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kusanagihaku · 3 months ago

Text

and i will hold onto you

⭢ haku x mc, 9.6k

n is for new year's day. ˖⁺‧₊⟡ alphabet series | ao3 thinking always about this headcanon; also i know graduation is usually in march but like, artistic license, haha…?

The cheers in Tokyo Dome are deafening.

You watch as families stream down from the corners of the dome to the field, swarming their loved ones in congratulations as graduation caps are knocked to the floor with the force of their hugs.

There is a vague current of wistfulness in the air, amidst the celebratory cheers, as is common in most graduation ceremonies. As you stand alone looking around at all the families, you wonder how much of that wistfulness is your own.

It’s been a little over three years, after all, since you’ve entered Darkwick. Three years since the curse was placed on you and consequently broken, three years since you’ve last seen any of your family. Three years since you’ve found a new one, strange as they are, and two years since they’ve left you, one by one, to take on the world outside Darkwick.

And now it is your turn to leave.

“Honour roll,” comes a familiar voice, from behind you, and you turn, hand on your cap, to see Leo’s smirk and the camera in his hand.

Despite yourself, you laugh. “Leo.”

His smirk melts into something gentle, genuine. “Congratulations. Really. You’re free from this hellhole, once and for all.”

You dip your head at the Vagastrom captain, “Can’t wait for it to be your turn.”

“One year to go, then,” Sho says, appearing behind Leo. He grins, waving a sunflower stalk at you. “One year without our precious senpai coming to bother Vagastrom.”

“You better appreciate that one year.”

“You bet we will,” Leo says, without any real heat, and you share a laugh as Sho presses the sunflower into your hands.

Its stem is wrapped with a stiff yellow ribbon printed with the name of their house. You rub it between your fingers. “Which poor first year did you torture into doing this for you?”

Leo shrugs. “Bunch of ‘em. Said it was for the seniors, and they jumped at the chance.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, unconvinced, but before you can probe further Sho’s eyes flicker somewhere behind you.

A smile unfurls across his face, large and mischievous, and he bobs his chin to your left. “Someone’s waiting for you.”

You turn around, eyebrows furrowed – who is there left in this school who would look for you, Ritsu, Ren? – but then you see him.

He’s holding a small bouquet of sunflowers and white roses, laced with baby’s breath and bells of Ireland. There are whispers from some of the students around you, a gasp of recognition from a Hotarubi student or two as he steps forward. The purple Darkwick tie, never once worn when he was still a student, is loosely tied around his collar, slanting slightly to the right like he has tugged on it more than once under the dark grey suit he has chosen for the occasion.

You don’t notice the pinpricks in the corner of your eyes until he blurs into a mess of green and white and grey. “Oh,” you gasp, and he is there instantly, fingers brushing traitorous tears from your cheeks.

He laughs, palm still cradling your cheek, and even though you knew he was coming, the aw-shucks grin he gives you still puts an all-familiar lump in your throat.

“Congratulations, princess,” Haku says, soft and warm. “Well done.”

December 29 - Darkwick Academy Distance left to destination: 464km

It is eight thirty-four in the morning.

Haku stands, hands on his hips, in the middle of your dorm room. There are two duffle bags by his feet.

For what amounts to two years of living in the cathedral, you have fairly little belongings.

You’ve given most of your items away, of course, in preparation for your move cross-country. All that are left are your clothes, stuffed neatly into a nearly-bursting medium-sized suitcase waiting by the door, and the gifts from various ghouls you’ve accumulated over the years.

“Ready?” Haku asks. He gathers both duffle bags in one hand. In one of them is a notebook, given to you by Zenji before he, too, left.

You turn to survey the bare room. You wonder, for a moment, who the next person to inhabit the room will be like - what they will be cursed with - before you turn back to face Haku.

He is glowing, almost, in the morning light. His grey Hotarubi sweatshirt is rumpled, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms and creased slightly where his overnight backpack is hung on his left shoulder. He looks at you, head cocked to one side, fond, sleep lines from where he slept on your pull-out sofa the night before etched into the soft of his cheek.

If you haven’t already been planning this road trip for the past two months over text you’d think he came straight out of a dream.

“Ready,” you say. You pick up your winter coat and his, and sling your backpack over your shoulder. The bouquet he gave you the previous day peeks out from the top.

Haku nods. He holds the door open for you as you wheel your suitcase over the threshold of the room. The door clicks closed behind the both of you.

He takes the suitcase from you, then, carrying it easily in one hand down the rickety old staircase. The third step from the bottom creaks beneath his weight like you knew it would.

It creaks beneath your weight, too. You fish the key to the cathedral door out of your pocket as you reach the first floor. You leave it on the side table leading into the kitchen – the worker cats will retrieve it later today – and head towards the front door.

You expect something to change, then, some shift in the air that tells you your time in Darkwick is over, but nothing happens as you emerge out into the watery grey sunlight. You wonder why you expected it to.

Haku’s car is parked, slanted, on the driveway outside the cathedral. The bright yellow permission slip you obtained from Professor Hyde the week before for Haku flaps flimsily in the wind, held back by the wiper on his windshield.

He unlocks the car, loads your belongings into the trunk. The wind brushes his bangs away from his face.

It is eight forty-three in the morning. He looks at you, again, patient, understanding, like he always does.

You exhale. You look back at the cathedral, one last time.

Then you walk over to where Haku whisks you away from Darkwick, as swiftly and as kindly as he did whisking you in.

December 29 - Hakone, Kanagawa Distance left to destination: 365km

It starts snowing a little before Haku pulls into the parking lot.

Being in Darkwick for most of the year means you’ve forgotten what the weather outside is like, sometimes. The powdery snowfall encases the both of you in silence as you shake out your winter coats and trudge up the stone steps, bowing your heads as you pass under the red torii.

The shrine is deserted. Whether it is because of the snow or the time of year you’re not really sure; after all, why come out to a shrine a few days before the end of the year when you’re going to visit again on the first day of the new year?

But it is peaceful and quiet, something you have no complaints about, and before long you’ve made your way up the long stairs and are standing in front of the main hall, heads bowed in respect.

This is the reason why Haku suggested a road trip instead of taking the Shinkansen down to Kyoto – to bring you to all his favourite shrines around the country on the way down. Your stops, carefully mapped out over Wickchat and Google Maps, are few but meaningful to him, planned out so that you’ll move into your new apartment before Subaru’s first performance of the year at Minamiza Theatre.

Haku hasn’t told you the reason for any of the stops, but you can more or less guess his reason for this one; as you descend a different set of stone steps, a tall red torii comes into view, half-submerged in water. Snow drifts into the darkness swirling around the feet of the gates, blurring into the red paint before disappearing on contact with the lake. What lies beyond the gate has been shrouded in mist, a white haze obscured by the oncoming snow.

It looks like some path to the afterlife, almost. Maybe some sort of adventure into the unknown. God knows you’ve had enough adventures to last a lifetime, though.

You hear Haku exhale. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You nod. Perhaps it looks like something out of a myth.

He points, off to the side, at a strangely shaped rock a distance away from the main path. “Remember when you asked about the scar on my knee? Scraped it right there, running away from my grandfather.”

You huff a laugh at the image of a little Haku, eyes alight with mischief, dancing out of the grasp of adults. “Didn’t manage to run too far, I guess?”

Haku laughs. He retracts his pointer to rub at his ear. “Not at all. Cried all the way back to the shrine before they bandaged me up.”

You stuff your hands deeper into the pockets of your coat so you will not reach for where his fingertips are turning red with the cold.

“I haven’t been back here in a while,” Haku continues, softer. His eyes are fixed on somewhere beyond the gates. “Not since he passed away.”

You watch as his breath clouds in the cold air. You stay silent.

He glances at you, eventually, small smile tugging on his lips and blinking the snowflakes out of his eyes. “Let’s go?”

After a second of thought you take your hand out of your pocket to loop your arm through his. You feel him shift in surprise, before he presses himself against your warmth. “Yeah.”

December 29 - Shimizu, Shizuoka Distance left to destination: 295km

It stops snowing a little after Haku pulls out of the parking lot.

The rest of the car ride to your next stop is filled with idle chatter and green grape gummies that you picked up from the general store on your way out of Darkwick. Haku keeps his eyes on the lightly frosted road as you feed him, lips barely brushing your pointer and your thumb. You keep your eyes on him.

You just finish telling him about a mission you did with Ritsu before he slows down, turning off the highway into Shimizu.

“We stopping for lunch?” You seal the pack of gummies.

