Send me a ship and I will explain why I do or don't ship it
I ship Pieck and her Boy Toy because when the Marley arc was happening in the manga, I was very uninterested in whatever Zeke and Reiner were doing just because it wasn't for me. What I was interested in, however, was Pieck and Porco because their little friendship and banter made a semi-divisive arc a bit more palatable IMO.
Oh yeah, back when this arc was coming out it was common for SNK fans to not be interested in it because they missed our Paradisian babbies. Understandable.
But back to Porco and Pieck, I just found myself more interested in what was happening on-panel whenever they were there. Pieck's observations and Porco's sass made them stand out as characters to me. It's a very interesting way to humanize characters, not through tragic backstories but by giving them a BFF that they do stupid things with. Isn't that why people grew so fond of Springles?
Even in modern AUs I adore seeing them just sticking to each other's side. IDK if they're together, but as long as they're drift compatible besties I'm okay with it. Just give me the tiny sassy girl and her snarky BFF with stupid hair, that's all I need.
And y'know, it's super funny you asked this because I was just thinking back to how if you go to the very start of the Pokkopiku tag on ao3 you'll see that I was one of the writers of the earliest fics there. It's insane for me to think about but hey, it is what it is.
Porco Galliard. Pieck Finger.
Steamships. Pots of Gruel. Year-Old Letters.
3329 words.
(ao3.) || Part 1.
The stokehold of the Sina feels tighter than it has to, only ever making room for mountains of coal and the crew that keeps the ship running. The lack of windows makes every day feel the same, rendering every moment into a monotonous stream. The trip from England to America will only take a week, yet every minute he spends adding fuel to the fire feels like an hour.
There isn’t much to do but keep his head down and pray that the heat doesn’t kill him. His shifts are characterized by sweat, soot, and not understanding a goddamn word that his co-workers are saying. Conversations in languages he doesn’t know mixes with the sound of flames or that of the engines. Most of the time his mind will wander and he will either think of what life in New York will entail, or how badly his shoulder will ache tonight. But when he’s not thinking about that Porco is pondering what the other stokers, engineers, boilermakers might be saying about him.
There aren’t many other French-speakers in the stokehold, just him and a fellow snarky Frenchmen named Jean. In some ways they are similar, aside from sharing a mother tongue they are both exchanging a week of coal shoveling for a trip across the Atlantic, as that’s all their qualifications can get them.
But the difference between the two is that Jean hails from Alsace while Porco has come a long way from Provence. The even bigger difference is that Jean can understand the other languages spoken on the ship, whereas Porco can only hear so much before wishing that people would talk a bit slower. Nearly two decades in Strasbourg has given Jean a solid grasp on German and a little bit of English, which proves to be an advantage on the Sina.
It’s only the fourth day of the journey and Jean has already played translator multiple times. It’s a downside of agreeing to work on such a vessel — Porco had been so enamored by the prospect of traveling to America that he didn’t realize that the ship was mostly crewed by Englishmen and Germans. Even if it’s just to tell him the shift is over, the fact that Jean can comprehend what the other crew members are saying while Porco only hears fragments of conversations makes him envious. There were not many opportunities for him to learn anything else in Porco’s little corner of Provence, and even his knowledge of Italian and Spanish doesn’t seem capable of taking him far.
In his hours of shoveling, Porco does wonder what will happen once he arrives in New York. Sure, he has Marcel to help him get settled, but what good is that when his own grasp of English is limited?
At least Jean is not cruel when he makes sure that Porci is included, he is honest and straightforward when he speaks, allowing his fellow Frenchman to understand what’s happening on the not-so-off-chance that he can’t. Whether they are getting covered in soot or enjoying a well-earned break from their undervalued jobs, Porco is thankful for Jean’s presence. In a way it reminds him of Marcel — a familiarness that stems from the way Jean will aid, assist, and occasionally protect his fellow Frenchman. It both comforts Porco in a very uncomforting situation, but also makes him wish that the Sina could get to America just a little bit faster.
…
…
…
Reading Marcel’s writing becomes a comforting ritual, especially when his shift is over. As Porco walks to steerage, the only other place that crew members are allowed to be, he takes a postcard out of his pocket. He is attentive as he reads the familiar penmanship, as if the message might change every time he looks away, even though all the card has ever done is reside on his person. It’s been folded and unfolded enough times that a noticeable crease exists in the middle, but the picture of the Statue of Liberty next to the short paragraph still remains and that’s all that matters.
