#NOT kidding around w/ the sheer level of 'fixit' in this ficlet

[libraryscarf]

i had approximately One BILLION Feelings about this art by @ahshesgone, so i wrote smth to heal myself and maybe some other people. the title’s a meme. the fic is not. (thx ash for letting me write for your art, it was cathARTic haha get it hahA i’m leaking sadness onto my keyboard)

god, interrupted ( ao3 )

Hiyori didn’t feel the weight of the tiny shrine Yato had placed in her hands. Her hands were cold and numb, useless blocks of ice at the ends of her arms.

“All right,” he was saying. “Take care of this for me.”

No.

No.

What was he asking of her? He couldn’t think this was right. No. He couldn’t leave it like this.

He couldn’t vanish, leaving her with nothing but a shrine in her hands and an ache in her throat.

“No.”

Yato was already turning away, but her cry surprised him. He looked at her, and his expression instantly shifted to one of concern. Hiyori didn’t understand why until the hot salt of tears stung her lips, and she realized she was crying. Hard.

“Hiyori.” His voice carried a hard edge of worry. “What—?”

She dropped the shrine.

It splintered on impact, sending slices of painted wood and crumbs of old glue skittering across the pavement. Yato’s eyes darted between Hiyori’s face and the wreckage, his eyes and mouth round with shock.

Hiyori stared down at the destroyed shrine. Her legs turned to water, and she sank to her knees next to it, empty hands at her sides, balling into tight fists and then releasing, balling, releasing. Her fingernails bit ruthlessly into her frozen palms.

“I broke it,” she said stupidly. Her fingers fluttered over the splinters like nervous butterflies.

Yato dropped to his knees in front of her, catching her hands in his.

“You’re going to cut yourself, Hiyori.”

He gripped her fingers between his, rubbing the raw, chapped skin. His touch was so warm; it burned straight through her icy flesh and sank into her chest, quivering like an arrow. Quickly, she realized that the heat was rising in her throat, that it tasted like bile and brass, that she was going to scream.

“You idiot!” she wailed. She snatched her hands from him and shuffled backwards on her knees. Pieces of the shrine dug splintery teeth into her legs. Yato stared at her, flabbergasted. His hands were still outstretched, cradling air.

“What do you mean, you’re leaving?” she snapped. “What would happen to Yukine?”

Yato’s mouth opened and shut several times.

“I’ve—listen, Hiyori—I have thought this through.”

She snorted loudly. “Well. Even if you have, it’s a stupid, terrible, reckless plan, and I won’t let you do it.”

His jaw dropped. “Let me?”

“You heard me.” Hiyori sat back on her heels and drew her eyebrows together. The effect of her stormy expression was somewhat undercut by the tears racing each other down her cheeks.

Yato didn’t answer. After a few seconds of silence, Hiyori’s eyes dropped to the ground, where a few of the larger pieces of the shrine lay together, jagged along their edges. Her heart ached fiercely along the same fault lines.

“But I have to,” he said, quietly. “At least, I have to try.”

“But why now? Why alone?”

He met her eyes, and a small, sad smile crossed his lips.

“I’m finally brave enough to do this on my own, Hiyori. That’s because of you.”

It was like a piece of cold iron had been shoved into one of those fault lines, wedging it brutally open. She gasped at the white, sudden agony of it. “Don’t,” she breathed.

But he was almost on his feet again. And then he would turn away from her and vanish, and there she would be still, sitting on the ground, with the brokenness of herself for company.

She lurched to her knees and reached out, blind with tears. Her fingers found the front of his zippered jersey, fisted in the cloth, and yanked. Yato yelped loudly as he crashed to the ground. Several pieces of wood snapped under his knees.

“Hiyori—!”

He choked off with a gasp as she threw herself against him, winding tight arms around his neck. Her nails burrowed into his shoulders, and she tucked her face against his collarbone, trying to calm the tight, gutting sobs that broke from her throat. His breath was hot and shallow on her neck.

He couldn’t leave if she didn’t let go.

“I didn’t make you that shrine so you could reincarnate,” she whispered furiously, forcing the tears back down her throat. Her fingers strangled the fabric of his jersey. “How could you think that?”

Yato stiffened at her words. He wasn’t touching her, wasn’t holding her like she held him.

Finally, he exhaled.

“But…you did make it because you knew…you knew I wanted one, right?” But he wasn’t so certain, now.

Hiyori nodded against his shoulder. “Yes.”

“Then what do you mean—”

“I made it because I love you, Yato.”

Hiyori felt it: the harsh tremor that took his whole body as he let out an involuntary whimper.

It felt so good to have said it. Every nerve was bright and alive; her heart soared with conviction.

“I love you,” she repeated, relishing the syllables on her tongue.