He hums. “Sort of. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

You wince, and finger-comb through your hair. “I’m dressed for a car ride, not for meeting people.”

Haku sneaks a glance at you. “You’re beautiful, princess, don’t worry.”

You flush. “That- you-“

He laughs, light and warm, as he makes a right turn. “Just as easy to tease, after all this time.”

“Shut up,” you say, but his offhand compliment has already burrowed its way under your cheeks and heated them up the same way they always did back at Darkwick. Damn him and his smooth tongue.

You watch as the train stations flash by – Sakurabashi, Kitsunegasaki, Mikadodai – before he slows down next to Kusanagi Station. You glance at him in surprise. Are you heading to the Kusanagi shrine?

Before you can ask, however, he stops next to a nondescript beige building, throwing the car into park.

“We’re here,” he announces, and laughs again when you peek doubtfully at your reflection in the side-view mirror. “You look fine.”

He reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

If his fingers linger longer than they should on the shell of your ear, you pretend you do not notice. You pretend your ears do not blush, pretend your breath does not catch.

You exit the car.

There is an old, stooped lady by the restaurant counter when Haku slides the rickety wooden door open, back turned to you as she mops down a wooden table with a bright yellow cloth. All you can see is the checkered bandana resting atop a mop of curly white hair, and a faded red apron sash around her waist, wrapped tight around a stout figure.

“Miyami-san?” Haku calls out. His voice is soft, reverent.

“Ah?” There is obvious shock as she turns around. A startled delight washes over her face the moment her eyes alight on Haku, and she hobbles over immediately, hands outstretched and eyes waned into teary crescents.

“Haku, my dear boy,” she cries. She reaches forward to clasp his hands in her own, wrinkled and gentle. “My, my, you’ve grown taller, haven’t you?”

Haku half-laughs. “I haven’t grown since I last came back.”

The old lady laughs, too. “Perhaps it’s me who has grown smaller. And who’s this?”

“A friend, from Darkwick. I told you about her over the phone, remember?” Haku’s hand is warm on your elbow through your coat.

The old lady turns to you, peering kindly. “Yes, I do remember…”

You wonder briefly what Haku has said about you, but under the scrutiny of the old lady you hurriedly introduce yourself, bowing.

She claps, delightedly. “You both must be hungry, coming down from your school. I’ll whip something up for you real quick, shall I?”

“Anything you make will be delicious,” Haku intones, and he shoots her a charming smile that would have turned half of Hotarubi silly.

It works on her as well, evidently, as she pats his cheek and makes her way to the back of the room.

“I used to come here all the time to hang out with her grandkids,” Haku says, removing his coat. His eyes follow her as she disappears into the kitchen, humming brightly. “They moved away when I was fifteen, though, but I just… kept coming. She’s more like a grandmother to me than my own grandma.”

He sweeps his fringe behind his ear, and rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. His earrings brush the line of his jaw. “I stay here, sometimes, when I don’t want to go back to my family.”

You blink, looking around the restaurant. There are wooden panels lining the room, black ink on rectangle blocks to indicate the menu, but little else by way of decoration. “Here?”

Haku chuckles. He points to an entrance hidden by an egg-white curtain, tucked quietly into a corner by the back. “She has guest rooms, upstairs. She usually lets them out, but there tends to be no guests, at this time of year.”

You both agree on taking your overnight bags out from the car while Miyami-san is cooking, if only to save time. Haku stands, as if to help you, but you swat his hand. “Stay here. If she comes out and finds us both missing, how will that look?”

Haku just laughs, sitting back down in acquiescence, and looks up at you, chin in hand. He looks adorable, like this, adoring, and you are suddenly filled with a desperate wish that you could capture this image, forever. “Like we ran off like a couple of hormonal teenagers?”

You flush, and leave him without a response.

It doesn’t take long for you to gather his backpack and your duffel bag from the car, and as you slide the wooden door closed and toe off your shoes you hear murmuring voices low enough to make you still before the entrance curtain.

“Are you going to show her the shrine, then?”

A pause. “They’re going to be too busy preparing things for the New Year’s ceremony.”

She hums. “That’s true.”

“Miyami-san–” Haku starts, but she hushes him.

“I know, I know,” she says. “I won’t tell them you stopped by.”

Haku laughs, then, something soft and young and grateful. “Thank you. As always.”

There is a beat of silence, and you prepare to move, but her voice sounds again. “Who is she, to you?”

You hear the grin in Haku’s voice. “Why?”

“You know… you’re of age… it’s about time you bring someone home for me to meet.”

There is a rustle as Haku shifts around in his chair. “She’s one of the strongest people I know,” he says, slowly, “but she hasn’t had much control over her past few years. Now that she’s free of all that, I’d like to leave as much up to her as possible.”

You tense. Your heart hammers in your chest, tight and painful, as his words trip over themselves, over and over in your brain. Does he mean–

“–she’s also listening around the corner, so I refuse to say anymore.”

You don’t think your cheeks have experienced this much blood-rush in a while. You poke your head out from behind the curtain. “How did you know!”

“The door isn’t exactly silent,” Haku points out, and the three of you dissolve into laughter.

There is something light and warm, there, born in the small of the room. It expands, a golden sort of feeling that stretches beyond the four wooden walls and settles, stardust-like, in the space between Haku’s hands and yours; it collapses, cools under your tongue into a memory bright and sweet and precious.

If you don’t give it a name, you think, perhaps you can continue pretending that being by Haku’s side does not feel like home.

December 30 - Shimizu, Shizuoka Distance left to destination: 295km

There is a saying – what is a handspan away feels most like a world apart.

Haku sits, two handspans away. He is looking up at the ceiling, squinting against a lightbulb he changed prior to breakfast. It’s a different colour from the rest, a cool white against the warmth of the other, older bulbs in the restaurant, and it washes him in a faint crisp light.

“Well, at least it’s not blinking anymore,” Haku says. His elbows rest against the table.

Miyami-san sighs, forlorn. “I’ll have to write down the model number so I can buy the correct bulb next time. What time are you planning to head out?”

Haku leans over to you, taps the screen of your new phone you both spent an hour setting up last night. It lights up, displaying a blurry photo of Haku trying to take a selfie with you, overlaid by the time in white.

“In about twenty minutes? I’ll wash up before we go,” Haku insists, getting to his feet. “You’ve been more than lovely making us breakfast.”

He sweeps everything up into a pile before she can protest, and disappears, whistling, into the kitchen.

“Haku’s a good boy,” she sighs, as you watch him go. She stretches, and leans backwards. “Before he left for school he always helped me with all the odd jobs around the house. Changed all my lightbulbs for me, too.”

You laugh. “Sounds like Haku.”

She adjusts the strap of her apron. “He’s so smart, too. Made the top of his class whenever he put his mind to it.”

You suppress a smile. If you didn’t know better you’d think she was a grandmother eager to market her bachelor grandson off to the next available singleton.

“And responsible, too,” she continues. “Good thing he is, what with the shrine business.”

She peeks at you, and you quickly school your widening smile into something more presentable. “Has he told you about the shrine?”

You nod. You can hear Haku, more than a few handspans away, soft humming barely audible over the sound of running water in the kitchen. “The Kusanagi shrine.”

She hums. “He’s going to take over from his family one day. He’s going to be a better leader than his father is.”

A silence lapses over the both of you. They’re both true statements, you know, and yet there is something nagging at you about the mention of his father.

“Miyami-san,” you start, carefully. “If I may ask… what’s his family like?”

“His family?” She turns her head thoughtfully to the curtain that hides the kitchen from the restaurant, and is silent for so long you wonder if you’ve overstepped.

You are about to mumble a hasty apology when she turns back to you.

“They expect a lot from him,” she says, softly. “There’s a great many responsibilities that fall your way when you inherit a shrine. His father had to shoulder it, and his father before that, and so on. He may be running away from it now, but eventually it’ll have to be his turn, and I think in the back of their minds they all know it.”

You want to nod, but it feels like the wrong thing to do. Running away… except he isn’t, not really. Everything Haku did at Darkwick, every skill you’ve seen him practise and every responsibility you’ve seen him manage in Hotarubi, felt like he was building himself to take over the shrine – from his artifact to the research for his missions to all the summer festivals he helped manage. Even now, from what you understand of his work, it seems like what he has chosen to do is in preparation for him to take over.

“He’s more prepared than they think,” you say. “He works hard, even though he acts like he doesn’t.”

She looks at you a little more sharply, then. There is a cool appraisal behind her squint, before it melts into something like approval. “He does, doesn’t he.”