Porco enters steerage as he goes over the same words he’s been reading for over a year. Marcel’s thoughts about how the city looks at night alleviates Porco’s stress, the sensations that had been building inside of him for the last few hours. There’s something assuring about knowing just how far two boys from Provence can go.
He weaves through the other passengers and finds the table where most of the crew converge. He sits next to Jean, who is ladling watery gruel from a communal pot into a metal dish that’s seen better days. The provisions have been provided by the Sina for both the crew and those in steerage, and even though the main course resembles beige chunks floating in spoiled milk Porco finds that anything will become appetizing if one is hungry enough, especially if one had just spent the last few hours inside a sweaty stokehold.
Jean is kind enough to give a serving to Porco, even if he can’t mask the little wrinkle of his nose as he dishes it out. Though his eyes are affixed to Marcel’s letter he makes sure to utter a quick thank you.
He’s not sure if it’s the unappealing goop or the exhaustion from his recent shift, but when Porco reads a part in the message where Marcel describes some of the food he’s had in New York — particularly a kind of small, sweet cake deep fried in fat and covered with sugar — Porco’s stomach rumbles. When he grabs a bread roll from the middle of the table and bites down, he can’t help but wish that it is something much different.
Porco eats and takes in his surroundings, then discovers that a place like steerage doesn’t really change, just like the stokehold. As to be expected, people from all walks of life are treated more like cargo than human beings, packed into the limited space like cattle. Strangers are rubbing elbows as they stand or sit, sharing bunks that are lined with straw regardless of their status. It cannot possibly be comfortable and Porco is suddenly thankful that at least the beds of the crew have mattresses.
Just like the engine room he hears a flurry of languages being thrown about. Porco can pick up on some bits of English, but it appears that his ability to understand what people are saying is as strong as it is amongst the fires. He partially tunes into the conversation between Jean and a fellow engineer — a man named Onyankopon who is only a few years older than they are. Porco can pick up on roughly half of their words, and it seems to be the usual gossip about the ship’s captain, but as he listens he wonders if he would understand a little more if both men just spoke a bit slower.
As Porco pokes at his gruel and partially listens, he spots a familiar face at the bunks.
Last night Porco had broken the rules and traveled up the ship, stepping onto the promenade even at the risk of being caught. All along he had thought that the gates meant to keep people in steerage would be locked, but for a reason he doesn’t know they were not, and as a result of his exploration he was blessed with a breath of fresh air.
And to his surprise, he had not been the only person who had done so.
A girl named Pieck had found him near the bow of the ship, and though his mother tongue did not overlap with hers, they managed to share more words than he expected. When they had met he noticed the way she shivered and offered his coat, despite the dirt imbued into every fiber. To his surprise she had accepted and given it back once they returned to their place in the world.
And now she’s sitting on the communal bunks in a sea of other steerage passengers. She’s currently next to an older man, and judging by their similar dark hair and eyes Porco guesses that it’s the fabled ‘Papa’ she had mentioned last night. The man is holding his own dish of gruel as Pieck watches him eat, seemingly ensuring that he finishes every bite.
Porco keeps his eyes on her for a second longer than he should, but before he knows it she’s looking up. Their gazes meet and suddenly something inside of him clenches. Embarrassed, he turns around and focuses back on his dinner. He’s unsure why he feels this way, why one meeting with a girl he can only somewhat speak to is making him blush like a school boy.
Perhaps this is the natural result of spending his days in a cramped engine room filled with only men.
The conversation of the other crew becomes white noise as he takes a bite of bread, the loaf is so hard that he fears breaking his teeth. It makes him miss the one he had been given from the kitchen last night, a treat from a passing waiter who perhaps took pity on the young, soot-covered stoker.
“What’s up with you, Galliard?” asks a familiar voice.
Porco looks to the side and meets his fellow Frenchman’s gaze. Jean’s eyes are hazel, just like his, only narrower and more intense. Their hair colors are also a few shades apart, even when they’re both covered in dust. The difference between them seems to be that Jean is younger than Porco, despite being taller and broader, a fact that never ceases to annoy him.
“Nothing,” Porco insists, returning his focus to his bread. He doesn’t know what spurred Jean’s curiosity, how much his mannerisms would have changed to be worth speaking up about.
Jean looks unconvinced, then spares a glance across the room and catches sight of a certain passenger. When his eyes return to Porco, he playfully nudges his fellow stoker. “Are you sure about that?”
“Very sure.” Porco nods his head before putting another spoonful of gruel into his mouth.
