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highsviolets · 4 years ago

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ne plus ultra

summary: you encounter acclaimed scholar obi-wan kenobi after an academic conference

rating: mature (not explicit)

notes: all my love and affection to brit and mia. @profkenobi you are my prompt muse & @goldenkenobi you win many awards by listening to my endless rambles about this fic. // CHAPTER TWO

ne plus ultra (n).

(1) the highest point capable of being attained

(2) the most profound degree of a quality or state

the story starts in medias res, as all lives do. the beginning of your life is always in the middle of someone else’s. your death coincides with another’s gallant ebullience, your semi-colon failing to incise upon their life. so the scholars say.

the conference — your first since you passed your dissertation — had made you nervous, and you were glad to be spending an extra night before returning to the real world tomorrow.

your palms are slick, as they always are after too long spent in the company of other academics. the anxiety that swells in you is ballast and the deadweight forces you to slump forward slightly, the visible seam on your the shoulder of your shirt sashaying inwards.

when you smile at the concierge, it is tight, like a formation of soldiers in Napoleon’s day, and does not quite reach your eyes. still decked with traces of freckles and darkened by a summer spent abroad under the sun’s penetrating gazes, your skin fails to comply with demands of minuscule muscles pulling and stretching, commanding it into a thin arc.

but it is no matter — you receive your key and you sign the paperwork and are ascending the winding staircase to the seventh floor. emerald green carpet is your guide, swathing your ascendancy in a sheen of dark-hue velvet. sir gawain chasing after the knight in green armor, a lecture on virtue streaming from the knight’s mouth, materializes on the steps. the galloping thought makes you smile, this time more relaxed. that story is something you know. something you know so well you could almost touch it. indeed you had fingered its pages, during your apprenticeship at the British Library.

hope. the words springs forth, nearly unbidden, from your lips. the word is spoken so softly — merely a breath and a hint of sound disturbing the stairwell’s precious physics. it is a reflex of association. green means hope, the scholars had said, and during the course of your studies you had been disappointed to find that you agreed with them. you did not want to agree with the fashionably smug expert in the field. you wanted to rattle him. shake him to his sacrosanct core, the sanctimonious scum.

you had never met the man: the mysterious OWK. your advisor had raved about his breakout lecture series that had taken place years ago, when he was a newly minted phd and you were still in undergrad. sipping a cup of cafeteria coffee (they always forgot you preferred tea, all these years later), they had rambled on about the poetry of OWK’s phrasing and his decisiveness in speech and the unparalleled skill of his primary source research. the lectures had been sadly lost, the footage deleted, or archived, they didn’t know which. just that the man had refused to distribute them and speak on the matter further, nearly abandoning academia entirely.

the beverage was bitter but you laughed lightly. “is this thomas moore and his lectures on st. augustine, then? so legendary that no one can find them?”

your advisor had inclined their head, congratulating you on your witty reference. “i suppose so,” they had mused, leaning back in their office chair and staring at some point above your head, at the oaken bookshelves with brightly colored book jackets lining the walls. “now, your latest draft—“

the memory fades as your purpose alters. a simple twist of the key and the door opens. but you remain on the threshold, stuck between two modes, between here and there.

there is a man in your room, and he is as handsome as sin. he sits in a chair in the corner of the room and one leg is resting on the other’s kneecap at a ninety degree angle. he is wearing glasses, and has short auburn hair that gleams in the dull light of the lamp beside him (although, a few wayward strands obscure his eyes, layering over the frame of his glasses). he is reading. the cover is folded over so you cannot see the title but it is hefty, judging from its position on his thigh. shadows have formed over high cheekbones.

the man removes himself from the task, focusing his gaze on you. you see now that he has bright blue eyes.

“hello there!” his greeting is polite, and amiable, and accented, though not pleasantly so. “can i help you?”

“I’m afraid there seems to be a mix-up!” you say in your ‘adult voice.’ it’s same one you used on your dissertation defense. “it seems we were placed in the same room.”

“ah.” he nods sagely, as though this were to be expected, and unfolds himself from his chair.

you place a hand on your hip — near the phone snug in the back pocket of your jeans — and shrug. “I’m sorry.” the apology is saccharine and tastes like grenadine. “I’ll pop back downstairs and find out what the problem is.”

he urges you to stay, to let him call from here rather you lugging your things all the way down and all the way back up again. “it’s not proper,” he insists, dragging you in and closing the door behind you. in the time that his is so near to you and you feel the way his frown matches the steady grip on your upper arm, something warms in you at his indignation. your hand drifts away from your phone. he retreats to his corner to make the call while you linger just beyond the threshold.

the conversation is hushed and decorated with the raised tones of inquiry. when he hangs up, he sighs.

“they were under the impression that we were a married couple. apparently we booked under a similar last name.” his voice turns down at the edges. he sounds the way his frown had earlier: weary, confused, and a dash of inexplicable certainty.

“but—“ you gesture to the beds — “two beds?”

something of a grimace shadows his face. “all that was available, apparently.”

“oh.” there is a pause. he does not continue. “but they got me a room, right?” if you sound slightly desperate, perhaps it is because you are. you are sweaty. you are nervous. you want to relax. in your own room.

he zooms past your query. “i know you,” he says, and sounds as if he is surprised he knows how to speak.

“i —“ you shake your head — “i don’t think so.”

when you give your name and recognition fails to present itself, he falters and twists to stare through the glass behind him. “i thought…” but he breaks off. in the end he rights himself and tells you of the situation — how there is no vacancy, but he does not mind the sharing a room with you, just for the night, it wouldn’t be a bother.

there is something different about him. maybe it is the way that he emphasized the word can. maybe it is the way he is pushing the hair from his eyes, and removing the glasses from his face. maybe it is the way that, now pausing his actions, the man cants his head and furrows his brow.

air grows thick with the brush strokes of caravaggio: he is in the spotlight, sure and solid and steady, pure against the whirlpools of unknowing realism.

you are on the cusp of stepping into his white light when he offers his name. the first letter of each word drags itself from his mouth and burrows into your ear, until you almost divorce the meaning but for the particulars.

the first instinct that you are aware of is one you cannot name — it is an anger that is sweet, and one that is shielded by sadness, yet fueled by frustration.

there are dozens of others that your heart and mind have already examined, of course, turning them this way and that, inspecting their corners with bloodied hands. but they are rejected, and expelled into the waxy shadows, without your being aware of them. that is the job of the soul: to know before you are even aware.

he senses the shift. perhaps uncertainty has clouded your eyes. obi-wan kenobi, OWK, takes a step back from rising mist and shadow and once more turns to gaze out the window. through the glass there is a gentle village scene, all cobblestones and iron street lamps and hills keeping time on the horizon.

“i — “ you start, but you stop again. you must start, you feel, but you do not know what path to take, and you halt. the time he thinks you consider you are in fact not considering at all. there is only one answer (answers that are wrong are never really answers, after all, just more questions).

“i’ll stay.”

—

Obi-Wan is courteous and deferential and demands that you permit him to treat you this evening as an apology. he departs to give you privacy as you shower, and the flash of shimmering emerald carpet you spy as he exits makes you wonder if you are the Lady Bertalik to his Sir Gawain.

the steam and the water beat down clenched muscles with gentle hands and lingering touches. it is for several minutes that you linger in their warm embrace, but as you wipe away fog from the mirror you cannot help but encounter the sensation that you are alone, and wrongfully so. you cannot feel Obi-Wan’s presence and the air feels stale without him — like there is no current disrupting the atmosphere’s mundane course.

droplets decorate your shoulders and the hollow of your throat. they hold fast even when you pad softly to your belongings for a fresh change of clothes.

