountain sighs like it knows the story already. you are softness, and he is everything sharp, but even knives can grow dull.
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garou doesnt believe in second chances, but you're proof it exists anyways.
the mountain wraps around you like an old coat, frayed and familiar. your house sits at its heart, a place carved out of time itself. the porch creaks under your weight as you stand there, fingers stained faintly with ink, watching the trail wind into the trees. the sky hangs heavy above, thick with clouds, and the forest hums with the anticipation of rain.
you are there, as always, a shadow moving between time and memories. the room is full of you. the walls are crowded with lives past lived– dried flowers from springs long past, paintings that will never know completion, and small, insignificant things that seem to hold the weight of the world. it is your sanctuary, a quiet place against the chaos of the world below. you are no one important, and yet everything here breathes your name.
but the quiet does not last.
when they arrive, it feels like the mountain inhales, deep and shuddering. bang’s voice booms long before he reaches the porch, breaking the stillness like a stone cast into still water, ripples trailing behind to disturb the peace. behind him, there is another—taller, sharper. a figure that cuts into the muted landscape like an unhealed wound.
the man him is wrong, his presence sharp and angular in a way that feels at odds with the soft world you’ve built for yourself. he carries himself like a predator, his gaze scanning your cottage with something close to disdain. his hands are empty, save for a furoshiki slung over one shoulder, but he looks as though he doesn’t need anything else to leave the world at his feet.
he looks at you, and you find that there is nothing kind in his gaze.
if bang is the mountain made manifest—all stone and patience, worn and tired and infinitely steady—then this stranger is an earthquake in human form. the house feels like it trembles as he steps forward, gaze flickering from your face to the cluttered interior behind you and then back. it’s a silent judgement, more effective in its quiet than any words could be. he comes to a stop just at the edge of the porch. behind bang, and the silence is a physical weight, thick and uncomfortable.
the stranger’s gaze is not malicious ; it is simply the gaze of someone who does not care enough to soften it. he has the look of a hunter, a man who would just as soon cut your throat as he would shake your hand. his eyes are as dark as the clouds above, as opaque as the veil that lies between worlds. he seems to take you in, and the silence stretches thin, like wire pulled taut about to snap.
then bang clears his throat, and the spell is broken. he shifts, half-heartedly facing the man beside him, breaking through the quiet like a hand through water. “this is where you’ll be staying.”
the stranger does not react. he doesn't need to.
yet, it seems that he has never been good at hiding what he’s thinking, or rather he has never bothered to learn the skill. his expression is like an arrow, pointed and sharp, and his eyes flicker with irritation. he looks you over like he’s looking down at a dog, as if he can’t decide whether you’re a nuisance or a threat.
you—who stands small against the doorway, wrapped in loose-fitting black garments, an ink-stained shadow carved from the dim light of the house behind you. you—who feel as breakable as the dried flowers that hang from your rafters, pressed between the pages of books, trapped in time.
he looks down at you, and you feel like a butterfly pinned to display, a delicate thing to be looked at and nothing more. he looks at you and sees something weak. as much as he pretends he is not. something small. something breakable. something to be broken and thrown away once it has no use.
you are none of the things he assumes you are. your history is hidden in the paint stains on your skin and the plants spurting out from all around you. your strength is written in the way you stand unbowed, your softness is carved into the quiet space you’ve made.
your fingers twitch at your sides, but you do not speak. not yet. it is not your time.
he is silent, but it is the silence of a serpent who moves without being seen. he remains motionless for a moment, his gaze pinned to you like a nail to wood. each second that passes is another blow to your already frayed patience.
bang is watching everything; you can feel his gaze like a touch against the back of your neck. he exhales, the sound measured and slow. “he’s going to need a place to stay while he recovers.” his words are slow, calculated, as if even the slightest misstep would send a chain reaction.
recover. the word feels strange in the space between you. the stranger doesn’t look like he’s healing from anything—he looks like something that refuses to break, something that fights even as it falls apart. he doesn't look like he wants to recover.