Jean still wears a questioning look on his face, but it only takes a few seconds before he is shrugging and looking back at the other crew members. His bullshit detector is certainly refined, much more than one would expect from a guy who spends the whole day in dirt.
“If that’s what you say,” Jean finally says.
The rest of the evening carries on and Porco doesn’t say much. He fights the temptation to look across the room and maybe catch sight of Pieck again, wherever she may be. So instead he finds himself being drawn to the sight of his dirty hands and forearms, quickly realizing just how much soot had clung to him after leaving the stokehold. He then wonders if he should do something about it.
…
…
…
Those in steerage and the stokehold are granted a communal bathroom, though in Porco’s experience he finds that sometimes resting or eating will take priority over washing. But he decides to be different, so in an empty room lined with sinks he cleans off a day’s worth of soot.
He starts by scrubbing the dust off his face and torso, then makes an attempt to wash his hair. It’s difficult to do so with only a sink, so he ends up sitting bare-chested on one of the benches and uses an old metal cup to pour water over himself. The water falls over his head and splashes onto his shoulders, a messy process that could be aided with a bar of soap, a luxury that he unfortunately lacks.
When Porco is done he catches sight of a nearby porthole. It is night and the light of the Sina only touches a sliver of the ocean outside, only going so far when the ship is surrounded by darkness. All Porco can really tell is that the ship is moving forward, and perhaps to a lowly stoker like him that’s all he really needs to know.
For a moment he lets himself think of Marcel again, but not of the letters from America, but of their youth in Provence. Porco has always lived by the ocean, the shores of the Riviera being one of his usual places to play. But such waters were always lit by the sun, a presence that would burn the sky blue and keep him warm as he swam and gathered shells like most little boys would.
As Porco thinks back on it now, he realizes that some of his memories are tainted by the passing of his parents, as well as Marcel’s vow to find a better life for the two of them. Even if said vow took Marcel all the way to Lyon, then to Paris, then all the way across the Atlantic, Porco holds onto the hope that this is the right choice for both of them, that leaving their homeland behind was for the better and that things will be fine once he arrives in New York. With all things considered, Porco wonders if this is more of the world than most boys from Provence will ever see.
Before his thoughts can overwhelm him, Porco finds a towel and begins drying his hair. There are no mirrors in the bathroom, as apparently a reflection is a perk granted to the first and second-class passengers, but a quick glance to his arms and chest tell him that he’s cleaner than he’s been since he boarded the Sina.
“Porco?” asks a voice in an accent that he only somewhat recognizes.
He turns to find Pieck standing in the doorway leading to the bathroom. She’s no longer wearing his jacket but her own, an aged garment that hangs loosely off her slender frame. It looks a size too big for her, the hem just barely coming off the floor, and as a result she looks smaller than she really is. Her messy hair is brushed aside, and even though she’s spent all day in the confines of steerage Porco swears that she looks prettier than he can ever be.
“Hello,” Porco greets. He stops running the dirty towel through his hair and holds it in his grasp, then only a few seconds pass before he remembers that he’s currently bare-chested. Embarrassed, he swiftly turns around and looks for his shirt, hoping that the blush in his face is not obvious.
“I’m not dressed!” he says in an apologetic tone. He swears that he hears Pieck giggle when he spots his shirt hanging off the edge of the sink. He grabs it and pulls it on just as quickly.
After hastily tugging on the garment, he turns and sees Pieck smirking as he pulls his suspenders onto his torso.
“It’s okay,” she assures him. “Back home I was a nurse, so I’m used to… that.”
Porco lets out a chuckle, though mainly to relieve the anxious knot in his stomach. His experience with women is limited, not just because those in Provence rarely spared him a glance, but because he wouldn’t have anything to offer to anyone who did.
“Where… where is home?” he tries. Her accent tells him that it’s a place where people speak German, but he lacks the worldliness to pinpoint which one.
“Hamburg,” Pieck confirms. The smile on her face becomes more subtle, like she’s happy that someone on this ship bothered asking her. “You?”
“Nice.”
Pieck keeps beaming, but tilts her head to the side. “I don’t know where that is.”
“It is in the south…” Porco explains. “...of France, I mean.”
There is a beat while Pieck seems to be thinking, making Porco wonder if his grasp on English is as horrible as he thinks it is.
“I have never been,” Pieck says. “But it sounds lovely.”
Porco nods his head. He had been told that Hamburg is a port town, much similar to Nice, but he also guessed that whatever waters it faces must differ from the Riviera. He then thinks of his childhood beaches again and wonders if she would like it if she were ever to visit. Not that she ever would, especially now, but the thought still enters his mind.