The ache in this room is stronger. The walls themselves are mourning his absence. You feel it settle in your gut, a gluttonous mass that lightens when you consider that he should be returning soon. the sky outside the window is orange and gold, flattering the leaves of maple trees in autumn.

the room is pretty, in a simple way: the emerald carpet of hope has been exchanged for a darkened hardwood. Chrome accents gleam in the reflection of the wood, and two beds — one at opposite ends of the wall — are smothered silver-white sheets. a series of Malevich paintings are hung up in a neat grid, as though the dissembling artist would come barging in, screaming of the devil, if the French theories of symmetry were not obeyed.

as you dress and begin to comb your hair, you wonder why you miss someone whom you have just met, and someone you are not disposed to like. can you miss someone you don’t like? he is sporadic and paradisiacal; in motion and steady. his kindness had surprised you, as had his beauty. he was less corrosive than your advisor had made him out to be, less ambitious than the accolades awarded to his name. but he is zealous, hungry, seeking: you could see in the way his eyes bunched around the edges, in the crick of his neck when he sought wisdom from the hills, how he had contorted his body in the chair.

(he is like you, both here and not here, and although you did not yet know, your soul was aware and reflective in wonder)

when your flesh-and-blood sir gawain returns, you muse that you are a poor temptress in an thick-knit ivory sweater that encases your body from neck to wrists. it had been a steal from a second-hand store a few years back, and you had never found the heart to give it up. it was like a childhood book, or a favorite mug — the object, in all its durable materiality, was akin to you.

Your smile pleases him. Obi-Wan says he has found a place for this evening, nothing special, but nice. “We are celebrating after all,” he says, shrugging off a dark woolen coat.

“We are?” you look at him through the reflection of the mirror. blue eyes meet yours.

“Of course!” the phrase suspends itself for a moment, maybe two, as though it is waiting for something to slip in and complete its trinity. but it falls, tumbling back down to terrestrial concerns. “We are celebrating our meeting.”

He is absurd, and you laugh. Obi-Wan’s theory of festivity is not so mercurial as his speech — the declaration sticks to your ribs, pumping blood to your heart and flooding your cheeks with a natural flush.

Obi-Wan continues to examine you. “Might I ask,” he starts, hands stilling in their expedition of finding suitable attire, “where you bought your sweater?”

you respond: it was from a second-hand store, you found it during your apprenticeship, it was the only thing that kept you warm that terribly dreary winter, it was your constant companion.

“does it have a trio of red threads on the left cuff?”

satisfying his quench takes precedence to mystery of his request.

Obi-Wan’s smile engulfs the spirit of the room, and the two of you, and the bedding, and the glass window, too.

“that was my sweater,” he says. “my uncle made it for me, and i gave it to my brother after we adopted him. he wasn’t used to the dampness of English winters, but he didn’t like the itchiness of the knit. he always had an aversion to gritty textures.” he reaches out a hand with a faint smile, like the combined power of his simple offering can cross space and time and memory and return him to the days of him and his uncle and adopted brother.

you do not know what to say. you watch him for several moments. you want to speak, but your mind is blank, thrumming with the idea that it is so very right that part of him has been with part of you all of these years. parts have him has seen you through the long hours of a dreary apprenticeship and discovering the healing properties of English tea and catching tears and wisps of smiles and witnessing ink spill over pages as you churned out dissertation drafts until the argument was smooth and refined.

the idea makes you feel very alive, and alert, and you want to offer him comfort. “would you like to take it back?” one hand tugs at the edge of the cloth, near your waist. “it’s yours anyway.” the pain of parting is lessened by the joy of giving.

he demurs, you coax. eventually it is determined that he will wear the garment for the evening, but only if you wear something of his, too. “that way it’s even,” he says, and you laugh again to hide the dip in your stomach at thought of wearing something of his, of wrapping yourself in his scent, of placing your body in a place his had once inhabited.

you settle on a light gray blazer that you think must compliment his eyes, which sparkle with aquamarine and crystal. it is paired with a turtleneck and when you emerge to show him the completed ensemble, spinning in a circle, he chuckles.

“you look like me,” he says, one hand cupping his chin.

a feeling pulses in your mind but you let it go. you may like him after all, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a pompous academic whose theories had made your life hell.

—

you expect him to take you to a cozy place. somewhere where they serve the local brew and make homemade shepherd’s pie, but he doesn’t.

he takes you a bar that is sleek and modern, with soft yellow lights and paneled ceilings and marble counter-tops. Obi-Wan escorts you to a high table in the corner, a hand on the small of your back. the warmth from his palm spreads through his jacket and your turtleneck and it feels like cinnamon and candlelight.

later, you will not remember what you ordered to eat, but you will always remember the two cups water that appear on the table.

the glasses have smooth edges and and rounded sides, curving around themselves ad infinitum or perhaps reductio ad absurdum. faint golden orbs hunch against the surface; integers of light cling to any sort of tactical reassurance. even the glass will do.

the cups are hefty, and not just with the font of life. the vessel is weighty, durable. Obi-Wan tells you that they are recycled.

he does not talk about what he does now and how he teaches, and you do not mention your work. you do not need to: what these truths have taught you is in every swallow, every glance, every gentle barb. the two of you do not need shields of citation guidelines to understand one another.

the conversation dances. he pulls you in with a question. you twirl around him, brushing his five o’clock shadow. artifice glistens and then falls away. with every pass and dip and pas de chat resentment and assumption weaken, and your eyes become bigger. he changes the time signature, the style (first it was a waltz, and then a swing step, and now it is easing into something unknown). the fabric of his jacket is smooth, and comfortable, and smells like him — warm and spice and clean. you ease into it like it is your birthright.

you do not see, but Obi-Wan notices, and grins into his water.

he does not see, but you notice, the way he couches into your sweater, and your eyes curl in some form of elation.

“what were they about? the lectures, i mean.” this is the question you have been waiting to ask. here, in the bar, with glass, you are emboldened to let go of one last grudge.

he looks at you, and his gaze stabs you, but then it softens — like the needle from a shot easing into muscle before retreating as swiftly as it came.

“what did your advisor say they were about?” he fiddles with his glass.

“they said…” you close your eyes in recollection. eyelashes flutter against freckles. “they said the lectures were about grief.”

Obi-Wan’s smile is wry, but he does not seem displeased. he is still too relaxed to be angry. how you can read his body language so quickly, you are not sure — maybe it is because he is wearing your sweater. so many things you are unsure of, but he is not one of them. not really.

uncertainty is different with him. he is not an ever-fixéd mark, nor a staid anchor in the waves. but he is resolved, and you can separate him from the rest of the particulars that impede your life. he is not just krei: distinguishing and judging and explanatory and crisis all at once, all at everything.

yes, uncertainty with him is less about judgment and is rather imbued with mystery. it is krei mixed with mysteriam: separating the hidden things from that which is known.

Obi-Wan taps his finger on the glass and the sound returns you to the present. he has caught you wandering, again, wandering the wayward halls of esoteric remembrance.

“they were about grief,” he nods, staring at the transparent material in his hands.. Obi-Wan’s voice is kingly and aromatic, like basil. it lilts and sways around the words he speaks as in a courtly dance, like those Anne Boleyn performed for King Henry.

lifting his gaze to yours again, he adds, “and they were about joy. those lectures were about everything, and nothing.” a hand rises, and rhythmic fingers sweep away invisible cobwebs. “they were,” Obi-Wan concludes, “about life itself. phenomena, as it were.” the hand floats down and rests on the table.

it is perilously close to yours now: mere inches from the edges of your body. you both look down at his hand in a brief moment marked and scratched with silence, and you are alone with your thoughts. his hands are worn, like they have been used — little scars and wrinkles and a slight puffiness that tells you that he spent a lot of time writing today. you like that.

you point to the swelling, at the v of his hand where thumb and palm meet. the tip of your index finger hovers above the spot and your confession must linger too, because it takes several moments for him to drag his eyes upwards to study your face.

“how many ACE wraps did you fray while writing your dissertation?” he asks, and you want to push him for being such a competitive brat.

your hand is still suspended above his.

you tell him your answer, and he cups his fingers around yours in a spasm of revelation. “me too!” his grip tightens. “academia is one son of a bitch.” he catches you in a sideways glance, and when you laugh, he relaxes into a smile.