“garou. be on your best behaviour.”
the words hang there, like a gauntlet thrown down. garou’s face does not change, but you can feel his displeasure like a living thing in the air between you. he glances sidelong at the elder man, his eyes narrowed in thinly veiled anger. to be placed in the care of some mountain recluse— it’s a humiliation, a punishment.
your gaze flickers downward, toward the slight sway in his stance, the way his breath is too controlled, like he’s forcing it to be steady. you don’t have to ask to know he’s in pain.
this garou does not speak, does not change expression. his face remains as set and cold as a slab of marble, but you can see the anger flashing in his eyes, as much as he tries to pretend. he stands there, unmoving, as though the idea of staying here with you in this little cottage is a personal insult.
for a moment, you think he’s going to refuse, is going to spit in bang’s face and walk back down the mountain, broken or not. but then he speaks, lips twisting in thinly-veiled distaste. his body tenses with restrained frustration, like an animal waiting to be released, like a prisoner straining against his bond.
“this some kind of joke, old man?”
the comment comes with a biting tone and a harshness that makes the air snap. his eyes are narrowed, the anger burning there so hot it could ignite a thousand worlds.
bang is not perturbed, he stands there, a rock made soft by the wind. his gaze is steady, meeting the other man's challenge with calm that seems to only make the stranger angrier. he simply shakes his head, eyes focused on a world away.
“seriously?” garou’s lips curl, something dangerously close to a sneer. “i don’t need this shit.”
bang doesn’t argue. he doesn’t need to. the silence stretches, and you watch as something ugly flickers behind garou’s eyes. resentment, frustration, the instinct to fight against anything that resembles a cage—even if the bars are made of kindness. but a cage is still a cage, no matter if it is made of gold and diamonds.
he shifts his weight, his body protesting the movement, but he holds his ground. “you expect me to just—” he gestures vaguely at the house, at you, “—stay here? live in some fucking shack in the middle of nowhere?”
“it’s not forever.”
“it might as well be.”
the words fall heavy, thick with something bitter. garou’s voice is sharp, edged with frustration, but there’s something else beneath it—something raw. something struggling. he exhales, slow and measured, dragging a hand down his face like he can wipe the situation away with sheer force of will.
his fingers flex around the furoshiki, restless, the tendons in his hand standing out like wire beneath his skin. it’s the only thing he carries, the only thing that belongs to him, and even now, it looks out of place in this setting, too rough, too worn.
garou looks at the house again, his gaze flicking past you as if seeing it for the first time. he doesn't see a home in the way the porch creaks under your weight, the way the windows are made to let in the moonlight.he doesn't see the care in the way the house is built, the way the roof will hold through storms, the way the floorboards won't give even when it rains. not the history that predates both you, and him.
garou only sees the walls, the cage that he's just been placed in. nothing more, nothing less.
the mountain air is thick with moisture, heavy with the scent of soil and something faintly floral. it sticks to his skin, clings to his clothes, makes him feel here in a way he doesn’t want to be. he shifts, rolling his shoulders, forcing the ache from them. it doesn’t work.
he pain sits deep in his bones, a dull ache he refuses to acknowledge. weakness is a thing he has no use for, even now. especially now. the ache is all through him, like a slow-burning fire. his body protests with every movement, a reminder of the beating he took. his mind is no better, filled with memories of pain and failure and weakness.
he clenches his teeth in silent pain, jaw so tight it’s a miracle they don't break from the pressure. but he doesn't show it, he won't show it, because showing weakness is unacceptable.
bang watches him, patient in that way that grates at garou’s nerves. the old man doesn’t argue. he doesn’t push. his gaze is steady, even as he waits for the inevitable argument. he doesn't look impatient, or annoyed, or even angry. he just looks like he'll just stand there, waiting, as if garou will come to the conclusion on his own.
but he already knows the conclusion. he knows the truth of it—knows he doesn’t have a choice.
and yet, that doesn't stop him from feeling like a caged animal, a child denied a toy. he's been given no choice, forced into this and forced to accept it. he feels powerless, trapped in a way he's never experienced before.
and the worse part is, there's no one to blame but himself, because he knows the truth—his healing is slow, and it will be slower without the help he so desperately needs.
because this isn’t what he wants.
this isn’t him, or his life.
his life was running, fighting, pushing back against a world that pushed first. it was defiance, raw and unyielding. it was standing alone.
and now, this: softness. kindness. care. it feels wrong, a violation of his very identity. he wants to resist, to fight against it, but the pain in his bones is a constant reminder of the position he’s in, the place he’s been forced into. he’s a predator with a broken leg, and he’s been placed on the lap of a tender hand. it doesnt fit. he doesnt fit.
