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iho6hi2 · 25 days ago

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Shattered Ones.

Type: Oneshot

Pairing: Fubuki Shirou/GN! Reader

Summary: You fear that you can never be Fubuki's anchor and day by day, you see him sink further into misery. You follow his example.

Warnings: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Survivor Guilt, Grief/Mourning, Established Relationship, Unresolved Tension, Codependency, Unrequited Love, One-Sided Relationship

Word Count: 3,342

A/N: FUBUKI SHIROU THE MAN THAT YOU ARE YYYOU WILL ALWAYS BE FAMOUS. Will forever think about how much trauma Fubuki has gone through and how most of it has gone unaddressed...

Fubuki's eyes are fixed on the picture, unblinking and half-lidded. They have been so for a little over an hour.

His hand grips the photograph. It's not hard enough to cause any creases or damages, but his hold still borders on possessive.

Much like him, you're transfixed. You keep on staring, as if hypnotized by the sight laid out in front of you. However, your attention is not on the photo at all — you don't even give it a single glance. What catches your attention are the dark, heavy bags under Fubuki's eyes; a clear symptom of his restlessness. They're not recent and they have gradually been getting worse.

You're able to relate. Your eyes are also bloodshot and dazed, though they're able to remain focused by pure power of will, distantly observing the direct cause of your own lack of sleep.

He doesn't bother saying anything out loud, nor does he even register your presence lingering behind in the slightest. Fubuki merely gazes at the image, lips continuing to maintain the shape of a frown, which looks natural on his features. He'd spent a good portion of his life looking sullen, after all. Although you can't really tell if his eyes are sad or if he's simply drowning in nostalgia by his lonesome.

You consider approaching him and embracing him, but Fubuki is someone who always looks out of touch with reality whenever physical contact is initiated. He's not sure what to do whenever you hug him out of the blue, though he always manages to play it off as only being caught unprepared.

He would freeze up and blink down at you in shock, lips parted in mute astonishment, before his beautiful, gentle smile takes its typical place on his face. Then he would wrap his arms around you and, even though his muscles tend to tense up whenever you're in close proximity with one another, he would force them to relax midway throughout the hug.

You can see beyond his façade. You always have. Fubuki is not so much an open book as much as he is a torn page from one.

A fleeting scrap of paper with words scribbled on both the front and back. So transparent and yet so opaque at the same time. You struggle to assimilate him despite reading him with such ease.

Either that or you've simply disillusioned yourself into believing you're capable of deciphering him despite it probably not being the case. You don't want to find out the truth in favor of preserving your feelings, which have grown increasingly fragile over the course of your relationship with Fubuki.

You stop leaning against the doorway to your shared bedroom and slowly begin to make your way towards his seat on the bed, doing your best not to step on a loose floorboard and alert him. You loom over his shoulder, studying his furrowed brows and the subtle clench of his jaw first, then redirecting your attention to the picture itself.

Your eyes narrow in suspense before softening in belated realization.

The photograph managed to capture a moment in time where Fubuki appeared to be truly happy for once. His features are young, juvenile. His eyes, which are nothing like today, are round and innocent. They display none of the anguish he holds nowadays and if you didn't know any better, you'd think that he's still capable of smiling so freely and happily.

He never will be. Fate has made it so that he can never find it in his heart to be as carefree as the kid he once used to be.

Your eyes scan the other side of the picture. Fubuki's arms are draped over his little brother's shoulders.

It's Atsuya. You know Atsuya, but you don't really know Fubuki Atsuya. Fubuki Shirou will never know who Fubuki Atsuya could have grown up to be, either.

He only remembers Atsuya as the cocky, overexcited and easily irritable brat. He remembers him as his little brother, who loved to brag and would constantly puff his chest out whenever he scored a goal. His little brother, who tended to surpass him in most aspects. The little brother he lost to an avalanche.

The little brother he grows to miss more and more with every sunrise and every sunset.

Startling you, Fubuki snorts bitterly. "You know what's the worst part about all of this, [Name]?" He doesn't bother looking over his shoulder in order to hold eye contact and you're also in no way surprised he sensed you breathing down his neck, though you were hoping he would be distracted enough not to even notice.

You make no effort to reply; it's not like you could formulate a sensible response regardless. Besides, something tells you Fubuki wasn't expecting an answer and he probably wouldn't appreciate receiving one, either.

At this point, you realize Fubuki isn't necessarily talking to you and more so to himself. You're just an outlet for his frustrations, here to bear witness to his torment and be the shoulder he leans on when everything comes crashing down in flames.

No matter how many times Fubuki opens up his heart to you, it doesn't take away from his pain. Somehow, if that was even possible, it becomes stronger and more prominent with each and every passing day. You know it just as well as he does, but disregarding the fact and choosing to pretend that you're none the wiser doesn't hurt any less.

He continues speaking, clutching the photo in his hand tighter. "I'll be turning twenty-six this year, but he'll always stay only five."