“I read your dissertation, you know.” the sweater itches against your wrist, where the sleeve of his blazer has ridden up and exposed skin.

“i didn’t.” you take a sip. “but i do know how you feel about scholars such as myself.” another sip. are you biding time? you are not sure. “you feel very strongly about the color green, Dr. Kenobi.”

his grip slackens but he does not release your hand completely. “please. call me ben.”

“no?” your eyebrow arches. “not OWK, either?”

“I don’t use that name with friends.”

“Are we friends?”

his eyes are earnest, open, porous, like blue tulle on ballet costumes. “yes. i dare say we are.”

—

when the two of you stand to leave, there is a still a table that prohibits unity. emptiness subsumes you; he is so near and yet so far; Ben should be next to you. the distance continues, grows, as you exit, and an ache pours forth from your soul, because you now know what you did not know before. you had seen it in the glass, and in the reflected light, and the way you had seen yourself in his eyes when you danced with him without touching his hand.

you halt, he pauses. you take a step forward and Ben watches you. darkness blankets the town’s cobbled streets; the stones gleam dully and swallow the street lamps all into an abyss. except his eyes: Ben’s silken azure eyes are your anchor.

people don’t make sense but you do.

a few steps more and the two of you are very close. you tilt your head to look at his face. you are there, reflected in his pupils. “maybe i am you.” you mean for it to sound teasing, but your soul knows before you do, and the words are laden with imperial import, like a royal seal.

those gemstone eyes flicker over your face. he has felt it too, he is telling you, but how you know this you cannot say. “no, i do not think so.” letters drip out, leaking in a slow stream. “but i think perhaps we are a part of each other.”

and then you have narrowed down the sum to its composite parts. the glass has shattered and the left hand swims in its sand and calcium carbonate and ash, drifting through a process of becoming. particles glimmer on skin, under nails, brandishing depth and texture and a pantone coloring book of the human heart.

it is a mutual kiss, one where individualism no longer endures. his hands — swollen, calloused, firm — are grasping your cheeks. your arms are around his waist, winding around sweater and skin and soul. when you close your eyes, you think it will be dark. you are wrong. tenebrism creeps away and shadows vanish, and there is only him, and a resounding tenor of colors.

ben’s lips are soft, and his breath is warm, and it is the kiss for which you feel like you have spent your whole life preparing. he is safe (tender) and unexpected (his tongue grazes your teeth). he likes it when you grip him harder, the knit no longer coarse against your palms, not when his hand is wandering through your hair in flashes of blue and gold and pearl.

when you pull away, and nuzzle his cheek, Ben smiles — soft and comforting like the garment on his back. maybe this is why glass shatters and cracks around your feet, crunching as you sway slightly in each other’s arms — you have worn his jacket, and he has worn your sweater.

—

it is predawn the next time he kisses you. the two of you are on his bed, near the window. sweaters and blazers have been exchanged for baggy t-shirts and sleep shorts. Ben is facing you, cross-legged on the pale sheets, and he watches you as you take in the metamorphosis of the sky, from black to navy to the merest smidgen of blue and grey on the horizon, skating across the silhouette of the hills.

he watches you as you speak, too, about the way you loved the ocean as a child, and your favorite book is Moby Dick. it was so very ethereal to you, the way that sailors used the stars to navigate. it was like they were communing with the heavens.

Ben thinks that your voice glitters. it is weary with much talk and too little sleep but it shines the way diamonds do when they are stitched onto spanish lace, supported with the strength that is only found in delicacy.

your eyes, he thinks, are more like satin, for the way they gleam and mix their depth and shadows without losing their sheen, glassy in their wonder.

but you notice his regard, and you pause. he cannot see it, but he can feel a blush jogging from your neck to your cheeks.

you stare at each other. and then — he is next to you, and laying you down, and you are learning his labyrinthine ways even as you begin to come undone.

he is coming alive, or waking up—you’re not sure. his ends and beginnings are still a unknown to you: you must fashion yourself a mystic to enter his realm. somehow you suspect he is yours. your alpha and omega, the moral force that has driven you forward to now, to this point, where his forehead is meeting the jut of your jaw as he kisses his way down your neck.

you are hot and cold all at once and when he licks your pulse point, and sucks, you gasp. it is a gentle thing, more like a deep breath than an exclamation. you feel yourself leaning into him, straining for his touch. his auburn hair under your fingertips is soft and slick with his gel and you tug at it in an act of encouragement.

he pulls away. hovering over you, eyes blue and silver in the pale light — twin moons, perhaps — he smirks. “are you trying to tell me something, darling?” he asks lowly, and his voice is dark molasses. it is sticky and sweet and bitter, inching down your body. you want his kisses to follow its tortuous path, staining you with vermillion and black and dying you with pleasure.

he is color. you are cloth.

the durability of your nature returns in a rush marked with grains of steel. “no.” you swallow and the action traces where his lips met your skin just moments earlier. “i rather thought you were trying to communicate with me.” you sound ragged, coy, on the verge of aching.

Ben does not take your bait. “i was.” his breath is hot against your ear, and arresting. he pauses. the molasses continues to drip. “i was just wanted to make sure i had a clear answer.” and he nips your earlobe. you bite your lip in response: the two of you are in sync.

“yes.” you are fabric, and your voice is terrycloth.

“Yes?” he repeats your fiat. Shards of glass collapse around you as he again meets your gaze.

this must be how the Virgin prayed her Magnificat, you think as his heart errantly beats against his throat. She must have been like he is now, brimming with humble righteousness and bound by understanding. Tenderness cords through you; it tempers your breathing, smoothes the bubbles of molasses. Reaching up to to cup his face, you let your fingers splay over his cheek, resting on stubble and skin. your pinky finger meets the angle of his cheekbone. the image falls into place and the symmetry causes you to smile.

“yes. etiam. ja. sí.” you are about to conclude in greek — ναί — but he halts your litany of assent by placing an offering on your lips. the greek is in the twists of his tongue in your mouth, and so is the hebrew, and the arabic, and all the languages yet to engrave themselves in your memory.

it is like the first time you experienced champagne at your father’s christmas party. one of his students had poured you, then sixteen, a glass and said with a wink, “the monks declared it was the taste of the stars.” you had raised the flute to your lips and drank as you were bid, and when you had swallowed, you knew the world was different now. or perhaps the old world had not changed, you had merely adapted to fickle ways.

your tongue did as it had then, skating across your front teeth onto your upper lips in quick, jabbing motions. unsatiated and incomplete.

he pulls away again and you frown. eyes closed, you tug at his shoulder in a nonverbal ask to come back.

silence meets your plea and you open your eyes. he is still above you, weight resting on his forearms, and he is smiling. “you are so impatient.” the rebuke is fond and he soothes its burn with a kiss to your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, briefly.

“i am not impatient.” arms cross over your chest and eyes roll. “i am —“ the phrase is paused as he kisses your other cheek. you open your eyes. “i am.” he waits for you, as he always has, but after a few heartbeats he gleans the completeness of your meaning. existence is the watchword of this night, or this dawn: let sartre and his kind be put to rest.

so the two of you kiss again, and when his arms get tired, you drape your legs over his lap and press yourself into his chest. the last vestiges of moonlight have settled upon you, but it is no thing, not when skin feels what eyes cannot. lips are languid and hands stroll up and down pathways and alleyways and sidewalks. brittle substances of impatience are burned away through the silk of his fingers. you are content to rest in chiaroscuro.

there is another breaking: transparent and fortified compound of ash and sand — let in by the moon and the rising venus — twinkles around your head, his spine. a whispered ask, a tender assent: shirts glide over shoulders and he guides in your descent.

breathing is knowing, feeling is seeing: for here essence and existence bleed into one consummate act of communion.

lips touch your collarbone, your breast. your hands plane over his chest in a crusade of knowledge. he does not begrudge your gasps, now, or the arches your back erects to his honor. ben’s lips, hands, the vehicles of his words to the world, at once analyze and soak in praise.

clothes fall away, skin uncovering skin, manifesting a reality that had resided in your souls far before today. before the bar, the hotel, the sweater, there was always the two of you, striving for eudaemonia.