Before you can respond, though, Haku emerges from the kitchen, running a hand through his hair. “Talking about me?”

“You wish,” you say, and are rewarded immediately with the sparkle of his laugh.

He pauses next to your seat before picking up his backpack. His hand nearly brushes yours. “Ready to head out?”

You stand. Your hand nearly brushes his, a world apart. “Ready.”

December 30 - Nagakute, Aichi Distance left to destination: 175km

“Hard disagree – we turn left here – you’re only saying that because my name is Haku.”

You squint at the alleyway in front of you dubiously. It’s bathed in the last rays of evening, a dying honey from the setting sun that does nothing to ward off the winter chill, and it seems to lead to yet another street that looks oddly similar to the one you’re about to leave. “Are you sure?”

But Haku is already stepping forward, Google Maps winking into sleep on his phone screen, and so you follow behind. The thrift shop he is searching for is supposed to be a mere ten minute walk from where you left the warmth of the Ghibli Park, but you swear you’ve been wandering around for at least twenty minutes.

“Anyway, no, it’s because he’s a river spirit–“

Haku glances at you, eyebrow raised. “I’m not a river spirit.”

“-and he’s supposed to know a lot about the spirit world.” You huff at him, and he laughs in acquiescence. You reach the end of the alleyway; Haku squints against the reflection of sun on his phone and directs you to turn right.

“And he spent a lot of the movie using that knowledge to protect and save Chihiro, didn’t he?” you continue. You look down at your feet even though the evening light is no longer shining directly into your eyes. The worn grey of the road winks at you as you cross residential street. “Like you did with me.”

Haku is silent for a beat, before he says, lightly, “I think I’m much more like Howl.”

You cannot hold back your snort. “Because how he gets all the girls?”

His responding laugh is startled and bright. “C’mon now, princess. Howl only ever loved Sophie, in the end.”

He looks at you, brows raised, like there is something you are supposed to understand, but after a moment of expectant silence too laden for you to consider you swallow the whiskey-burn of his eyes and turn away.

“Is it nearby?” you ask, instead. You push the ice blocks you used to call hands deeper into your coat pockets, and push your gaze back down to the grey asphalt under your feet.

Haku unlocks his phone in response. “One more block to go. Sorry, you must be tired.”

You shake your head.

“We’ll get dinner after this, then crash out,” he decides, anyway. “We had an early start today, and we’ve done a lot.”

(You stopped earlier in the day at Atsuta Shrine to pay your respects before heading down to Ghibli Park, and briefly heard a guide explain about the great Kusanagi sword supposedly stored in the halls.

“Oh, my Kusanagi sword is great, alright,” Haku snorted under his breath; you smacked him on the shoulder and dragged him, holding back giggles, towards the exit before you got struck down for blasphemy.)

After two more minutes of sleepy residential buildings, you spot the orange signboard of the thrift store, hanging from a black rod above a shuttered flower shop. There is a chalkboard leaned against the side of the flower shop with carefully scrawled yellow letters and arrows directing you to a staircase around the back. Going up the concrete steps leads you to a wooden door with a heavy handle.

Haku tugs the door open, and gestures for you to go inside.

The store is swathed in yellow and orange, thanks to the narrow spot-light beams installed on the ceiling. The wooden shelving look old but well-cared for under carefully stacked clothes, a small contrast to the adjacent metal frames sagging with hangers of coats and jackets. There are mirrors gently leaned on the walls at strategic places throughout the store, reflecting the warm light from the ceiling and making the space look bigger than it actually is.

A man in a beanie looks up from where he is slouched over the cashier, and waves a silent welcome that you both acknowledge.

“One of my seniors told me this place has a good curation of sweaters,” Haku says, turning to study the racks. He picks up a bomber jacket in olive green, inspects it, then sets it down. “You’ll probably need more winter wear too, now that we don’t get climate control. But we’ll also stop at another place when we get to Kyoto, just so you can get some new clothes to wear around Subaru.”

You nod, and dutifully turn your attention to the racks, fingers running across the soft fabrics draped neatly on dark metallic hangers.

You’re looking at a cardigan the colour and texture of dawn clouds when Haku appears again at your elbow. “Look at this one.”

He holds up a sweater in washed out sage. It’s slightly fluffy, sleeves softly melting into a cream. When you reach out to touch it it’s impossibly softer than it looks.

“It’s cute,” you say. Its sloped shoulders are wide; you hold the pale green fabric up to his shoulders. “It looks your size, too.”

Haku hums in agreement. He takes the sweater, gently, from your fingers, and turns it around, lining the edge of its shoulders up with yours.

“I think it looks cuter on you,” he says. The honey of his eyes sparkle with mirth as he nudges you to face the mirror. “Like you’re stealing your boyfriend’s clothes.”

You feel a fire climbing up your cheeks immediately, and you glare at Haku, heatless and helpless, as he bites back a laugh. He shifts away, grinning brightly, and leaves you staring in the mirror with the sweater folded between your hands.

There is barely any evening light left over from golden hour, the last of the sun’s rays having died shortly before you stepped indoors, but the green of Haku’s hair is still dyed a soft copper by the warm lights of the store. He stands, turning glasses frames over in his hands, under a spotlight beam and the drifting strains of jazz, blurred only slightly by the fingerprints in the mirror and the irregular bump of your heart.

The scene is so mundane it feels almost unreal – this Haku, suspended in glass and glow. His long fingers are not wrapped around his flute or dusty research tomes, but between folded jeans; his movements are slow and languorous, no longer bound by the urgency of missions or threat of curfew.

You could stare at him like this forever.

It is suddenly easy, so easy to imagine him elsewhere, you think – sorting through vegetables at a supermarket, folding laundry on the floor of his bedroom, doing anything and everything far and away from the drizzle of Hotarubi.

This Haku has all the time in the world.

So do you. So do you.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath.

“How does this look?”

The heat of his vowels slide across the shell of your ear, and you jump slightly, eyes flying open.

You are vaguely aware of a chunky grey frame, translucent acrylic that slips low on his nose bridge and blobs shadows on his cheeks, but his eyes have locked onto yours in the mirror as he leans down over your shoulder to peer at his reflection, cheek dangerously close to yours, so close that if you just turned, if you just—

It sends your heart crashing, thundering painfully, cruelly, through your throat, a weight and an untethering from the hypnosis of the moment all at once—

“You look stupid,” you say. Or think you do, anyway. You can barely hear yourself over the thunderous rushing in your ears. “Try– try this one.”

Your fingers scrabble for the closest frame on the shelf next to you, and hold them up to the mirror.

Haku laughs, a gentle huff that blows by your cheek as he lifts the frame out of your hand, and straightens back up to slip them on.

It’s gold-rimmed, this time, a thin wire frame that catches the warm spot-lighting of the store and soaks a glow into his skin. The rounded rectangular shape sits well on his cheekbones, faded gold temples disappearing into his messy green hair.

You blink, and there is a fleeting glimpse of sun-spots and crow’s feet, of salt-and-pepper hair melting into green, of laughter creasing itself into deep-set wrinkles in the corners of his smile. He is looking at you, still, in the way he always has, this old-man-mirror-Haku, and something blooms, choking and sweet, in the hollow of your ribs.

Something shifts, then.

Eddies of a future you’ve never thought possible sing like the wind through the holes in your heart; they crash into you, a merciless tangle of relief and frustration and hope that steals the breath from your lungs you didn’t realise you were holding since leaving Darkwick.

The tremble of it’s over and your curse is well and truly over courses through the map of your veins, and winds its way across where your eyes meet Haku’s through the mirror. The words crack themselves in half, split to show you a future so wide and open and yet so certain it threatens to swallow you whole – of you, alive and un-cursed and getting to grow old. Of you-and-Haku, hand-in-hand, getting to growing old together, looking up at the same sky.

“-what do you think?” Haku is saying. His eyes are crinkled up in something you think might be fondness or affection, or something equally hopeful and terrifying.

It looks good on you, your mouth moves on its own accord, you should get it, but that is as far as you get before he blurs together in a sear of tears.

Haku moves immediately, hand on your elbow spinning you around to face him. His eyes search yours in alarm and concern and confusion, but to both your surprise a laugh bubbles out of you, quiet and free.

You raise a hand to brush his bangs away from his forehead, and he leans into your touch, in spite of his bewilderment.

“It looks good,” you say again, and you mean it.

(He buys the glasses, of course, and three sweaters you said you liked. You leave the thrift shop with paper bags in hand, yet somehow feel a lot lighter than you did going in.)