Soon Pieck’s eyes spot something on the floor.
“You dropped this.”
Porco glances down to see Marcel’s postcard on the damp ground. It had been in his pocket and must have slipped without him noticing. Before he can do so Pieck kneels down and takes the letter. Her eyes briefly glance to both the scribbly handwriting and the picture of the Statue of Liberty. Before she can look at it too long she’s handing it back to him.
Porco is stiff when he accepts it, but thinks it’s safe to assume that she was unable to read the message. He makes sure to fold the postcard carefully before returning it to his trouser pocket. He’s not in the mood to lose his last remnants of Marcel, especially now.
There is another beat while Pieck seems to be thinking. Her smile falters slightly and the way she looks at him gets a little more hesitant. “Is this from… a friend?” she guesses, her face going still. “Or from…”
Porco listens to her every word, leaning towards her just slightly.
“... a girl?”
Only a moment passes before Porco shakes his head. He can’t help but break into a smile, one that’s less shy than before. He’s not even sure what he finds funny, her presumptuousness or something else entirely.
“No… no girl,” he tells her. “From my brother. It is… I’m going to meet him… in New York.”
A beat passes and for a split second Pieck looks to be regretting how forward she had been. The laugh she lets out is awkward, then soon she’s back to that strangely playful disposition of hers. “Under the statue, I presume?” she asks, a teasing tone returning to her voice.
Porco smiles back at her. “I hope so.”
A few more moments of silence passes — the ocean outside continues to move, the inner mechanisms of the Sina continue to churn, and the only thing between the boy from Nice and the girl from Hamburg is the atmosphere of steerage, a kind of air that is permeated with the heat of a thousand travelers making their way across the Atlantic.
Eventually, Porco goes to where he had put his jacket. He pulls it over his shoulders, and even if it’s still covered in dirt it’s another cherished fragment of his brother, as it had been Marcel’s before he left for Paris. Porco is about to leave, but before he can even step forward he can see something change in Pieck’s eyes, as if an idea had just formed in her pretty little head.
“Uh… I wanted to ask… to ask you… if you would… walk with me?” she says slowly, and he’s not sure if she’s doing so because of their slight language barrier or if she’s trying to find the right words to say. “On the deck again, I mean. Or promenade, as they say.”
The idea surprises him. Porco is not used to getting this kind of attention, and nothing in his life leading up to this moment had prepared him to receive it on a transatlantic journey, of all things. He tilts his head to the side and wonders if he heard her correctly — maybe his English isn’t as bad as he initially thought.
“I meant to bring my father up but he is asleep, and…” Pieck continues on, briefly breaking eye contact with him to glance at her scuffed-up boots. “...and it would be dreadful to go up there alone, wouldn’t it?”
A smile creeps onto Porco’s face. His heart feels warm.
“It would be… very dreadful,” he agrees, stepping forward slowly. He keeps his eyes on hers with no intention to take them away, warm hazel meeting dark brown. “Very dreadful indeed.”
My fic A study of Emotions just reached 100 kudos 🥰
It was my first fic that was only introspection, with no plot other than character development and romance, and I thought it was so hard to write, but damn if it isn't a good fic.
A study of Emotions - Shikajin fic - 8k
"Inojin hadn't planned on reading Shikadai's mind at the same time as he practised the Mind Transfer. He hadn't either been prepared for what he found out when reading Shikadai's subconscious."
Hello hello my friend! You know me, gonna request some Shikajin 🤭
I’d love to see them doing something domestic together. Perhaps fixing each other’s hair before bed? Maybe cooking together? Or out on the town shopping?
Also…if Inojin has long hair that would be really nice too 😌
Hi friend!!
Sorry this took so long. I’m trying to do quick (and possibly crappy 🤣) sketch for everyone in my asks this week. I can’t dedicate a long time to a pic of full color since I’m working a stupid amount of hours each day. So I hope you like the quick doodle!
For those of you who have read Plié-sed to Have Met You, this little teaser takes place within that same universe. It's a scene that I plan to include in my soon(ish) to come Shikajin part 2 of this dance AU. It is not necessary however to read Plié to understand the below. And so, without further ado...
Sway
“When we dance you have a way with me
Stay with me, sway with me”
Dean Martin
Full story below the cut ✨
“Hey, Inojin?”