“this is phenomena,” he whispers against the curve of your hip. ben presses a kiss to the bones that give form to your body politic (the totality of your shattered glass made whole).

fin.

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heyybrittannia · 4 years ago

Text

Kamakura

We have another BNHarem collab; theme was Summer and this one is featuring Shindou Yo. Thanks to @thisisthehardestthing for beta reading and keeping me on track with this; I couldn’t have done it without you. :D

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Mountains and forest blurred into swirls of amber-tinted green and gray as your family’s car weaved through the mountain passes. Your mother, her dark hair now streaked with gray from you and your younger brother’s exploits over the years, smiled warmly at your father as they made small talk over neutral topics like the weather and the latest hero gossip from Musutafu and Tokyo. You did your best to block out the inane chatter, eyes fixed to the fast moving scenery just outside the rear passenger window. It had been a family tradition for as long as you could remember-- every summer the family would travel together to your father's ancestral home just outside Kamakura. It was a tradition that survived your parents’ failed marriage and was one of the few family gatherings you actually looked forward to.

“I heard you got your provisional license, Y/n,” your father prodded, his hands pressed firmly to the steering wheel. “Baba’ll be glad to hear there’s going to be a hero in the main family.” Your brother Hayate nudged your ribs roughly with his elbow and pulled you from your daze to respond to your father.

“Aah, yes. I’m looking forward to telling her...again.” You kept your responses curt with your father. Things were never quite the same between the two of you since the divorce. Hayate rolled his eyes at the exchange and returned to the game on his phone. You turned your attention back to the rapidly changing scenery outside your window as your mother began humming along to the barely audible radio. You rolled down your window and inhaled deeply, wind whipping your hair as you leaned into the frame. Salt and sea washed over your senses and baptized you anew, bringing back memories of a happier time before words like “mistress” and “affair” and “alimony” were thrown around like sledgehammer blows bending and breaking the framework of your once happy little family.

“Do you think they’ll make it this year, Hiro?” your mother asked absently between songs. Your father scoffed at her question and turned into the sleepy beach town to the family estate. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen them.”

“It’s only been two summers, Kanna. Look, they’re already here.”

When your father parked the car, you noted a broad back you couldn’t quite place and an unruly mop of dark hair addressing your grinning grandmother from the courtyard. She waved her arthritis-warped hand in your direction and you felt your heart seize in your chest the moment that dark head turned to follow your Baba’s gesture.

Shindou Yo…

:readmore:

The moment you were parked, Yo made his way to the driveway to help your family unpack the car. While your mother greeted him warmly, you kept your gaze firmly fixed to your phone or the estate until your father handed you your suitcase. He was taller than you remembered, grander in scale-- between internships and training camps he was all muscle and sinew draped in a mint muscle tee and gray joggers. He still had that same cloying, saccharine smile, the same non-confrontational simper to his voice he'd adopt when he spoke with your mother. With your bags in hand, you brushed past him and forced yourself to remember how to breathe. Your grandmother opened her arms wide and smiled broadly at you as you entered her home.

"Y/n, welcome home," she sighed as you dropped your belongings and embraced the withered old woman.

"Baba, I've missed you!"

"Let me take a look at you, young lady. My, how you've grown! And you've grown your lovely hair out! Oh! Your grandfather would weep if he could see you now!" You chuckled nervously under your grandmother's praise. Your gut twisted into knots when you felt a heavy hand fall on your shoulder. Your pulse raced at the contact and heat rushed to your face as his voice resonated through you.

"She's quite a beauty, isn't she, Saishi-sama?" Your grandmother clapped her hands together and beamed up at the boy.

"Absolutely stunning, Yo! Ah, you should help Y/n take her things to her room."

"I can handle my own bags, Baba. Thank you, Shindou-kun, but I--."

"I'd be a poor guest if I didn't help you out, Y/n. I insist." He offered the same, harmless smile, but you kept your stare fixed to your grandmother. He removed his hand and knelt to collect your suitcase and pulled your backpack from your hand. Your fingers brushed and for a moment you swore you felt faint. Surrendering to the confines of centuries of social niceties, you bowed to your grandmother and dismissed yourself to your room with Shindou Yo following close behind.

The atmosphere seemed to change when you were alone with Shindou. His smile was less forced (not that it would ever look forced to the untrained eye), his shoulders more slack, tone of his voice less measured when it was just the two of you. Surrounded by your ancestor’s traditional trappings, you released the breath you didn’t realize you were holding until Shindou slid the rice paper door closed behind him and gently dropped your bags to the tatami floor. His light russet eyes raked over your frame like you were a prize to be won. His tongue peeked from between his lips as he drank you in, arms crossed casually over his toned chest.

“You filled out since the last time I saw you, Y/n.”

There it was-- the real Shindou Yo; underneath it all he was the same slimy, two-faced asshole who nearly cost you your provisional hero license two years ago.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here. Congrats. You’ve fooled Baba into thinking you’re husband material or whatever,” you growled, every nerve ending burning with adrenaline. He smirked and canted his head in mock ignorance, leaning his shoulder against an ancient, solid cedar chest of drawers.

“Oh, come on, sweetheart. You aren’t still sore about the provisional licensing exam?”

“How could I not, Shindou?!” you spat. “You nearly cost me two years of work and for what? To prove to your stupid little girlfriend that you’re hot shit or something?!”

That struck a nerve. His features darkened as he drew closer. He looked dangerous bearing down on your slight frame, eyes blown with thinly veiled fury and something else you couldn’t quite place. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

You weren’t finished or unnerved. “Dare what, Shindou? You think after two years of you not showing your face or not even bothering to apologize for the way you nearly screwed me out of my dream for a girl that I wouldn’t be mad?” You shook your head and pointed a neatly manicured finger into his solid chest. “We’re long past mad, asshole.”

“Stop,” he growled, clenching his fists as you leaned into him, your eyes practically alight with long-simmering rage just threatening to boil over. He inhaled sharply as your fingers curled around his shirt, your own fist trembling into the fabric.

“You might have Baba and Mom fooled, but I see you for what you really are,” you dug on. Shindou flexed under your grip and exhaled sharply through his nose. You could practically feel the low vibrations threatening to gain momentum under his skin. It was your turn to size him up and rake your eyes over his tall build. His adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as you drew closer, rising on your tiptoes to meet him at eye-level. With your flushed cheeks and the contempt boiling over through your eyes to him you were a vision-- a dragon to be tamed; part of him wasn’t sure if he should be turned on or meet your fury with his own.

“Stop,” he repeated, his voice lower with that familiar note of finality. “Before we say something we regret.” He brought his hands to your wrist and you felt the low rumble of his quirk reverberate into your bones.

His fingertips were rough, worn to leather by his internship before summer break. The combined sensation against the soft skin of your inner wrist and the gentle vibrations slowly brought you back. Your eyes met his and he clenched his jaw at the hurt that came after the anger ebbed away. Instinctively, he leaned in and locked his lips on yours, dragging the tip of his tongue along the curve of your bottom lip to beg both permission and forgiveness. He called to you and your body answered, lips parting just to sneak your own taste of him. You matched his kiss with your own and found yourself melting into him as if he could keep you from evaporating away.

You pulled away first, but he kept your wrist in his grasp. As if sensing your growing anxiety, he began rubbing small, soothing circles along the swath of skin in his hold, never tearing his eyes from yours. He watched as you withdrew back into yourself, sinking back to your heels as he loosened his grip, just barely holding on. Your chest heaved as you sighed through your nose. You dragged your tongue along your lips and let out the softest whimper as you tore your arm away from him and turned your back to the aspiring hero.

“...you should go, Shindou. I’m sure Nakagame wants to know you arrived in one piece.”