December 31 - Kuwana, Mie Distance left to destination: 99km

The numbers on the dashboard read a glowing ten thirty-eight.

The highway stretches before the windshield, a wide belt that melts into the distance. It is empty, save for the occasional cargo truck Haku passes, and the glare of the noon sun reflecting off its smooth grey surface is enough to turn every travelling vehicle into a mini-oven despite the season.

Haku adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. He reaches, slightly, to wind his window down to let some of the cool winter air in, but his fingers pause before they reach the switch.

He peeks at where you are asleep, head resting on the passenger window and eyelashes brushing the soft of your cheek. He retracts his hand.

He reaches, instead, with his other hand to the air-conditioning controls, and turns the dial towards “COOL”.

The numbers on the dashboard wink into ten thirty-nine.

The packet of strawberry gummies on top of the winter coats folded in your lap crinkles slightly, then slides from where your grip has slackened. It has long since been emptied, with you taking turns to tuck the candies between your lips and his, and its lack of weight slips it neatly between your seat and the centre console.

Ren recommended them, you said, an hour back, holding one up to his lips. They’re good, aren’t they?

Haku smiled, tamped down the familiar knot that swelled with any reminder of the years you spent at Darkwick without him by your side, and nodded. They’re pretty sweet.

You grinned and tapped the large yellow zero printed atop ruby-red strawberries. No sugar, too!

No, he thinks, now – perhaps the sugar had been in the brush of your fingertips against his lips. Perhaps it had been in the glitter of your laugh as you listened to him tell you some work story or another, or in the way the sun had bounced off the dashboard and lit you up all over, all soft glow and contentment as you slipped another gummy between the pink of your lips.

For a moment, he wonders if you will taste like strawberry, if the curve of your smile will be just as sweet as it looks when pressed against his own–

He shakes his head, to clear it.

Haku is a patient man. Ceremony is in his bones; he is good at waiting his turn, good at calculating consequences, good at following the rules.

Except for when he isn’t. Except for when he texted you, midway through your last semester, to ask which branches of the Institute has offered you a job in hopes that he can persuade you to take up some position near his own. When he asked you, two months before graduation, to drive down to Kyoto with him instead of taking the train, just so he gets three days with you by his side after so many days apart.

When he took one look at you, that night on the train from Kisaragi Station, and took your hand and held it all the way to Darkwick.

Maybe it is selfishness, maybe it is impulsivity. Maybe it is irresponsibility, and maybe it is the reason why, try as he may, they will never deem him ready to take over the shrine, but oh, when he looks at you–

He is a patient man. He will be a patient man. He has waited two long, excruciating years without you, and he will continue to wait, for as long as it’ll take until you’re ready.

The numbers on the dashboard wink into ten forty-three.

Haku reaches over, again, to turn the air-conditioning dial further down.

His gaze brushes against the new air freshener you bought him the day before at the gift shop. It smells of “clean” and “fresh”, whatever that’s supposed to mean, and he can barely catch its scent, but you unwrapped it the moment you got into the car and hung it neatly on the rearview mirror, and he cannot help but feel some fondness for something that brings you joy. Even if it’s just a small piece of cardboard with a white dragon and a girl printed on it.

He would have chosen a different one, himself. He would have picked the one with Howl and Sophie - someone who learns how strong she really is, and someone who has waited a lifetime to love her.

You stir in your sleep, shifting slightly so your head is no longer pressed against the passenger window. The numbers on the dashboard wink into ten forty-four.

Haku takes the next exit off the highway, and wonders if you remember that in the movies, Chihiro saves Haku, too.

December 31 - Uji, Kyoto

Distance left to destination: 21km

“Haku!”

The guy that emerges from the shrine’s prayer hall has a smile only one shade dimmer than the sun. He waves energetically at Haku and you, hands padded in red gloves a stark contrast with his navy blue haori, and bounds over to you.

“Thought you weren’t coming back for another two days!” the man says, beaming. “We’re prepping the omikuji right now, like you told us to.”

Haku chuckles, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “That’s good. I’m not back for work, though, I’m just here to show my friend around.“

The man looks at you curiously, and he looks so oddly familiar you could have sworn you’ve seen him somewhere before. He tilts his head to one side, like he’s working through the same puzzle you are, before it clicks–

“Honour student!” he exclaims, and claps his hands. “Didn’t expect to see you here!”

Haku laughs, and shifts closer to you. “Darkwick just had their commencement ceremony, so I’m helping her settle into her new apartment soon.”

Koji – the name comes to you in a flash, a vague impression of a Hotarubi general student floating to the top of your mind from when he helped Haku on a mission once – wiggles his eyebrows. “Will it be near to us?”

Haku looks at you, thoughtfully. “The Institute put her in Kyoto, near Subaru, but I suppose…”

Before he can finish the thought, however, a soft holler comes from an open window in the back of the sales hut. “Oi, heartbreaker!”

A man sticks his head out of a back door. He looks pleased to see Haku, and disappears for a few seconds before emerging from the wooden doors, wrapping himself in a warmer coat.

He waves a sheath of papers at Haku as he walks over. “We’re more or less ready for tomorrow, but I need you to sign a couple things–“

Haku moves over immediately, head bent over the documents, and leaves you in company of Koji.

“Heartbreaker?” You murmur, and Koji beams.

He nods his head, fluffy hair bouncing in his enthusiasm. “That’s Haku! Didn’t he tell you? When he first joined, half the local girls who came up to pray during Lunar New Year instantly fell in love and we had to barricade the shrine and defend ourselves with swords so our Haku wouldn’t get overrun–“

“Koji,” the other man says, severely, “stop making things up.”

Koji pouts, and you have to bite your lip to keep from smiling. “Anyway, he’s built up quite a following among the locals. It’s good for business, though.”

“I can imagine,” you say, and you can–

Haku, looking out the sales window next to the shrine, chin in hand and head slightly tilted as people come up to buy omamoris. The way the honey of his eyes will crease, slightly, as he smiles at their approach. The soft of his hands as he counts out their change, and wishes them a good day.

Haku, head bent over a candle box before he reaches in to select an appropriate one. The curl of his long fingers over theirs as he presses the candles into their palm, a blessing, a benediction, conferred with intent. The soothe of his voice as he comforts them, wishes them well, after.

Haku, this Haku that belongs to the people, whose heart swells with their aches and whose words are carefully chosen to quell them. This Haku, who works for the people by day, and works for them still by night.

Haku looks up from where he is flipping through documents, pen in hand, and grins as he meets your eyes. “Maybe we should spread word that my heart already belongs to someone else.”

Your cheeks burn immediately, and you open your mouth to stutter out a reply, but Haku’s senior beats you to the punch.

“Disgusting,” he mutters fondly, barely louder than Koji’s awww, then flips a page for Haku. “Sign here, then get out of my sight. Word from HQ is that you’re on four concurrent missions in January, so make the best of your break.”

Haku groans. “Best go pray for my own damn safety, then.”

His senior rolls up the freshly signed document, then raps him smartly on the head. “No cursing on shrine grounds. Come on, Koji, you’re still not done with the omikujis.”

Haku grins, rubbing his head where he got tapped, then turns to face you as Koji is dragged, mumbling in protest, back to the hidden back doors. “Shall we?”

The rest of the shrine is fairly quiet. Sunlight dances through the bare branches as you cross the courtyard and duck around some gates to the main shrine. There are rabbits printed on cream-coloured lanterns attached to the gates, faded slightly by the elements and swaying in the wind. They look like they are dancing in greeting as you pass them.

The main shrine Haku comes to a stop at is up a set of steep stone stairs. It is covered with wooden slats, painted warm by the noon light. If you didn’t look too closely you’d think the structures inside were glowing by themselves.

Haku fishes out coins from his pocket, and hands one to you. He leans forward to shake the thick rope after you toss your coin into the wooden offering box, then you both bow and clap twice.

You have so many things to wish for that you almost don’t know where to start, but the words flow out of your heart faster than you can think, afloat with intent and hope – for Haku to be safe. For Haku to be happy. For all the ghouls you’ve helped and been helped by to be happy and healthy. For all the anomalies they’ll run into to be a little less fatal, for the anomalies themselves to be safely captured and treated well. For all their futures to be a little less perilous, a little more secure.

For your future to be a little less dangerous, too. For your future to hold warm soup and cosy evenings, for your days to hold laughter and ease and familiarity, for your nights to hold home and sighs and moonlit dances across the kitchen floor with Haku–

Your eyes flutter open, and you bow, quickly.

Best to not hope for too much.