He looked up from removing his shoes, expecting to meet Shikadai’s gaze and instead was met with the back of his boyfriend’s head. Inojin made a small noise to indicate he was listening, waiting for Shikadai to continue as he kepy fiddling with his laces.
“Would you be interested in teaching me some dance steps? I mean, nothing too crazy. You know, just the basics or—”
Inojin nearly catapulted himself up off the ground and grabbed Shikadai by the arms. Those were words he never expected to come out of his boyfriend’s mouth.
“You want to dance?”
Even though they happened to be standing under one of the ceiling lamps in the studio where the bulbs had blown out, Inojin could still make out the blush on Shikadai’s cheeks as he gave a shy nod in response.
“Oh my god, really?! Really? I can’t believe it, oh my god, of course, sweetie! That makes me so happy.”
He watched as the initial shock on Shikadai’s face from the excited outburst morphed into a smile. But not just any smile. This was a special smile. A smile that made Inojin’s heart flutter more than even the worst bout of stage fright.
It was that smile where his eyes became alight with love. That smile that revealed Shikadai was exactly where he wanted to be and there was nothing else he’d rather be doing. That smile only few people ever got the pleasure of being on the receiving end of.
Inojin still couldn’t believe that he was so lucky to see that smile every day.
He kicked his shoes off fully as he grabbed Shikadai’s hand and dragged him over to a part of the room where the overhead lights did work and they could see each other clearly.
Inojin decided to start their lesson with the class step ball change. He chose it not only because it is one of the most basic moves in all styles of dance, but he assumed Shikadai would have an easy time with it. It’s one of those steps where the name of the move tells you how to perform it: you step with one leg, then switch your weight to the ball of your opposite foot, and then back. Inojin thought it would appeal to his boyfriend’s overly logical brain and come naturally to him. All he had to do was follow along with the words.
Apparently though, Inojin thought wrong.
For ten minutes now, he watched as Shikadai continuously tripped over his own feet. He just couldn’t seem to comprehend he had to change the balls of his feet and not keep one plastered to the ground. Inojin offered several times to teach him a different step, but Shikadai refused. He was trying so hard to get it right, Inojin could see beads of sweat drip down his forehead and land on the lens of his glasses.
Shikadai seemed determined to get this step down no matter what, and Inojin was wracking his brain to come up with a way to help him. He started to think back to moments with his parents. Back to a time when he was small and he was first learning these steps himself. The memories prompted him to try a different tactic than having Shikadai just watch and attempt to copy his feet.
Inojin walked over to where Shikadai was fumbling around and wrapped his arm around his boyfriend’s waist. He pulled him in tight so that Shikadai’s backside was flush with his whole body. He could feel Shikadai stiffen at the sudden contact, so Inojin placed a reassuring kiss onto the back of his neck.
“Don’t fight against me, okay? Just relax and let my body guide yours.”
Inojin started to move, lifting his right foot fully off the ground. The top of his thigh pressed into the back of Shikadai’s, effectively raising the other man’s leg with it. Inojin then placed both of their feet back onto the floor and repeated the movement on their left but at a much quicker pace. Then again with the right as that same faster speed.
He continued the slow-quick-quick pattern over and over. With each step Inojin took, Shikadai’s legs did the same, being led by the gentle nudging. Inojin could feel the rhythm start to flow through Shikadai as he became more accustomed to the movements through this hands-on approach.
Just like a child learns to ride a bike without training wheels for the first time, Inojin slowly loosened his grip from Shikadai’s waist and let the other man try on his own. He couldn’t help but grin with pride as Shikadai continued to step ball change all by himself.
It was a different kind of pride than what he’d experienced with the students he taught in class. Inojin imagined it was similar to how his parents had felt every time they watched him first master a new step.
This wasn’t a sense of pride fueled by pure accomplishment, no. This was a pride synonymous with love.
“Well, now that you’ve mastered that, let’s try something else.”
Inojin chuckled when Shikadai jumped at the sound of his voice. He gave Inojin a puzzled look as if asking how they were now on opposite sides of the room. Shikadai had seemingly gotten so caught up in the dance, he hadn’t noticed he was no longer being held.
Inojin walked back over to his partner, making sure to flash one of his signature cheeky winks. He then grabbed Shikadai’s arms, placed them around his neck, and put his own hands on Shikadai’s waist. He once again felt his boyfriend’s body tense up with shyness, so Inojin pulled him in closer and rested his chin upon Shikadai’s shoulder.
“Don’t be nervous. I got you. We’ll take it nice and slow.”