Shindou reluctantly took his leave from your room, leaving you to vivisect your emotions one at a time in solitude.

History bound your families together since the age of the shogunate. Shindou serving Saishi as devoted daimyo evolved as the country's political landscape shifted away from feuding warlords. The families grew into business partners, even cousins as members married into lesser branches of the extended Saishi family. As a son of the main Shindou family, Yo and his father were ever present for most family gatherings. You always suspected your grandparents hoped that one day the two main families would be united by your eventual marriage, but human nature and poor timing always thwarted their plans. As the oldest grandchild, it fell on your shoulders to become the new head of the family. Coupled with the pressures of your hero academia, your head throbbed with every stressor-- you didn't need old feelings for the boy you spent summer after summer resurfacing, especially not after he nearly ripped away your dream and your heart with both hands.

++++

Morning came too soon for you to forget the kiss he stole. You stretched the sleep from your limbs and rolled from your down futon to the cool tatami mats. With a yawn you finally rose from the floor and strode to the cedar chest of drawers to select your outfit for the morning. The more awake you became the harder it was to concentrate on selecting the most appropriate garb for your first morning back on the family estate. Ever the stickler for tradition, the first family breakfast was a long, drawn out affair and Baba Saishi expected her clan to be dressed in traditional kimono. You scratched your head and scrunched your nose at the thought of all those heavy layers of ornate silk in the summer heat, and you wished you could forget bothering one of your grandmother's attendants to help with tying that cumbersome obi. You tossed your hair over your shoulders and selected something your late grandfather would have approved of and pulled his slate gray haori from its wooden mannequin. With daylight just breaking, you decided it best to continue your training-- vacation or no, a hero's work is never done, especially when that hero is still a trainee. Presentable for the day, you padded quietly from your room and past Shindou's to escape to the estate's central courtyard where you would train your quirk and body with your grandfather before he passed away.

In a way, your annual homecoming wasn't official until you stepped foot in the courtyard at the heart of the sprawling estate. The attendants and groundskeepers kept in your grandmother's employ had already set up your targets and quiver in anticipation for your arrival. The barest hint of a smile ghosted over your features as you pulled your hair back into a low ponytail. Practiced hands strung your hankyu and once you plucked the bowstring and felt it's low thrumming note vibrate through the bamboo you felt at home again. You nocked your first arrow of the morning and felt your breath slow. The world slowed to a quiet crawl when you activated your quirk. Precision your grandfather called it. Your ability allowed you to make adjustments to your body chemistry to enhance everything from reaction time to stamina, even how quickly you could process and formulate information as long as you could concentrate. You took another slow, deep breath and held it in feeling the oxygen feed your muscles as you drew the bowstring tight to your cheek. With a slow exhale you released your arrow and quickly nocked a second before waiting for the first to hit its mark. The second became the third and the third into the fourth and so on until the sun crested above the peaked roof of the estate. Sunlight warmed you through and for a moment you could forget about Shindou or the thinly veiled tension between you. All you needed was your bow and a full quiver to find complete serenity. When you ran out of arrows, the groundskeeper brought another, bowing his head and smiling knowingly.

You kept your rhythm until you heard the housekeeper scramble to prepare the dining hall to your grandmother's strict specifications.

Inhale…Nock...Exhale and release…

When Shindou finally woke, the sunlight filtered through the silk screen he swore he broke four summers back after a spirited game of Go turned wrestling match with Hayate. He turned a bleary eye to the window and groaned, rubbing his face and dragging the same massive hand through his messy bedhead. Rising to a casual sitting position, he took in the sounds of the morning at the Saishi estate. It was different than the morning prior when he and his family had arrived. There was one sound he couldn't place. He rose to his feet and followed the rhythmic sound of shuffling and the dull thud that followed until he made it to the heart of the estate. Hand shielding his eyes, his mouth hung slightly open when he caught sight of you in your hakama and gi, string arm free from the restraint of your top revealing a trace of black tank-top underneath. The sliver of skin that glistened in the midmorning light as you drew back what had to have been the hundredth arrow drew him in, but the controlled focus in your eyes, the quiet power you commanded with your stance kept him there. With every arrow you shot he felt himself fall just a little more in over his head. When your fifth quiver was empty, you relaxed your stance and surveyed your handiwork-- every arrow hit its intended mark. You held your bow at your side and gave another stretch, rising up to your toes and relaxing yourself back down to your heels. You finally looked over in his direction and froze, your zen morning turning tumultuous with one glance at his too-perfect face. He waved sweetly, again putting on his never ending show for the staff, but you quickly turned away and retreated into the dim halls and lacquered opulence of your ancestral home. As if dazed by your response, or maybe it was witnessing such mastery and control over your quirk, he took a moment to process and react to your icy reception.

"Ah, Y/n, so good of you to join us!"

"Good morning, Baba."

"I trust you slept well? Ah, how I wish you wouldn't train before breakfast, Y/n."

"An empty stomach helps me practice, Baba," you sighed, taking a seat on the floor next to your brother. You raised a brow at the empty seat across from you. "Who else are we waiting for?"

"Sorry I'm late, Saishi-sama!" You had to bite back a groan. He siddled across from you and flashed you another smile. "My alarm didn't go off," he bowed his head in apology and your grandmother waved him off with a grin. "You know, Y/n, we should train together sometime. Maybe have a rematch," he grinned and shoveled rice into his mouth. You had to remind yourself to slow your breathing, keep the facade going if only to keep the peace. Expression neutral, you sipped on your cooling tea and hummed your acknowledgement. Hayate nudged you with his shoulder and raised a dark brow, imploring you to drop the ice princess act. You kneed him under the low table and shot him a glare, earning you an identical one in return. Goosebumps tickled the back of your neck as your brother's quirk invaded the sanctuary of your mind.

"You need to get over it, sis."

"I'll get over it when someone figures out how to catch wind with a net, Haachan. Mind your own business."

He gave a noncommittal shrug and returned to his broth, rolling his dark eyes at your stubbornness. Baba clapped her hands together and sighed at the sight of her family quietly eating together. Few things brought the old woman such joy. As breakfast continued to drag on, she quietly rose from the long table and motioned for Yo to come to her side. Like a trained dog he answered immediately and nodded as she cupped a gnarled hand over his ear. You chewed your lip as you watched him from your periphery and scoffed when he bowed low at her departure. Hayate snickered in his seat and shot you a smarmy smirk before rising and dismissing himself with a half-hearted excuse about meeting some friends in one of the nearby towns. Shindou returned to his seat and watched as one by one the family that had gathered left.

Once you two were alone, he rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward to close the distance between you.

"How long are you gonna be mad at me, Y/n?"

You scoffed again, fighting the urge to curl your lips back into a sneer. "How long are you gonna continue your charade?" He reached across the table to grab your free hand and frowned when you recoiled as if he burned you.

"Don't."

His smile slipped. That handsome face grew dark as you rose from the table and made your way to the door. He followed and grabbed you roughly by the arm, towering over you and blocking your path. "You can't stay mad at me forever."

Yanking your arm out of his grasp, you activated your quirk and felt the rush of adrenaline course through your veins. With a sharp breath oxygen fed your muscles. You shoved him from your path. "Watch me."

He pressed on relentlessly as you ran through the halls. You slid into a crouch and leaned into your turns as you sped to shake him from your tail. "I just want to talk!"

"Likely story!" You dove between his knees and swept him off his feet as you dashed to the driveway. Hopping to slow down on the gravel path, you paused to catch your breath. Your quirk's effect ebbed away and you felt your reflexes slow with it. Stones rattled underfoot as you ambled away from Shindou and the Saishi estate. With a cry, the driveway cracked and shifted under your feet bringing you to your hands and knees. You glanced over your shoulder, still huffing from your sprint through the maze of hallways to see Shindou crouched at the top of the drive, hands planted to the ground and his arms blurring with his seismic force. He smirked and rose to make his way to you, a light jog in his stride as you scrambled to your feet. "Stay away from me!"