You sneak a glance at Haku. His head is still bowed, hands still pressed together. He is washed in the bright of sunlight unshaded by winter’s branches, and in the silent sun-stirred dance of dust motes around him he looks almost like a painting.

His bracelets shine a radiant translucence as they catch and absorb the sunlight, nearly covering most of a scar underneath. Your heart twinges slightly – you were there when he got injured.

It was to save you, really, some tiny anomaly or another changing directions and hurtling towards you with a vengeance. If Haku didn’t knock it off its trajectory with the back of his hand… you can’t imagine what would have happened.

Instead, you’d brought him home to Hotarubi and carefully cleaned his cuts and wounds, and stayed with the soft glow of his smile and the even softer glow of his words, well into the night. He’d murmured gentle reassurances into the quiet of the night, thigh pressed up against yours as you sat side by side and looked out onto the still Hotarubi gardens; yet the feeling of guilt has never gone away, cementing itself into the cracks of all that you owe him.

I’m sorry, you said, again, for the fiftieth time that night. If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t have gotten injured.

He had laughed before a ghost of pressure landed against your temple, so soft you think to this day you’d imagined it. Anything for you, princess. Stop worrying about it.

It sent your heart racing, back then, his words wild fireworks popping in your throat.

The same way his words send your heart racing, now.

Maybe we should spread word that my heart already belongs to someone else.

You exhale. Haku has never hidden his affection for you, not really – whether it was proclaimed in front of a beaming Zenji or murmured into the drizzle of Hotarubi, the flirtatious comments you once believed were just part of his personality or simply lavished onto everyone you eventually realised were only ever directed to you.

And you understood it, back then, the same way you understand it now. Haku has never been shy about you. How much of it was guilt over bringing you to Darkwick and a burgeoning sense of responsibility for your curse, you will perhaps never know, but this is what you know now, after two years of turning the thought of Haku over and over in your mind:

That you never agreed to start because you were always afraid of the end. That you perhaps wished he would forget about you after his time at Darkwick, if only to make things easier for him after your transformation into the Kyklos; that you wished to forget about him, too, after his time at Darkwick, if only to avoid the real possibility of Haku finding someone else.

But now your last page has been ripped out, a future of a curse torn out by your very own hands and shredded into the wind… now that you’re out and free (albeit still working for the Institute) and ready to rewrite your own ending…

Haku looks up from his hands, and bows. He turns to you, smile fond and sweet, and extends a hand to help you down the steps. “Ready?”

You take his hand, lace his fingers into your own. The word on your tongue turns into a candle turns into a lantern turns into the sun. “Ready.”

December 31 - Uji, Kyoto Distance left to destination: 19km

You cradle your hot cup of tea in your palms.

The cold of the bridge railing beneath your elbows seep past your coat and into your bones. The last of the sun’s rays cast a glow on the trees on the opposing shore, turning them into a sea of reddish-gold, but they do little to warm you as you watch the sun sink below the horizon.

Haku rests, one handspan away, identical cup nestled between his hands.

“This is my favourite place to watch the sunset,” he says. “You can see the train tracks and the Uji Bridge from here.”

A train rumbles by in the distance as he says it, slicing the scene in half. It takes a few seconds before the sky meets the river again.

“I think about bringing you here, all the time,” he says, quietly. He shifts the cup to his other hand. “I come here after work sometimes, and stay until the sky is dark and I can see the stars. Then I wonder about whether you’re looking at the same stars, too, in Darkwick.”

You both watch the sun creep steadily downwards, meeting its wavering counterpart in the water.

Haku exhales. He does not look at you. “I’m glad you’re here.”

His words wrap around you, hushed and gossamer. How much you’ve thought about him, too, looking up at the night skies as you dragged yourself back to the cathedral.

Whenever you walked out from Hotarubi, shutting your one-person umbrella and looking up at the moon, you’d think of him.

The way he’d walk you back, shoulder to shoulder as if you were still sharing an umbrella. The way he’d look at you, moonlight tangled into his eyelashes and the arc of his hands, the way he’d smile like the night was a secret only the two of you shared. The way he’d sit you down on the campus stone benches to talk about your missions with other houses, the way he’d reassure you, again and again, that whatever you were doing was enough. That you were enough.

The memories twist themselves onto your tongue. You do not look at him, either, when you say, “Me too.”

The last sliver of sun slips away, and then it is gone.

The conversation turns to seeing Subaru on stage in two days and what flowers you plan to get him, then to your new Institute-funded apartment, a small place buried near a Galaxy Express station, and the furniture you plan to get.

You wonder out loud how long the Galaxy Express would take to get to Uji if you and Subaru were to come visit, as compared to taking the regular train from Kyoto Station. It’s already a very short distance, you think, but maybe it’d take half the time.

“It takes sixteen minutes from Kyoto’s HQ,” Haku says. He taps the top of his now-empty cup with a long finger. “Or twenty-two, if you count the time it takes to walk back to my apartment.”

“Damn, these cats really know how to run a railway line.”

Haku laughs, quiet and breathless, before he says, “Move in with me, instead.”

You pause, cup halfway lifted to your lips. You lower your hand.

“It’s only a slightly longer commute,” he murmurs, “and you won’t have to buy new furniture.”

He looks at you, eyes full of morning sun. You read in them something that feels a lot like a future.

You won’t have to spend your nights alone in a drafty old room anymore. We will not have to untangle ourselves at the end of the day, and pretend we do not want to stay. Now that I’ve spent three whole days with you I don’t know how I’ve ever managed without; it feels like I’m never going to be able to go back.

You exhale.

This is how it has always been - this is how the two of you are - him building a bridge between you both and reminding you that if you ever want to cross it, if you ever need to cross it, he will always be on the other side, waiting.

He waits, now.

For a moment, you think you are brave.

Ready?

But the moment passes, and the words that have swelled up on your tongue are familiar and terrifying and comforting and too heavy and mean too little and too much, all at once, and you swallow the waves that rise up in your lungs, and you close your eyes, and you pretend you are not in love with him, have not been in love with him since he held your hand in the dark of a train carriage three-odd years ago.

“Imagine the paperwork,” you say, instead, and Haku leaves it at that.

December 31 - Uji, Kyoto Distance left to destination: 16km

Haku’s apartment is small, but homey.

It is much more modern that you expect it to be, and feels infinitely more Haku than any Hotarubi dorm could. The kitchen you step into is tiny but sleek, with just enough space to fit a boiler, a tea set and an induction cooker before ending at a large fridge. The green glow on the microwave tucked onto a shelf a bit higher than eye-level reads eleven forty-two.

He lucked out on the Institute lottery, he tells you, setting his keys in a bowl on the kitchen island and flicking on the kitchen lights – where others only get a studio apartment he at least gets a bedroom attached to the living and dining area. Ghoul perks, perhaps.

Where you expect a kitchen island is instead a mountain of books, shuffled neatly into piles not unlike what you used to be greeted with in his old dorm, bookmarked full with post-its covered in his chicken-scratch writing.

You pick out a barely-used blue post-it pad from a pile of neon-yellow ones, and run your thumb over the winking tanuki in the background. “Is this the one I bought for you, back on that shrine mission?”

Haku peeks over your shoulder. His laugh brushes your ear, soft and warm, before moving away to roll your luggage into the living room. “Yeah. I can’t bear to use it much, though. It feels as though I should treasure it.”

You snort, looking up at him. “I can always buy you another one.”

“I’m not opposed to that.”

(You’d buy him one set everyday for the rest of his days, if he’d let you.)

Haku tucks your suitcase next to a soft grey sofa set opposite a plain white wall, and sets your duffle bag on a small wooden coffee table in between that looks like it hasn’t been dusted in years. “There are fireworks bound to start in about fifteen minutes. Wanna watch those on the balcony?”

You blink – you’ve almost forgotten that today is New Year’s Eve, what with all the sightseeing you’ve packed in today around Uji.

Haku tugs the pale blue curtains apart, revealing glass doors to a small balcony overlooking residential neighbourhood. The night is quiet, still, buzz of the city conspicuously absent from the streets despite the celebratory date and even though most households have their lights on and curtains pulled open in anticipation of the fireworks, you don’t hear much beyond the whistling of the wind when you step outside.

You settle against the railing on his balcony. “It’s so nice, here.”

Haku joins you. “When everyone’s lights are off, at night, you can see the stars.”

You tilt your head up. Haku’s apartment is high up enough the street lamps that you do not have to shield your eyes from their orange glow, and as you peer up at the heavens you see constellations slowly starting to take shape. “Wow.”