She gasped when his arms wrapped around her, crushing their bodies closer. There was a desperate tightness in his shoulders, in the taut arch of his back.

“Hiyori.”

A shiver skipped down her spine as his lips touched her neck. “Yes?”

“What am I supposed to do?”

A breathy, half-crazed giggle burst from her. “Well. You could say it back.”

Yato let out a shaky exhale against her neck—one that could have been a laugh. “I think you know already.”

A thrill sped through her veins.

“But…would you say it?” she begged. “Please?”

One of his hands moved up to smooth over her wind-tossed hair, and then settled there, cupping the back of her neck.

“Hiyori,” he whispered, like he was praying.

As though of the two of them, she were the god.

“I love you.”

She shut her eyes. This was it: how it should be, how it was always meant to happen. There would be no mention of leaving. There would be no talk of reincarnation.

Then Yato trembled. “I love you so much, it fucking scares me.”

Hiyori flinched at the raw anguish in his voice. Like this was a bad thing. Like it was just something more to fear.

She released her grip on him, sliding her hands around to his chest and gently putting distance between them.

“Please,” she said. “Please, don’t go. At least not right now. Can you wait? Can we talk about it?”

He slowly shook his head, not meeting her eyes.

“Yato.” She reached out and took his chin. Tilting it upward, she forced his gaze to meet hers.

Though she had been too appalled to blush, the open yearning in his face was more than enough to send a hot wave of color into her face. She cleared her throat and looked away. As her hand dropped from his chin, he caught it.

“But isn’t this just all the more reason not to forget me?” he asked, stroking her thumb.

Hiyori bridled. Now that wasn’t quite fair.

“No! It’s all the more reason for you to stay put and not do something absolutely psychotic to try and look like a hero.”

Now it was Yato’s turn to bristle with defensiveness. “I wasn’t going to try and look like a hero!”

“Oh, really? So not even the smallest part of this whole idiot scheme to martyr yourself was to look cool and valiant?”

Yato’s face was completely red. His jaw worked silently for a few seconds before he sputtered:

“That’s—that’s so—such an immature—I can’t believe you would—”

Hiyori smirked in victory. Yato frowned and grumbled and stared at his knees, but he didn’t let go of her hand. Her skin tingled where it touched his.

The corner of her lip twitched.

“Besides, have you thought that without this shrine, my memory might fail me entirely? You really shouldn’t go anywhere until it’s fixed.”

He looked up, stricken. Hiyori felt a twinge of guilt at the hurt on his face, but his expression softened into fondness when he saw she wasn’t serious.

“That is a good point,” he said after a brief hesitation.

She nodded. “It is. A very good point.”

There was a long pause, inhabited by the not-quite-silence of the evening around them. Crickets sang in the long grass. Far away, a car engine coughed.

“So…can we raincheck the suicide mission?”

“It’s not a suicide mi—”

Yato choked on his words as Hiyori brought his hand suddenly to her lips. She brushed her mouth across his knuckles, her senses singing with the giddy, peculiar godsmell that clung to his skin.

“Sure, okay. Yeah, raincheck,” he wheezed.

Hiyori grinned, more than a little shocked at herself. But it had worked.

“Can we go home?” she asked.

Yato lifted his other hand and moved hair away from her face. Her eyes fluttered closed when his fingers ghosted against her temple. Before she realized he moved, he leaned toward her, and there was the softest pressure of his lips on her forehead. She squeaked, and a laugh rumbled through his chest.

“Another good idea,” he murmured. “You’re full of them tonight, Hiyori.”

This time, the blush simmering in her cheeks boiled all the way up to her scalp.

“Yes—s-sometimes,” she stammered.

Yato took hold of her elbows and helped her to her feet. She brushed bits of shattered shrine off her knees.

“Ugh, I’m going to have to start from scratch.” She plucked a splinter of wood off her skirt and flicked it away.

“Maybe you can include ‘Yato-sama’ on it somewhere?” he asked hopefully.

Hiyori’s mouth twisted. “Maybe. There might not be enough room.”

“It wouldn’t take that much space!”

“No, I meant in your huge head.”

Yato reeled dramatically from the mild insult. Hiyori giggled. Then, threading her fingers through his, she added:

“If you really want me to put Yato-sama on it somewhere, then I’ll see what I can do.”

“I love you.”

It was immediate, unhesitating, like he’d just been waiting for a reason to say it again. And again, Hiyori had the wind knocked out of her.

“I-I—” She faltered, even though she could say it—had said it.

Why did he smell so deliriously sweet? Why was his hand so warm and large and—

He was there in front of her, too close. Much, much too close. Her head swam. It felt like no matter how deep a breath she drew, it wasn’t enough.

“It’s okay,” he said, and Hiyori realized he was holding her upright.

He smiled at her. A winner’s smile, mischievous. And then leaned in.

“You don’t have to say it back.”