"Not until you listen, sweetheart."

You gagged at the pet name and tossed your hair from your neck. "There's nothing you can say that will change my mind about you, Shindou Yo. You can't kiss your way out of this one."

He blanched at your callousness and glared on. "Well, you can't keep running away from your problems!"

"YOU'RE MY PROBLEM, ASSHOLE!! God, I don't know how Nakagame deals with your bullshit!"

He reached out and grabbed you by the jaw, his whole hand wrapped painfully around the bone with fingertips digging in just hard enough to remind you of his strength. "Stop bringing Tatami up like that changes things. You can't keep running away, Y/n. Face it…" He drew you in again and inhaled the sweat and sandalwood from your skin. His eyes flickered across your fine, high cheekbones and plush lips. "You're in love with me, Y/n. You're just too proud to admit it."

"You're in love with me…" Your pupils dilated as his words echoed through to your marrow. Breath hitching in your chest, you jerked your head back from his hold only for him to jerk you back with a flick of his wrist. He was too close, too distracting. Heat crept up your collarbones and stained your cheeks brilliant scarlet as he drank in your distress. Trembling, you slammed your forearm down into his wrist with all the force you could muster, but he held fast without so much as a grunt.

"You'll have to do better than that, sweetheart. Admit it and I'll let you go." He drew his disgustingly perfect face that much closer to yours, nose barely brushing against your own and smirked. It was a cruel, almost sadistic expression but something kept it soft in his eyes. He loosened his hold on your jaw and you could feel bruises throb under his fingertips. Bile rose into your throat as he bore down on you, watching and waiting for you to make the next move. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue, Y/n?"

Finally you jerked your head out of his grasp and ran your own fingertips along the bruises he left along the bone. "I'll admit nothing until you apologize, prick."

He sighed and stood with his hands on his hips. "Fine, I'm sorry. There? Happy?" He was so flippant in his delivery you weren't sure if your blood was pounding in your ears because you wanted him or if it was your rage bubbling to the surface again. With a toss of your hair you pushed away from him and growled under your breath. Retreating further down the destroyed driveway, you struggled to get a handle on your emotions. Your anger was a lead weight in your stomach, blurring with another emotion that left your insides fluttering over the thought of being close enough to taste the prospective hero. His eyes lingered on your family's crest emblazoned in silver on your back as you disappeared from view. With a groan he ran his fingers through his dark curls, annoyance and shame coloring his exasperated sigh.

"What a mess…"

+++++

"What were you two thinking?!" Baba Saishi's voice berated you and the Shindou boy as you three sat cloistered in her study. "I don't know what has gotten into the two of you but you best figure it out. Y/n, I expected better from you."

You looked straight ahead and kept your breathing slow and measured, your only tell the rhythmic flexing and curling of your fingers into your palms in your lap. Shindou side-eyed your controlled reaction and pouted at your grandmother.

"Saishi-sama, I--"

"Hold your tongue, child." Her words were icicles, each syllable sharp enough to cut him back down. He stared at the old woman, slack jawed and lacking any of his usual charm or calculated grace. "I can ignore a spirited spat, but property damage is inexcusable. I fully expect the both of you to repair what was destroyed in your lover's quarrel-- am I clear?!"

"Yes, Baba," you whispered, lowing your head in a deep nod. If you were incensed he couldn't tell from your slow, easy breathing and the eerily calm expression resting placidly on your highborn features. His eyes lingered on the faint bruises he'd left along your fine jaw and slumped back into his seat, your grandmother picking up on the subtle way his eyes softened when he looked at you.

"Yo, do you understand?"

"Yes, Saishi-sama."

"You begin at daybreak. I expect the driveway to be fully repaired by sundown. No quirks, Yo." The three of you rose as your family's matriarch dismissed herself from the study and retired to her room leaving you alone with Shindou once again.

"Love how she has to single me out for using my quirk," he sighed. You kept your gaze just above the mahogany desk and relaxed your shoulders enough for him to tell that you were shaking. "Guess this means we're stuck spending tomorrow together." Without sparing him a parting glance you shuffled from the room as quietly as you could manage, knowing fully that he would try to follow you again.

You made an attempt to close the door to your sanctuary, but caught his bare foot in the jam. He pushed through and leaned down to catch your eyes, but was met with your back once again.

"Look, I messed up, but really, Y/n, you can't stay mad at me forever."

Silence. It cut through him deeper than Saishi's shrill chastising. Your mask, the carefully constructed mirage of the dutiful granddaughter, the future head of the family began to slip again. You couldn't afford to let him see you cry, not after he hurt you so deeply the second time.

You closed your eyes and let out a barely audible whimper. Behind your eyelids you could see them together, pulled into an empty sidestreet tangled together so intimately it ripped open the same festering ulcer on your heart each time you relived it. You could hear her breathless gasp. You could see the dim glow of street lamps bounce off her platinum hair. It was an ache you couldn't place, something so fervent that it consumed you every time he crossed your line of sight.

"Y/n, are...are you okay?"

"Get out."

He approached you the way most would approach a wounded animal- hesitant, careful. Groping a hand out to rest on your thin shoulder you flinched away from his touch.

"I said get out, Shindou. Before we do something you'll regret." He paused before withdrawing, contemplating your words as he burned a hole through your shoulder blades with the intensity of his stare.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow...night." When he finally withdrew you curled in on yourself and let out a shuddering sigh. Your limbs felt heavy, leadened by only the second day of your vacation. How were going to survive three more weeks of this?

On the opposite side of the sliding door, Shindou hesitated to return to his room. There was a nagging in the back of his mind that told him you needed him despite you pushing him away so vehemently. He couldn't figure it out. Two years was plenty of time for you to get over his pragmatic approach to the provisional licensing exam. It didn't make sense. He had known you all his life and he had never known you to let your emotions take the wheel so freely before. The teakwood door frame felt cool against his back as he slid down the wall to sit by your door. Morning would come too soon, but he knew that you wouldn't be able to sleep. There was a restlessness in your actions that he would be stupid and blind to ignore.

His phone lit up in the pocket of his sweatpants. He heard the vibration before he felt it, and he didn't need to look to know who was chatting him up at such an odd hour. Shindou pulled the device from his pocket, russet eyes dancing along each line.

T - You have to tell her. She deserves to know that much, Yo.

He didn't bother responding, instead opting to lock the screen and rest the back of his dark head against the frame. He knew she was right, but he didn't see how it would make much of a difference. His eyelids grew heavy, sleep beginning to sink its claws into his body and pull him into the undertow. Thoughts of your quiet, confident smile, the glisten of your skin glowing in the mid-morning light, how soft and inviting your lips were when they met his own lulled him into relaxation. He could remember when your eyes lit up with something warmer than the cold fury you met him with this year. He almost missed how you would look at him like he hung the moon, not that he would ever admit it. Despite the door between you he felt whole galaxies of distance keeping you from him.

"I'll be here," he murmured to no one in particular, pulling his knees to his chest. "Whether you're ready to face me or not."

Your mind was made up; by day's end you were going to murder Shindou Yo. Of course you would have to fix his mistake and clean up his mess in 104°F heat. "No quirks!" Your grandmother's mandate to repair her driveway the old fashioned way was proving to be difficult given you were hauling stone and shoveling gravel for most of the morning. The sun bore down oppressively, instantly making your work feel that much harder. It was bad enough you had to work together with Shindou. He didn't seem to be faring any better given the heat. His long abandoned t-shirt hung on a low branch of the maple tree you two would race to climb to the top in your primary school years.

At least the view isn't bad… He panted in the summer heat and flashed you a cocksure grin when he caught you gawking after he dumped another shovel full of gravel a few feet away.

"Like what you see, princess?" You shook your head and wrinkled your nose at him, too hot to be bothered or distracted by his stupid grin or washboard abs.

"Let's just get this over with."

He wiped his brow and pushed his hair back with the same calloused hand. "I'm with you there. We should be at the beach on a day like today."

