#not my usual kind of thing hmn but it was rly fun to write

[zushimart]

kabukimono? scara x gn!reader hurt & comfort kind of? (the licking ur wounds kind of angst). reincarnation au (U!! are the reincarnated one). 868 words. ib an ask mar baby sent to me. @zhvonqli...

it’s a warm day, but the mob around the market stalls makes it warmer. with not a raincloud in the sky to be found, the streets were lively with the chatter of the crowd, occasional shouts of a shopkeeper, and the screaming laughs of children weaving through the mass of bodies. despite the noise, the wanderer’s concentrated on a bundle of dangling red harra fruit hanging from the awning of an unfamiliar stall. 

he doesn’t want to bother the shopkeep, so he hovers just a few feet off the ground to inspect the fruit. it catches him off guard when a voice clears its throat and cuts through his thoughts, “just fifty mora a pop.” when he looks in your direction, eyes meeting yours, his control over anemo dissipates like water falling through cupped hands. he drops to his feet with gracelessness. 

he’s entered a pocket dimension, he thinks. the crowd’s become muffled and colors have become muted. maybe to you, leaning against a stack of crates, he’s just another customer. to him, you’re a ghost. the pause stretches for far too long before he finds himself stuttering, “u-um, fifty?” he wants to scrub at his eyes and run up the steps of the academia back to nahida’s sanctuary. she could take a look inside his mind to see if the trauma finally left some cracks. of course it isn’t you. it’s someone who looks like you. you died. you’ve been dead. 

a part of you wonders if maybe you’d caught him stealing from the way he rifles through his pouch of mora. he keeps taking measured glances at your face –– far from subtle, with wide eyes that find the sandy floor every time they meet your gaze. 

in your customer’s nervousness, he drops the pouch and coins fly under the counter. profanities dirty his mouth as you lean down to help him. “is it too much?” you ask. he shakes his head, opening his hand to let you place the stray money in his palm. “are you new around here?” 

“a little,” he says, “but i’ve got a… friend… showing me around,” he says, the word foreign on his tongue. “can i ask, what’s your name?” he's finally handing you the mora.

“um," you pause, "y/n." you pocket the money before turning around to grab a stepstool behind the counter. he bites his tongue, hard. 

“from here?” he asks. 

“born and raised,” you answer, reaching up to grab three harra fruit. “why do you ask?” and it’s in the way that you turn to look at him, the gentle tilt of your head, the open curiosity in your eyes, or maybe the cadence of your voice –– carrying worry for a stranger you’ve never met… and a suspicious one, at that. could it really be you? 

“you just remind me of someone,” he says softly, “someone i used to know.” 

“oh,” you say. “i hope that’s a good thing.” 

“a very good thing,” he says before he can stop himself. you flash a big smile and butterflies erupt in his stomach. deja vu makes home in his heart with katsuragi’s voice echoing in his mind. 'this is y/n! they’ll be helping me help you.' you washed his clothes and gave him your bed that night. your smile was big then, too. 

“i can be someone you do know, if you want.” 

his eyes widen ever so slightly. “i would like that,” he says, taking the bag of harra fruit you’ve prepared, but it slips out of his hands, unprepared to hold the weight of the sheer amount he accidentally purchased. 

but you catch it like nothing, “seems like you need the help."

he's red in the face, docile like a kitten. “i do,” he admits. far flung centuries ago, the same hands brushed his as they handed him a bag of freshly picked lavender melons. the same hands taught him to hold a comb and braid his hair. the same hands held his face to pull him in for his first kiss. 

“and what’s your name?” you ask him, taking a few steps back to lean against the same pile of crates. it has to be you. 

“k-kabukimono,” it comes falling from his lips before he could think. a hollow part of him wishes your eyes would ignite with recognition, but they don’t.  

“what’s it mean?” you ask, “sounds inazuman.” 

“i’m from inazuma,” he says, “it’s an insult.” 

“oh. and you’re okay with that?” 

“it’s the first name they... i mean, some other people i used to know... gave me. i liked it,” he says, fiddling with the bag in his hands.

“hmn, is it not your name anymore?” 

“i don’t think so," he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“you’re a little peculiar,” you say with a laugh and the sound sends him back to tatarasuna. he recalls the same image… your head cast back, body shaking with laughter from one of the first jokes he’d ever managed to tell. he promised himself he’d remember the moment forever. 

he wonders, staring at you in front of him in the now before looking down at a body dressed in black and blue instead of pure white silk, if this was a dream. a gift from nahida that he’d wake up from... sad, but happy to have spoken with you even if just once more. 

“kabukimono?” you ask, “are you okay?” 

“i’m okay,” he blurts, but he knows why you’re asking. 

he’s crying.