Inojin started to move again. This time, his feet barely lifted off the ground as he gently rocked the pair right and left. He then rubbed encouraging circles into Shikadai’s sides, silently asking him to follow along. Inojin could feel the other man’s body melt into his own, allowing Inojin to lead them in the slow dance.
Inojin had danced with many partners over the years. Girls he’d had to lift over his head and hold their waist as they spun around. Guys he’d had to dive over and swoop under as they moved across the floor.
But this. This wasn’t anything like that.
There was no choreography to ensure they didn’t step on each other’s toes. There had been no practicing for hours on end to make sure the timing was right for a big lift. There was no set rhythm of 1-2-3 over and over again to the tune of music.
No this. This required no plans. No counts. No steps. No marks to hit. This was the most basic of dances and the most natural. The most comforting. The most freeing. The most pure.
This was simply two people. Sharing their space, breathing as one, swaying side to side, and just existing.
Inojin nuzzled further into the crook of his boyfriend’s neck, enjoying the ever-present scent of sand and heat. Even though it had been a few months since Shikadai had gone home for winter break, the smell of the desert never left his skin. It was so foreign to Inojin who had grown up in the concrete laden labyrinth that is New York City. He could live without the stench of sweaty subways and steamy sewer grates. But the aroma that was pure Shikadai? He couldn’t get enough of it.
Now that he had calmed down from the earlier excitement at Shikadai’s request, Inojin decided it was time to ask the question that had been on his mind since then.
“So, why the interest in dancing all of a sudden?”
He felt the blush from Shikadai’s cheek warm his skin.
“Well, it’s such a big part of who you are. A part that I don’t know yet.”
Inojin rearranged them slightly so he could look at Shikadai’s face. He could feel that same excitement from before eager to resurface. It was taking all of Inojin’s patience to let Shikadai finish without interrupting him again.
“I want to know as much as I can about every part of you. Even the parts that I don’t really understand.”
The flush on his face was still present as Shikadai turned his gaze to the ground. Inojin’s eyes watched as the movement caused his glasses to slide down the bridge of his nose. Shikadai unconsciously wrinkled his nostrils as if trying to inch the frames back up to the top.
God, his boyfriend was so cute. Inojin couldn’t stand it.
“I just. I really appreciate the part you play in my own life. And I wanted to thank you for that. So, I don’t know, I just thought—”
That’s it. He couldn’t hold himself back anymore. His patience had run out.
Inojin snatched Shikadai’s hand and raised it above both their heads. He spun the other man around, twirling him like the ballerina inside his music box, before grabbing Shikadai around the waist and dipping him back across his arm. He then bent down to place the biggest, sloppiest kiss on his boyfriend’s lips.
Inojin put every single part of himself into the kiss so that Shikadai would know all of it. That he too appreciated the role the other man played in his life. That he was beyond grateful for the journey they had taken together to get to here.
He imagined right now they looked very similar to that famous photograph of the sailor kissing a complete stranger in the middle of Times Square. Inojin had seen so many tourists reenact that pose over the years. And though Times Square was a part of Manhattan that every native New Yorker tried to avoid at all costs, Inojin couldn’t deny that he had secretly wanted to join in the fun too and copy it with a partner.
But right now, taking a photo was the farthest thing from his mind. In this moment, Inojin felt so special, so cared for, so loved by the man in his arms. It was a feeling that spoke more words than any picture ever could.
And so, even though it went without saying, Inojin just couldn’t help himself.
“I love you too, Shikadai. So very, very much.”
Inojin in return received the biggest grin he had ever seen. Shikadai’s smile was so wide that his cheeks pressed into the bottom rim of his glasses. He then proceeded to right himself up and engulf Inojin in a hug so tight only an Akimichi could rival it.
He had expected Shikadai to let go after a while, so Inojin was surprised when instead the other man brought them even closer together and began to rock them side to side. He had apparently decided to take the lead, and now Shikadai was the one to guide them in the slow dance.
Inojin tried to think of a time in all his years of competing and performing where he had loved dancing more than this moment right here. But none even came close.
This was special because it wasn’t about how high he could jump or how many turns he could do in a row. There was no music, no counting. It was just about them and the air that swayed with them as they floated through it.
They danced without outside pressure. They danced without clear cut rules. They danced without thinking about.
Theirs was a
cosmic love
born again with every sunrise.
With each rebirth,
that love grew
stronger than the day was light and
deeper than the night was dark.
Happy Birthday to me with a little Shikajin 🥰
Artwork commissioned by the amazingly talented @keijidraws😘
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