"As if I'd go to Yuigahama with you."

His grin fell, expression now somber. "It could be fun. Like old times."

"'Like old times,'" you mocked, packing down another gravel-filled pothole. "Now you care about history. Typical."

"Listen, I really think we need to address the elephant in the room here. You're still pissed about the exam…"

"THAT'S NOT WHAT I'M UPSET OVER!" Whether it was the heat or your long-simmering frustration coming to a head it didn't matter. You threw your shovel down and closed the distance between you with long, impetuous strides. "The stunt you pulled then was lower than low, Shindou, but to take it a step further and take advantage of my emotions?! I thought you were better than that, but clearly I was wrong." He swallowed hard and backed away slowly until his back was against the tree his shirt hung from. "You're just another upstart, glory-stealing douchebag!"

He held his hands up defensively as you closed in, jabbing your finger into his chest with that same righteous fury that captivated and terrified him from your first playdate. "Hey, hey, you're right to be angry about that."

That gave you pause. You took a sharp breath in and stared like he sprouted wings or a tail. "Di...did you just tell me I'm right?"

He nodded and relaxed against the tree bark. "Turns out you can be right about a lot."

"Clearly I made a mistake in thinking I could trust you."

Hurt flickered briefly across his face, gone as quickly as it came. For the smallest of moments you felt yourself feel sorry for causing him that ache. Snapping back once the moment passed, you stepped away from him and returned to your work. There was still at least another fifty feet of driveway to fill and it wasn't going to finish itself. Shindou's eyes followed the curve of your ass as you huffed and picked up your shovel. With your back turned, he crept behind you and leaned in to whisper into your ear.

"Tell me how to make it up to you. All of it. Consider me your humble servant, Y/n."

The overwhelming urge to grab him by the throat and throttle the boy into oblivion surfaced long enough for you to turn around and meet him, nose to nose, eye to eye. For once he looked genuine, almost heartfelt in his proposition. For the first time in years you could see the real Yo smiling at you; the old Yo you would spend whole summers clinging to and training with, the Yo you could see yourself falling for again. There was just one problem...

"What about Nakagame?"

It was his turn to stop and stare. "What does she have to do with any of this..?"

You licked your lips and pulled away. "You're the one who wanted me to admit that I'm in love with you."

Finally it clicked. The missing piece to the puzzle that was your fractured relationship fell into Shindou's lap. How could you not know?

"It's complicated, Y/n."

Disappointment was a bitter pill to choke down. You took a couple steps backwards and repeated the sentiment with a grimace. "It's complicated…okay, Shindou." You turned back around and shook your head.

"Y/n, wait!"

"Let me know when it's not quite so complicated. I've got shit to do, Shindou."

"We aren't together anymore!" he shouted at your retreating frame. He would have said anything to get you to come back to him and look at him without that angst eating you alive. You froze, the weight of his words lingering.

"We aren't together anymore," he repeated, taking your hand in his. "Haven't been for about six months now. We still talk some, but…"

"Why didn't you think to tell me this?"

"I thought you already knew...and I thought you were still sore about the exam thing."

You shook your head and looked up into the cloudless sky. "We still have work to do. We aren't done with this though, Yo."

His smile could have rivaled the sun hearing his name roll off your tongue. "We can finish this no problem." He knelt down with a wink and focused his quirk on generating fine vibrations into the gravel he piled sporadically along the path. It had packed the holes and rifts just enough that you could stamp them down. Taking a second to admire his handiwork, you chuckled and shook your head. "What?"

"Baba said no quirks."

"I think we suffered through this long enough, yeah?"

"For once I think we can agree on something."

It had been a week since your forced labor to fix Shindou's overzealous mistake in the driveway. A week had passed since he had a loose understanding behind your standoffish behavior, but despite finally seeing that he hurt you he couldn't quite figure out why. Maybe it was that he didn't see how it could matter, or that he just couldn't relate. In any case, even the household staff could see how the tension between you had changed into something painfully awkward. While they would never say anything to you about clearing the air and being direct, your younger sibling had no qualms calling you out on your bullshit.

"Oi, sis."

You looked up from your paperback novel and chewed the inside of your cheek. Hayate picked the book out of your hands and hit you gently over the head with it.

"You gonna talk to him or are you gonna keep subjecting the rest of the house to this?"

"I don't know what you're talking abo-"

"You're moping, Y/n. Talk to him. You know as well as I do that he's cunning, but cunning isn't smart. Spell it out for him and move on."

You pouted and tore your book out of his hand. "He said they aren't together anymore, Haachan."

Hayate nodded and took a seat beside you, leaning on your shoulder with a sigh. "Doesn't change how he led you on when they were, sis. He doesn't get that. Most narcissists don't." You chuckled at his insight. When did your little brother grow up?

"So...how do we get the narcissist to see beyond himself, Mr. Insight?"

"Short of doing the same to him, I think you need to get him alone. Meet him at his level since he can't meet you at yours." He paused only to hear you snort. "What?"

"Am I interrupting sibling time or something?"

You and Hayate turned in unison to the intruding voice only to see Shindou Yo standing sheepishly in the doorway. Words failed you as your brother rose and patted your shoulder. Chills ran up your spine as Hayate used his quirk on you with a grin.

"Good luck, sis."

Shindou looked at you, his amber gaze weighing down on you from your seat on the floor. He waited for an answer he'd never get, your words lost in the lump in your throat. Wordlessly he gestured to the seat beside you, as if asking for permission to invade your personal space again. You nodded once and scooted a few inches away from his bent knee as he settled in. Thunder rolled in the distance. Petrichor permeated the atmosphere as rain blew in with the coming storm from the south. From your seat on the porch looking into the zen rock garden you sighed so softly Shindou might have missed it if he wasn't watching your frame move with every breath.

"So...I was thinking we should talk."

"Shindou, there isn't much to talk about. You chose her. You knew how I feel about you and used my feelings to your advantage. You decided I didn't need to know about you and Nakagame, but still felt the need to string me along until I found out about her. I...I felt betrayed, Shindou. I still do."

Rain cut through the silence that hung delicately between the two of you. He inched closer, barely brushing your bare thigh with the back of his hand.

"You knew how I feel about you…"

You bristled at his touch, defenses springing into action. He ran the back of his hand along the line of your leg, lips pressed into a hard line as he fixated on your words. "I...I underestimated the strength of your heart," he murmured. "You still passed. Spectacularly at that, Y/n."

Your chuckle was hollow as thunder cut through the shared space and rain continued to patter on the heavy basalt boulders in the yard. "You lack honor, Shindou."

"Yet you're still in love with me."

The lump in your throat returned and with it burning shame. Your head nodded before you could stop it. His rough fingertips brushed your hair behind your ear and lingered against your neck, gently tracing the curve of it where it joined with your shoulder.

"It's okay…"

"How?" you choked out, darting away from his touch. The smooth, polished wood beneath your knees felt cool, familiar as you pushed away. Every fiber screamed at you to get away, to hide. He wouldn't be allowed to hurt you again if he couldn't reach you. "I...I can't do this anymore, Shindou." He grabbed your hand when you pushed off the floor to disappear back into the labyrinth of ancient gold and lacquered finery.

"Don't run away from your problem."

Tears, hot and unforgiving welled in your eyes and threatened to run angry rivers of salt down your face. "Let me go," you croaked, wrenching your hand free. You couldn't meet his eyes as you turned away and stumbled into the rain.

"Never," he huffed, following you into the rock garden. "I'm your problem. It's always been me...just like it's always been you."

"Stop!" you shrieked holding your hands over your ears. "You don't mean that, so just stop it!"

He rounded on you and pulled your hands from your ears, his grip on your wrists firm. Tears mingled with the rain as you struggled against him. "Look at me, Y/n. It's always been you. Stubborn, feisty, brilliant you." A shuddering gasp pulled you closer to him, your eyes meeting the dark honey of his irises. "When you cut me out after our first internships, I thought I could move on. Tatami was there, but it was always you. I...I'm sorry."