garou’s breath comes sharp, controlled, forced into evenness. the mountain is too quiet. the air is too still. the house behind you is too much—too lived in, too full of things that tell a story he doesn’t want to be part of.
but where else can he go?
he's cornered, backed into a situation he can't seem to find a way out of. he can almost feel the walls closing in around him, the soft edges of this house, the soft silence of the mountain. a part of him, the one that has always fought and rebelled, wants to run, to break through the trees and never look back.
but he can't, he's too broken, and he knows it. he's trapped, stuck here until he heals, however long that may be.
garou knows, as much as he is stubborn, as much as he is pathetic, he knows, deep in his heart, that this is the only way. as much as he hates it, as much as he would rather be anywhere else but here, he know that this is the only life left for someone like him.
and he has never believed in second chances.
not for people like him, anyway.
not for people who have ruined and taken and burned through the world like they were meant to destroy it. he was a calamity, something inevitable, something that should have been put down long before it came to this. he knows this as well as he knows the weight of his own fists, the sharp edges of his own body.
it is the way the world works, the way nature works. there is no undoing what he has done, and there is no coming back from the path that he has walked. he has made his bed, and he must lie in it. there is no redemption for people like him, only endings.
and yet, he finds, that he is still here.
still breathing, still standing, still bleeding from wounds that should have been his last. there may be no redemption for him, but there is still something beyond the violence. because the universe, in its cruelty, has refused to be done with him. and instead of leaving him to rot in the dirt, instead of delivering the final blow, it has led him here.
to this mountain.
to this house.
to you.
you, standing in front of him like an unspoken answer to a question he never asked. small against the doorway, wrapped in loose-fitting black, all quiet strength and steady hands. there is no fear in your face. no anger. no pity.
you are looking at him like he is something. like he is the stars, the moon, and everything in between. the thought makes his skin itch, and garou clenches his jaw, fingers tightening around the fabric of the furoshiki slung over his shoulder. he can feel bang watching him, waiting, giving him space to make the choice on his own.
like there even is a choice. like he isn’t already trapped here, forced into this new life by the limitations of his own broken body. he can either stay here and slowly recover, relying on you and bang for his survival, or he can refuse and risk further injury or even death. not that it would matter to someone like him, anyway.
the mountain looms around him, stretching into the sky, vast and endless. the forest at its base whispers with the wind, shifting in the dying light. he could run, he thinks. he could disappear into the trees, push his body past its breaking point, collapse somewhere far from here, where no one would find him, where no one would care.
he thinks about bolting for the tree line, disappearing into the foliage like a ghost. he thinks about giving in to the part of him that always yearns for freedom, that never lets him rest for long. the thought is tempting, almost overwhelmingly so. the idea of escaping this place, of leaving this soft cage and running free into the wilderness beckons like a siren song. it would be so easy to leave right now, to run into the dark forests and never look back.
but there's a part of him that knows bang would simply follow after him. the old martial artist would track him into oblivion, and when he found him, probably half-dead and at the end of his rope, he would just bring him back here to start all over again.
he's trapped, he knows he is. there is no way out of this, at least for now. and there's a sick, twisted part of him that knows deep down that he doesn't really want to leave. there's a part of him that craves that soft safety, that comfort he's been denied for so long.
he could lie to himself and say that he's staying simply because he has no other choice.
but the truth is, there's more to it than that. there's a loneliness there, deep in him, a desperation he can't admit to. it's been so long since he’s felt anything even close to care, so long since he’s been seen as anything other than a monster, and a part of him wants this.
a part of him just wants to give in. he just wants to let himself be taken care of.
because there's you, watching him with that same steady gaze, making his skin crawl with a poison seeping into his bones. there's something in the way you look at him that he can't quite place, something in your expression that makes his heart ache. he feels like a dog that's been backed into a corner, desperately searching for an escape, but he's not good at accepting help. he's not good at accepting softness.
the night air presses against him, thick and suffocating, settling into the spaces between his ribs like something alive. the mountain is too quiet, the air too still, and the house behind you—too much. too full of things that do not belong to him. too warm, too lived in, too soft.
he stands there, breath shallow, body aching, pulse thudding in his ears like a war drum. he does not move. he does not breathe too deeply. he waits for the push, the inevitable force that will make the decision for him. a demand, an order, anything to strip him of the burden of choosing for himself.
but you do not push. you do not demand.
you only say, “there’s food inside.” and then you turn away.