Haku shifts, closer. His shoulder is pressed up against yours. “Any New Year’s resolutions yet?”

You laugh. “Other than learning how to survive outside Darkwick?”

“That’s enough,” Haku says, softly. “Sometimes surviving is tough enough, on its own.”

You bite your lip, and look down at the street below. A stray cat dips in and out of the shadows.

“I’m going to be brave this year,” you tell him.

I’m going to be brave enough to face what’s coming. I’m going to be brave enough to decide what I’m going to do with my life, instead of obeying missives from a corrupted Academy and existing at their beck and call. I’m going to be brave enough to tell you what I really want to say, to build my own side of the bridge, to finally meet you on the other side.

Haku tilts his head to look at you, then. He raises a hand from where his arms have been crossed on the railing, long fingers tenderly tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

It sends daylight swirling down your spine, leaves you breathless and August-warm when you catch his gaze.

“I think you’re already plenty brave,” he says, quietly.

Before you can respond, however, the street explodes with noise. Windows are pulled open and chanting spills out onto the street, a clamour of three, two, one–

Tiny lights hang themselves across the sky, a mere flash before tightly packed colours dazzling as the sun explode across its inky canvas. Brilliant reds and blues and yellows and greens burst into bloom over and over again; they paint everything on the street with their glow. The distant booms and whistles of their journey travel through the neighbourhood, wind their way through the festivities and laughter and cheer.

It is at once so extraordinary and normal, this celebration of the Earth making its way around the sun yet again, that you find yourself giddy, smiling, joyful. You turn to look at Haku, tinted a faint red from the vivid glows in the sky, only to find he is already looking at you, gaze warm, fond.

You learnt once, on a mission with Jabberwock, that firecrackers and fireworks set off during New Year were as much meant to scare away the bad things as they were to celebrate the good.

I think you’re already plenty brave.

In the bright of the night his words soak into your skin.

Perhaps you are.

You lean up, and press a small kiss to the corner of his lips. This is me, building my side of the bridge. This is me, ready. “Happy New Year, Haku.”

His palm catches your cheek as you pull away. The spread of his smile, wide and bright and delighted, sends stardust settling into the hollow of your throat, sets its own fireworks off within the hollow of your ribs, pulls a smile onto your own cheeks. The gold of his eyes shine with something more than the pyrotechnics, something full of devotion, full of beginnings.

“Happy New Year,” Haku says, and leans in to kiss you again.

#tokyo debunker #haku kusanagi #tokyo debunker x reader #bangs pots and pans LONGFORM ROAD TRIP FIC IS HERE #SORRY this was meant to be in time for new year's but like #in my usual fashion im late lol #so have this in time for lunar new year #warnings i guess for canon divergence - mc doesn't die from the curse! as u can tell from the blurb asdjlkjsa #also i am AWARE this is my second haku fic in the alphabet series but like . i love haku can u rly blame me #also (lmao i have so many postscripts) this was written specifically with that one line in mind from new year's day #'don't read the last page but i stay when you're lost and i'm scared and you're turning away'#me with my haku lens on: idk i think it's very haku!#lin writes #anyways this is less a relationship pining fic than it is just me expounding on why i love haku #alphabet series

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porcelainbirdss · 11 days ago

Text

the mourning dove syndrome II

summary: love is a fragile thing. it is made of glass, just like the dove’s wings — it is in every fiber of your body, diluted with attachment, and desire. a beating heart, pumping the blood of creatures contaminated with so much devotion, their mouths cannot tell the difference between a kiss and a bite. it signifies — eat me down to my very bones.

cw: fem!reader, painter!reader, very suggestive towards the end and not suitable for minors, toxic interpersonal relations, cannibalism used as a metaphor, reader’s ego is fragile, good ending for our lovebirds. part 1 not necessary to read. || wc: 5k

your thought were currently in disarray — yes, that’s definitely the right adjective to describe whatever mayhem was going on in your mind.

ever since that charity banquet, and the events which unfolded once you decided to shut yourself in one room with Mydei, you’ve been rather lost. it was hard to say what you exactly felt, your emotions mixing together into one, ugly concoction, causing your bones to shudder with nerves. previously, you were absolutely sure that man was not of much importance to you — his remarkably eye-catching looks being the only thing that drew you towards his person. well, as it turns out, you might have been in the slightest of denials.

you’ve tried so hard to push back your feelings, but the opposites kept merging with themselves, all the fondness, and dismay, affection and hate. you shunned them tightly inside your own body, praying that maybe, just maybe if you hold the air in your lungs for long enough, they will dissipate with your next exhale.

unfortunately, this didn’t happen, and no matter how much you’ve distanced yourself from Mydei, your thoughts circled back to one thing — how tightly you’d have to hold him, in order to admit you weren’t doing this simply to feel warmth? how many nights you’d have to spend together before you realize friends don’t normally do such things, and you’ve gone too far? it genuinely drove you mad — that grim realization you actually had tenderness in your heart, harbored deep within your stone-cold walls. maybe you weren’t convinced of your love wholly, but it would happen eventually, and so there was no point in waiting for the impending doom.

he cared for you — and it was comparable to axes digging into your chest with muffled thuds, perfectly synchronized with the rapid beating of your heart as Mydei showcased any kind of attachment.

it drove you up the wall, pressing your body into its very corner, crushing every single ounce of your resolve to maintain your relationship as merely platonic (should you call it that with all the intimacy?). still, even if you decided to confess, how would you possibly do that? the man wouldn’t turn you down, of course — however, saying it straight to his face seemed almost trivial. perhaps, you could never bring yourself to do it. any time you pondered upon the topic, your gut clenched with an uncomfortable ache, and your pride smudged over the logical reasoning. if anything, he should be the one to admit his feelings first — after all, it was his fault for causing you such dilemmas.

alas, an idea born within your exceptionally brilliant brain, and your resolution was to do something about the current situation. you were not the best at communicating, so the only way out was to utilize one of your biggest talents — painting.

you tied the apron around your waist, sighing heavily as you felt the uneasy sensation of stress rubbing off against your spine for the first time in forever. you decided to invite Mydei over to your workplace, asking if he wanted to model again — he agreed, a bit reluctantly, but it was obvious to you he was only putting up a nonchalant facade. your plan was to make a portrait of him, and add symbols of love so apparent he wouldn’t be able to miss it. once he finally catches on to your hints, he’ll surely fall on his knees, and admit just how much he cherishes you.

well, the whole charade appeared much easier in your head, and now you were starting to regret it, but you were no coward — there was no way you’d back out now.

Mydei stepped into the spacious room, his keen eyes quickly examining everything before falling on your form, hunched above the palette in a deep thought as you tried to select the best colors.

he sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. "i’m convinced you were put in this world to torment me." the man sneered, though it lacked in any real bite.

"don’t start complaining now." you huffed out softly, your eyebrows knitting together in concentration. "you agreed to this, so be quiet."

you noticed him shrug, beginning to slowly roam around the space. "where do you want me to sit?" he asked. you wanted to whip around on your heel and smack him across the face for staring so intensely at your back.

"nowhere. i’m still preparing the composition, so entertain yourself." you answered bluntly, searching your brain for any adequate ideas.

you heard Mydei walk around, the sound of his golden leg armor resonating loudly in your ears, even if the steps were rather meek. "by the way, did you know that a certain someone is jealous of your attention?"

you chuckled dryly under your nose. "who?"

"Phainon.”

"what?" you glanced at him through your shoulder, genuine amusement lacing through your tone. now that was a surprise. you never suspected he, of all people, would feel jealousy towards you — or rather the object of your interest.

the man stopped in his tracks by a pile of your sketchbooks, and you turned your head back to the chair, meticulously preparing the background. "you heard me."

"why, though? he doesn’t seem like the type." you hummed, trying to decide between burgundy and navy material to hang up.

"well," Mydei started off, "he thinks it’s unfair that you prefer me over him." he laughed humorlessly, making you shake your head.

"i’m almost starting to feel bad. maybe i should replace you with him, what do you say?" you offered, albeit sarcastically — there was no way you’d ever give up on that distinct face.

he scoffed, grabbing one of the heavy sketchbooks as you struggled to secure the cloth to the wall. "you must be jesting. he wouldn’t be able of sitting in one place for so long."

you smirked to yourself. "don’t say."

"once i explained to him that you’d never agree to such foolery, this moron actually started to get worked up.” the man breathed, mindlessly starting to shuffle through your sketches. "he told me to go hell."

"well, it’s a good thing all dogs go to heaven, no?"