Something in you snapped; sobs wracked through your chest and curled you into his chest. He rested his chin on the crown of your head, his strong arms wrapping around your shivering frame. He whispered gentle words of admiration, words of innocent love, so many words you felt undone by them. Was he always so sincere? As you buried your nose into his clean, white tee you sniffled.

"You're the literal worst, Yo," you hiccupped. He grinned against your soaked hair and nodded.

"I'll own that."

You looked up, rain continuing to fall and provide the soothing soundtrack to your moment. "Yo," you sniffled. He looked down at you with a boyish grin.

"Hm?"

Tentatively, you rose slightly on tiptoes and brushed against his lips with your own. He was spice and petrichor, warm and solid against your gentle kiss. His eyes widened for the briefest of moments in surprise and soon he softened into your kiss, opening himself fully to your wordless act of forgiveness. He curled his fingers in your soaked hair, cradling your head as you clung to him, breathing him in hungrily. Lightning cracked the sky when your teeth dragged along his lower lip. His low groan mingled with the thunder that followed close behind. His grip tightened and you dragged your nails roughly into his shoulders. Fervently he trailed kisses along your neck and sunk his teeth into your shoulder, desperate to hear your voice call his name again.

"Yo…" you hissed, his tongue laving over the bite mark he was sure would bruise. His lips brushed against the yellowing bruises, his fingerprints along your jaw. With lust-darkened eyes, he gazed down at your kiss-bruised lips and smirked.

"Yes, princess?"

"I love you."

"I know," he grinned, expression softened by your long-awaited declaration. "I've always known."

You pouted and jabbed him in the ribs. "Way to ruin the moment, asshole. You really are the worst."

The rain began to let up, clouds parting just enough for the sun to peek out. His chuckling bubbled up from his chest, the gentle rumbling luring your own giggle out. He pressed his lips against your forehead and smiled warmly down at you.

+Two summers later+

"I had hoped this day would come," your grandmother grinned knowingly at the two of you. Yo held your hand in his, suddenly making you feel that much smaller in your grandmother's study. You were a child staring wide-eyed at the retired armor glistening in the lamp light again. He gave your hand a quick squeeze and brought you back to the conversation. "Glad you finally came to your senses."

"Saishi-sama, I want to prove I'm worthy," Shindou sighed. Part of you wanted to roll your eyes at his act. You knew he already felt worthy of your hand. "Of the family," he continued.

"The Shindou have served our family faithfully for generations. I see no reason why you wouldn't be, Yo."

It was your turn to squeeze his hand and lure him out, the real him. "Be straight with Baba, Yo." Your grandmother's grin widened as he let his mask slip, his expression sharper and colder than he would let the old woman see under normal circumstances.

Your grandmother's cackle broke the tension and startled Yo. "Like my permission matters, boy. You've been canoodling with my granddaughter all over the estate since you’ve arrived. Can't keep your hands off each other," she hummed, her eyes lingering on you and your darkening flush. "But I can appreciate young love give the setting is right.”

Yo tapped his foot impatiently. "May I, Saishi-sama?"

She waved him off with a dismissive wave of her gnarled hand. "Ask Y/n. Your future head doesn't need permission."

You smiled knowingly and waited for him to put the pieces together. His eyes grew wide when he realized what he was asking, the future implications of his entanglement with you finally dawning on him. You squeezed his hand and waited.

"Well, Yo?"

He fumbled over his words, spluttering and stumbling like a novice lover and not the man you had been dating for the past two years and fighting with since childhood. The confidence he exuded evaporated under the sharp gray eyes of your grandmother as she slid a small black box across the red lacquer and gold dragon inlay of her desk to the Shindou boy.

"Would you like to go to Yuigahama with me this afternoon?" he finally blurted. His ears burned crimson as you and your grandmother exchanged grins. He squeezed your hand and pouted at you, eyes silently pleading for you to cut him a break.

"I'd love to."

He exhaled, earning a brow raise and amused chuckle from you. Did he even realize he was holding his breath? Someone as calculating as he should have the awareness of self to know what his own body was doing, but standing between you and your grandmother he seemed to second guess every twitch and gesture. Your grandmother dismissed herself, slinking down the corridor to fuss over flower arrangements. Her absence didn’t ease the frenetic energy bounding off his skin. You stopped him with a brush of your fingertips along his forearm and pursed your lips together.

“What’s wrong?” His eyes were molten amber when they darted up and down your body, searching everywhere but your own eyes. He mumbled out a half-dazed response you couldn’t make out. “You’re acting weird. It’s not like you.”

“Just get ready, Y/n. I’ll meet you out front.” He let his fingertips linger against your palm, as if he could memorize the latitude and longitude of your life if he held on just a second longer. Reluctantly, you pulled away first to pack your tote bag and change for the afternoon.

You couldn’t remember the last time you felt so bright, so incredibly light you could float away if the breeze hit you just so. Wind whipped your hair behind you as Shindou sped through the mountain pass to the beach you two used to frequent when you were younger. Salt and sand brought you back from your reverie. Shindou parked the jeep and began unpacking your blankets and the cooler the house cook carefully packed away for you two. As he kept himself busy, you were sliding out of your shorts and pulling your t-shirt over your head. The sand’s heat bit into your soles as you darted from the blanket and into the beckoning waves. He turned his head at the sound of your giggling and furrowed his dark brows at your absence.

“Y/n!”

Beneath the waves past the breakers the world was quiet. Rhythmic. Purposeful. On your back, you bobbed and floated with the waves as they cradled you back to shore. Yuigahama had a way of bringing you closer to what you needed.

“Y/n!”

Sparkling blue met a dove-gray afternoon where the ocean met the sky. Brushstrokes from a careful hand, you inhaled deeply and appreciated the different calm it lulled you into. You rolled back over onto your belly and left your calm behind. Shindou was wading into the shallows, furiously searching the waves for any trace of you. You swam up to him when the water reached his sculpted waist. His arms circled around your waist and pulled you into him. Familiar spice and petrichor bled into the sand and salt of your surroundings, lulling you into a zen you had yet to find alone.

“Don’t disappear on me like that,” he growled, eyes sharp like polished tigers eyes. Despite the hard glare coloring his features his voice was almost gentle. He held you delicately, fingers ghosting along the curve of your back. “Hate to lose you, especially today of all days.”

You blinked the sun out of your eyes and wrinkled your nose at his comment. “You sure you’re okay, Yo?” He grinned down at you and leaned in, his breath fanning over the shell of your ear.

“Never better. I have you, don’t I?”

He carried you back to the scorching sands and laid you out on the beach blanket. You took turns feeding each other bento until your hand brushed an all too familiar box at the bottom of your basket. Heart in your throat, you wordlessly asked Shindou if it was what you thought it was. The only reply was his sly smile as he finished his salmon roe. “Surprise, princess.”

Shakily you lifted the small plush box out of the basket and felt your breath hitch in your chest. The world was spinning too fast for you to keep up. “Yo...I don’t...what?”

He gently pried the small box from your hands and opened it, watching your shock transform into tearful joy at the sight of your family’s heirloom pearl ring; the dragon of the fine gold band wrapping delicately around the precious gem glinted in the afternoon sun.

“I’ve always been your problem. It took me a while to catch up, but I think I want something more permanent. Y/n, princess, would you-”

“Yes.” Breathlessly, you crashed into him like a wave beating the stones to sand. “Yes,” you whispered into his waiting mouth, tongue tracing along his teeth. He answered with a low groan and the same sly grin.

Summers at your grandmother’s had a way of giving your life a chance to reset, to course correct. Kamakura had a way of bringing you closer to what you needed to move forward and come out renewed and bolstered for the bite of winter. It was a tradition you remembered fondly, and one you would keep for generations to come.

#bnharem collab #reader x shindou #shindou yo #sfw collab #yo shindou #reader x yo shindou #they said write a summer story

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