hanma x reader
description: hanma shuji has always lived for chaos, never expecting to have a place—or someone—to come home to. but as another late night ends with you quietly tending to his wounds, he begins to wonder if home was never a place... but a person.
rain had a habit of finding shuji hanma.
whether it was the night he first met kisaki, the countless gang fights that stained the streets crimson, or the evenings he wandered tokyo with blood on his knuckles and boredom in his eyes—it always seemed to rain.
tonight was no different.
the neon lights reflected across the soaked pavement as hanma lazily twirled his umbrella over one shoulder, humming to himself. another fight. another victory. another night that left him feeling absolutely nothing.
until he reached the apartment.
the light was on.
a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"...guess you're still awake."
he unlocked the door.
warmth immediately greeted him.
the scent of curry lingered in the air. a pair of slippers waited neatly beside the entrance—one much smaller than his own.
and there you were.
curled asleep on the couch.
a book rested against your chest, half-read. the television quietly played some late-night variety show, though you'd long since drifted off.
hanma stood in silence.
this...
this was strange.
he'd never imagined a home.
not really.
he'd always assumed he'd die young—stabbed, shot, beaten, laughing all the way until the end.
yet here you were.
waiting.
for him.
"...you're gonna catch a cold sleeping out here."
his voice was unusually soft.
you stirred.
sleepily blinking, your eyes met his.
"...shuji?"
"you waited."
"you were late."
"i got distracted."
"you got into another fight."
"you know me too well."
you sighed before standing, walking toward him.
without saying a word, you reached up and gently brushed damp strands of blond-and-black hair away from his forehead.
"...you're bleeding."
"it's barely anything."
"it never is, according to you."
you disappeared into the bathroom.
hanma leaned against the wall with a crooked grin.
"you really don't have to—"
"i know."
you returned carrying the familiar first-aid box.
"...sit."
he laughed.
"bossy."
"you'll survive."
"barely."
he dropped onto the chair while you cleaned the cut above his eyebrow.
the room fell quiet.
hanma watched your concentrated expression.
your eyebrows furrowed.
your lips pressed into a tiny pout every time he winced—even when he was exaggerating on purpose.
"...you enjoy annoying me."
"i enjoy watching you fuss."
"i don't fuss."
you rolled your eyes.
"...idiot."
his grin widened.
there it was.
your insults always sounded affectionate.
once you finished wrapping the small bandage around his forehead, you gently tapped it.
"there."
hanma caught your wrist before you could pull away.
the playful smile slowly faded.
"...why?"
you blinked.
"why what?"
"why stay with someone like me?"
the question surprised even him.
he wasn't insecure.
he wasn't sentimental.
he simply...
didn't understand.
you looked at him for a long moment.
then smiled.
"...because everyone else only sees shuji hanma."
"and you don't?"
"i see the man who pretends he isn't exhausted."
his fingers loosened.
"the one who buys stray cats food when nobody's watching."
"..."
"the one who secretly remembers my favorite snacks."
"..."
"the one who always walks on the roadside so i'm farther away from traffic."
"..."
"the one who thinks he deserves to be alone."
silence.
heavy.
painfully quiet.
hanma looked away.
"...you're seeing things."
"i'm seeing you."
no hesitation.
no fear.
just certainty.
his laugh came out quieter than usual.
"...you're weird."
"so i've been told."
"you know people think i'm dangerous."
"i know."
"you should probably run."
"i don't want to."
"..."
"you've given everyone else the version of you that laughs during fights."
your thumb gently brushed over the tattoo across his hand.
"but you don't have to perform for me."
something inside him cracked.
not loudly.
not dramatically.
just enough.
hanma had lived his entire life chasing excitement because emptiness terrified him.
the rush of violence.
the thrill of chaos.
the next ridiculous thing.
anything to avoid standing still long enough to hear how lonely the silence really was.
yet somehow...
this tiny apartment.
a warm meal.
bandages.
your sleepy smile.
this was louder than any fight he'd ever won.
he suddenly pulled you into his lap.
you let out a surprised squeak.
"shuji!"
"you talk too much."
"you asked."
"i regret it."
"you don't."
"...no."
he rested his forehead against yours.
"...i don't."
you smiled.
"i know."
outside, thunder rolled across the sky.
rain continued to fall.
the city remained loud.
dangerous.
unpredictable.
tomorrow hanma would return to the streets.
he'd wear that same lazy grin.
the same mocking laugh.
the same reckless attitude.
people would never know.
they would never see the version of shuji hanma who quietly reached for your hand while falling asleep.
the version that lingered in doorways just to hear you humming in the kitchen.
the version that finally understood why people searched for somewhere to return to.
hanma shuji who hated buying his school uniform as a kid because they never could find anything that fit him
he still remembers the stores older kid's section and the trips to the tailor where he had to stand for hours (in his mind) so they could adjust the gakurans he swam in for months, right in lenght but never in width, and that he outgrew by the next year anyways
hanma shuji who knows which vending machines give back coins in all parts of the city because he used to spend all his time wandering the streets as a kid