Mydei opened his mouth to snap back at you, but the words suddenly died in his throat. he felt his mind come up with a lag as he took in the multiple drawings of his own face — five consecutive pages, filled to the brim with portraits, every single one of them executed with utter detail. what? why in the world would you make so many sketches of him? he blinked, feeling his heartbeat pick up on its pace. he was well-aware of the fact you throughly enjoyed him as your model, however this was not made with his knowledge. were you possibly…?

"Mydei?"

he quietly closed the thing, putting it away in its previous place. "are you done?" he forced out, swiveling to render the distance between you two.

you nodded, turning in his direction. his cheeks were oddly red — oh well, maybe it was caused by the rather humid temperature outside. "yes. sit down.” you instructed, starting to angle his body to your desire once he seated himself on the chair.

with that, you stood behind the canvas, completely oblivious to what just occurred, and began to block out his silhouette.

seven days later, you were pretty much done with the whole painting. it’s hard to say whether you were satisfied with the finished result — the man’s features were engraved deep within your mind, but it still looked a bit off, and you felt as if the colors were not vibrant enough, and you could have chosen a different background, and the pose wasn’t all that complicated, and the roses standing beside were a bit blurry — would he be able to tell? also, the apple held in his hand seemed overly prominent — the longer you scrutinized the portrait, the more mistakes you managed to spot.

why do you care so much anyway? it’s not like he will start pointing out the things you should have fixed, and after your wordless confession of feelings is over, you will burn it down, or reuse the canvas for something else. yes, that’s definitely what you’ll do.

you knocked at the entrance of the man’s house, attempting to calm your breathing — it wasn’t like you to get so nervous over matters of this kind. you were always above that, sophisticated and composed, and so you mustn’t worry.

"oh, hello [name].” Mydei greeted you once he opened the door, his gaze flickering over to the big canvas you held in your palm, covered with cloth. "i see you’re done?"

he stepped to the side, and you nodded, nonchalantly walking past him. "indeed i am." you affirmed, slowly turning in his direction — you had to swallow, preparing yourself for the big moment. you rarely let in any vulnerability in your life, so it felt somewhat claustrophobic, suddenly unraveling yourself in front of someone who you not so long ago deemed as a mere companion at best, and a nuisance at worst (why did your heart have to betray you like that?).

he closed the door, crossing his arms over the muscular chest. "show me then."

you leaned the painting on the chair, swiftly pulling the material away. you stared into his irises like some kind of a hunter, capturing every single microexpression flashing through his face with intense anticipation. surprise, happiness — now it seemed as if he were impressed — contentment, recognition, and…? and what?

you shifted the weight of your body to your other leg. "what do we think?" you urged, your grip on the cloth tightening.

Mydei nodded in acknowledgment, stepping a bit closer to examine it carefully. "i suppose it’s one of your best works. it’s like a mirror, honestly." he mused, tilting his head as he surveyed every single stroke.

"and?"

he briefly checked you out. "it’s beautiful."

you clenched your jaw. "and?"

he huffed out a snicker, straightening out his back to look at you properly. "[name], are you really in such a need of compliments? i thought the most renowned painter of Okhema would be more humble than that."

a heat of irritation instantly crawled up your neck as you felt your stomach drop — you kept your expression neutral, fighting through the need of scowling at him. did he really fail to catch on to all the hints you presented him with? no, that was — that was simply impossible, for gods’ sake! you tried so hard, putting your everything into a portrait you’d dispose of anyway, and now he thought acting all oblivious would be funny?

"don’t make me laugh." you scoffed, cocking one eyebrow up at him. "your validation means as much to me as any other, so practically nothing."

you wanted to tear his throat open.

Mydei shrugged, glancing back towards the canvas. "feeling feisty today, aren’t we."

maybe you were wrong? maybe you didn’t like him, and you deluded yourself to think you do? after all, thoughts rarely reflect reality. they’re created out of subconscious patterns of one’s mind.

"shut your mouth."

he took a step closer, his body separated away from yours by mere inches. "or what?"

you inspected his lips — they looked so tempting, curling up in mocking amusement. your eyes snapped up to his own, and you felt vexation rise up in your gut — the kind that makes you wonder what separates humans from animals. you bared your teeth, just like most species do as a display of aggression, of leadership, of a threat. you hoped it was the only thing he could think of as you smiled at him so innocently.

"never mind that. i’m in a hurry anyway." you dismissed him, grabbing the painting and turning on your heel.

Mydei seemed almost surprised to see you back out so suddenly, but he didn’t point it out. good for him, because you don’t know what you’d do if he dared to prod at your nerves any further. shame along with disappointment washed over you as you walked over to the exit, keeping your movements graceful and calculated as always, though it was harder than usually.

"fine. see you soon, then."

you held back a sigh of exasperation. "not if i see you first."

you shut the door behind you with a loud bang, berating yourself for even wasting your time on that excuse of a man.

a few hours passed since your awful failure, and all you did during that time was sit on your chair in front of a canvas, brooding in silence. the sky already darkened, and your only source of light was a small oil lamp placed on the table beside you.

your fists clenched together as you continued to ponder upon all the possible mistakes, and things you did wrong. perhaps the problem didn’t lie within you, but rather him — still, you couldn’t help but feel the ache of defeat squeezing at your poor brain, wringing it dry of any logic or sense.

it was really unlike you. who would’ve thought — an arrogant, self-centered woman breaking her own thoughts over something as insignificant as a mere crush on someone so pathetic that he most likely wouldn’t hesitate to kiss your feet, and worship the ground you walk on if you told him to. you should suck it up, and move on — or maybe try again, because it would seem Mydei was in the dire need of a consultation with an ophthalmologist.

honestly, only someone lacking in wits would miss out on such obvious symbols — roses, apples, the color red in the background — what else were you supposed to add? a gigantic 'i love you' in the middle? should you splatter pink hearts around his head like a halo, or serenade under his window with a whole band to accompany you?

you gritted your teeth — maybe you will give up on him altogether! what a sight it would be, watching him crawl back to you and apologize over and over again for being so oblivious, tears streaming down his perfect face. yes, now that would’ve been a pleasure. on the other hand, no. you could be awful sometimes, but not to that degree.

perhaps that prideful man saw through your steel facade, with his stupid golden irises, and thought you appeared too anxious for his liking? was he truly attracted only to people of equal fierceness as him? did he perceive you as weak, for even trying to showcase your tender emotions? no, no — who does he think he is? did you seem backed into corner for him? did you look like some kind of a caged animal?

that’s not it. he was too-well infatuated with you to even take such things into consideration.

then what caused you to slip-up so miserably? you mulled over all the possibilities, the grim realization finally settling at the bottom of your stomach — your art was not good enough. the creation he praised oh-so highly was simply lacking. through years upon years of consistent work, and luxuries, and expensive parties, and auctions, and expositions, you began to get sluggish. that must have been it, no?

you frantically reached towards your palette, grabbing the paints and brushes as you started to quickly put colors onto the canvas. no sketch, no previous preparation — you squinted your eyes, trying to see through the darkness of your workplace, placing erratic strokes.

the skin with unique red marks, shadows encompassing it so sternly.

you pressed the brush harder. you hated art. you hated it with passion, and yet you couldn’t stop, because it was the only thing that fulfilled you to the brim, making your life complete.

blonde hair with maroon woven through the wild strands.

no, you didn’t hate it — you despised it! you could burn down every single one of your paintings, and you wouldn’t bat an eye! none of it mattered. you weren’t great, and you most certainly weren’t special. why people were so infatuated with your creations? if you could, you’d transform them into rags, and wipe the dirty floor.

piercingly sharp eyes, so vivid they looked almost alive.

Mydei was not of any importance to you either. you were just playing around with him, teasing the man and pulling at his feelings to your liking, because you got bored with your mundane life of someone who accomplished so much, yet at the same time barely anything at all.

nose, the arched brows, and the lips stretching in that mocking smile.

you loved it. you hated it.

jet-black background.

you loved him. you hated him.

a knife ripping through the canvas, tearing the beautiful face in half, severing it into pieces.

you huffed in frustration, your face twisting with dismay. the next time you see him, you’ll find the purpose of existence in the prominent, perfectly structured line of his jaw and break it. with a new resolve, you got up from your chair, reaching towards the portrait you made of him earlier, now discarded somewhere by your feet — you jabbed your fingers through the apple, forcing them to shred to the other side even if it was hard — you pulled, and pulled, observing the material crumbling in your own palms. it’s one of your best works — what an utterly foolish thing to say. how about now? was it still so breathtaking? in your humble opinion, it looked exactly like him.

as you surveyed the destroyed canvases, a sudden sound pulled you out of your reveries. someone was knocking at the door.

you rolled your eyes, feeling all the ire continuously simmering in the fibers of your body. you were not in the mood to see with anyone, much less at this time of the day, when it was obvious normal people would already begin getting ready for bed. you dropped the ruined painting on the ground, running fingers through your hair as you tried to compose yourself from the outburst.

you growled with chagrin once the knocking picked up in its volume. "come in!" you shouted, loud enough so the person outside would hear you.

you heard the door open, characteristic footsteps resonating in the space of your workplace. just great! he was definitely the last person you wanted to talk to right now. "[name], i brought you the cloth you forgot—"

Mydei stopped in his tracks, taken aback by the mess you made — he scanned everything, looking at the portraits you left in shambles after the bitterness you felt boiled over, spilling all around the cavities of your usually calm mind. you glanced at the material he was currently holding in his palm — you must have forgotten it when you left in hurry. still, you saw no point in bringing you this at such a late hour — he could’ve waited until tomorrow morning, no?

you sighed heavily, tapping your foot. "okay. anything else?"

the man’s eyebrows tugged together as he put the neatly folded cloth away on the table, his displeased vision returning to yours. "what happened here?"

"nothing much." you shrugged, starting to feel impatient.

his golden irises bored into your eyes as he took a step closer. at this point, you should just chase him away — he was not worthy of your attention, was he? "my sight is not impaired, [name]. you must really have a few screws loose." he commented in a low tone, picking up the painting you made just a few minutes earlier.

"what’s it to you?"

he huffed out a dry, humorless laugh. "color me surprised, i’ve never took you for someone so violent. is that supposed to be me?" he pointed towards the erratic strokes you put on the canvas, now ripped through in half. "i didn’t know i looked so horrible."

what a remarkable man — you admired his courage. not many people would be able of criticizing you so freely.

"yes, that’s you.” you agreed, tearing the thing away from his hands, and throwing it somewhere by your feet. "and i’m not violent."

"you must despise me, then."

"quite."

Mydei scrutinized you, as if weighting every single one of your syllables, trying to decipher what was going on in your tangled psyche — you genuinely hoped he wouldn’t come to any concrete conclusion. you’d eat his heart, if he did.

you were on your guard against the rest of the world, but with him, it seemed as if it was of no use. "why?" he questioned, his voice neutral, though you could hear the tangible lace of some disdain lying underneath.

"because," you clenched your fists, wanting to berate yourself for feeling so unbearably happier with him, "you drive me mad. it’s as simple as that."

if you could describe the state of your body, you’d probably say you were sitting in a wagon of sorts, and it was rushing towards the line of trees, mere seconds away from crashing. he had you on a string.

"i could say the same." he muttered, dragging his feet even closer to you — if he takes another step, he’ll merge into one with your being. you were sure of that. "but do you truly hate me?"

no, you craved to say, but your throat clenched around nothing, as if you were unable of acting like a normal human being for once.

Mydei exhaled, thinking you were akin to a deadly nightshade — your poisonous juices seeping into his mouth, dripping down the windpipe every time he tried to take a breath, choking, choking. there was no way to recover from that kind of devotion.

perhaps it’s just like a wishing well. you throw your coins into the water, hoping all of your desires will come true with the next one. both of you knew exactly how to push each other until you’d go insane, and it was so hard putting up with you sometimes, but his heart still drummed in the rhythm of your breaths.

"[name]?" he urged.

"no."

"then what do you think of me?"

the air gone heavy in your lungs.

"i like you."

you announced it nonchalantly, but you felt as if your whole body was on fire, burning with a mixture of embarrassment and agitation. you didn’t think. you didn’t analyze. you said what you were aching to say for the whole time, yet were too prideful to utter. a deep silence fell over you, and you swear you saw a flash of surprise run across his face.

for the whole time, the man was absolutely convinced you didn’t harbor any affection for him — and perhaps it wasn’t the textbook definition of 'love', but it resided within you nonetheless. all the sketches you made of him, and the knife you jabbed through the canvases of his portraits, and fleeting glances, and how you seemed to only laugh at his mildly-humorous jokes. that was the clarity of what conjoined you by the hip. you were his dearest — difficult, and self-serving, but still his. maybe now he won’t have to seethe internally anytime someone got too-friendly with you, or whenever you talked to others with so much interest.

your usually aloof eyes now appeared so afraid.

you swallowed, sensing his hand nudging against yours — he held it close to his mouth, kissing at your knuckles, a wordless way of saying: 'i do too.' it was a vast difference to every other thing you did together — no blind lust dragging you by the collar, no 'causal' intimacy — it was far from that. you looked into his eyes, and deemed they appeared remarkably tender for someone so adept at fighting. his long, beautiful eyelashes fluttered when you placed your palm at the back of his neck.

"i’m sorry for always being like this, Mydei." you mumbled, pulling him towards you.

his lips brushed against yours, apparently holding back. "i don’t mind."

it was the truth, because how could he?

your resolve crumbled, and you kissed him, and kissed him some more. he kept kissing you back.

it wasn’t fair for you to think of Mydei so lowly, when in reality you perceived the man as the only person you actually wanted, or knew. the denial was never working in your favor — it was clear as a day, the realization forcing its bright light through the fog of your mind. he was the sun, his unrelenting rays scattering through the prism of your being, just like it falls through the leaves during summer. you couldn’t explain how good it felt to glance across the room, and see him standing there — his eyes already on you, crinkling in the corners as he fought through the smile attempting to stretch his lips upwards.

his hands glued to your waist, digging its thumbs into your flesh with such intensity, you thought it might leave bruises. all the uncertainty dissipated, making you press yourself further into him, searching out his touch, the same way he did earlier on, when you still could deem yourself as only friends — if it was pathetic to you back then, you certainly were on equal level of low now.

you interwoven your fingers through his blonde hair, tugging at them aggressively as you practically swallowed each other, the heat of desire washing over your senses. Mydei’s palms trailed down to your hips, giving them a firm squeeze, as if they were molded to perfectly fit into his grip — just like puzzles do.

the tension arose, its palpable weight crushing you with a metaphorical grin on its lips. there was a knot settled deep in your stomach, tightening, cracking, threatening to snap in half as your fingers searched through the man’s body, lingering in places they shouldn’t be yet. perhaps, somewhere under your lungs, there was a big horde of butterflies, the erratic flapping of their wings shoving you into a haze, trying to rip away from your ribcage.

Mydei pushed you backwards, and if not the deadly grasp you had on him, you’d fall on the cold floor. you whined a sound of surprise into his mouth, yet you didn’t protest his actions — you coordinated your steps with his, allowing him to lead you. for all this time, you were the one dictating in which way his will would bend, so you decided to let him have this one (or maybe your brain was simply too occupied with everything else to even try thinking for itself).

you felt your knees suddenly hit the edge of the table, and you gasped, severing yourself from his lips. you opened your eyes, looking into his dilated pupils — all the gentleness gone, replaced with a dangerous covet. your heavy breaths mixed into one, hot mess, and you panted, wondering — how could you not love that man? he was much more than just a model, a mere doll to pose and play with.

he nudged you further, and your legs buckled under the pressure as you clumsily sat yourself atop the surface — Mydei shoved everything off, and you heard the dull sound of your sketchbooks hitting the ground, but you payed no mind to them. he leaned himself impossibly closer to you, securing your back from completely meeting with the table — his canines hovering just by your neck, as if he was debating whether he should sink them into your pulse point. previously, you thought fondness turns people soft, but you’ve never been more brutal.

you felt him secure himself between your thighs — you both knew how it goes. "i want you inside me," you pleaded into Mydei’s ear, clenching your fingers on his broad shoulders, and you could almost discern your head under the water, "i want you." you repeated, the knife splitting you both open.

"you’re not very patient, are you?" he murmured, amusement and yearning merged into one. you’d eat him alive.

your lips found his again, clashing with even more fervor than before, your teeth against the man’s as you barely controlled whatever restraint was left in you. you ignored the table creaking, and the nightingales singing outside, and the screech of your ignited mind, focusing solely on the fast beating of his heart underneath your fingertips — one, two three, one two, three. the last rush of melody you hear before a starved animal pounces on you, love filling its bottomless eyes.

devotion is a flesh, it is a flower in full bloom, flooded with blood running through its thin veins.

you hurriedly took off your top, and Mydei carefully eased your shoes away with his free hand.

you were no good, but does it hold any significance? you made each other alive. none other thing mattered.

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