Fubuki Shirou has had acne, he's had to shave. He had went on dates and he had also won countless of matches, not to mention the FFI Cup as well. He's had to constantly conquer his spine-chilling, gruesome fears and treat his own injuries no matter how badly they hurt.

Fubuki Shirou has needed to mature way earlier than any of his peers and he had already developed into an adult, but Atsuya will never know what having a beard was like. He'll never understand how to solve for x. He'll never have his first kiss and he'll never have the pleasure of seeing the ocean or of travelling abroad.

You had never met Fubuki Atsuya. The only one you know is the Atsuya, which can never come close to capturing the real one's essence; he's just a capsule of blurry, distorted, distant memories, which stray from reality.

He doesn't appear in front of you often, but the few times he does, it's always a strange and a memorable experience.

Atsuya only materializes when Fubuki goes through immense amounts of stress, which is a rarity in and of itself with all things considered. Such instances were the time he got replaced as a coach by a member of the Fifth Sector and another was the night before he had to travel to a remote island to rescue kids being tortured by the said organization.

In all of these occurrences, Atsuya shows up abruptly. You never receive a warning and the only telltale signs are his eyes and the intense scowl on his face. Unlike your boyfriend, Shirou, Atsuya's eyes regard you with upfront indifference. You're used to Shirou's sugarcoated acts of reassurance, which do wonders to help distract you from the ugly truth. The truth you consciously attempt to suppress.

Atsuya is nothing like Shirou. He's sardonic, honest, always speaks his mind and never tolerates anything whenever he feels like he's being sligted by someone. Shirou is completely different in that regard; he just keeps on enduring and enduring until he physically can't handle it anymore. Old habits die hard and in some cases, they never die at all.

"Shirou, it's okay if you're—," you begin hesitantly, with your eyes darting anywhere around the room but his face in fear of seeing a flicker of upset directed at you, however he cuts you off before you can finish what you've started.

"It's not okay and you know it, [Name]. It's never going to be okay. Not now and not ever. Please, drop it." Fubuki states and his words carry a tragic tone of finality. He puts an end to whatever uncomfortable conversation you were about to have and leaves in his wake a silence that's just as unbearable and suffocating.

Fubuki didn't raise his voice, but he might as well have just yelled at you right now. Like always, you pipe down with guilt eating away at your insides like a pack of vicious hyenas and simply slump on the bed, keeping noticeable distance between the two of you. The very notion is virgin and celibate, but you don't pay it any mind.

The awkward, tense silence persists for several more mintues before you decide to break it. "Sorry. I always do more bad than good," you sigh and shift to lay on your side, because that way your view of Fubuki is entirely obscured. Whatever emotion contorts his features next, you won't be able to know and this fact brings you immense amounts of relief.

In order for your sanity to remain fully intact, you need to keep yourself blind and ignorant. That's the only way for you to keep holding on.

"No, you have nothing to be sorry for. It's not your fault and I shouldn't take it out on you. Atsuya's dead, he has been for a long time and I've accepted that, but every year I'm reminded that he'll never get to grow up like I did. It's like he's stuck in time." Fubuki sniffles without shedding any tears. He's long since lost the ability to cry and all he can do now is scrunch up his nose, staring absently at the ceiling.

You perk up at his words and slowly sit up, cautiously crawling towards him like he's a ticking time bomb you might accidentally set off. You reach him, inch by inch, before hugging his waist and placing your chin on his lap. You're yet to stare into his eyes and, instead, settle for gazing at the messed up pillows to your left.

He makes no move to reciprocate the gesture and you take no offense to it. Even if he were to squeeze your hand or pull you closer, it would be insincere.

You love when Fubuki lays himself bare for you, so you don't need to speculate each and every minute detail in hopes of uncovering hidden meanings. He's fully clothed, but naked to the human eye at the same time.

All you can currently see is the real Fubuki Shirou. The good, the bad and the ugly; you're unable to discern a difference between them. He's always the same to you — ethereal and delicate like porcelain. He's the same man that ensnared you in his trap, whether he's aware of it or not.

You're a mouse captured, moments before your inevitable doom.

"I wish I could've died instead of him, sometimes." Fubuki muses with a half-smile and you tighten your hold on him, miffed.

"Well, I don't think that's what he would've wanted. Have you ever thought about the fact that he would want you to live on for the both of you?" You argue and, for the first time in a while, you force yourself to look at him. There's veins bulging out of your neck as you strain yourself to shout at him.

Fubuki blinks and his amusement is soon replaced with a pensive, thoughtful frown. He stares at the picture again, then redirects his attention to you. He dabs at his eyes, wiping away any tears threatening to spill. Afterwards, he opens the drawer next to his side of the bed and places the old photograph there, face down, before shutting it closed.

He lies back down, but this time he shows you his back rather than his face and then proceeds to pull the covers over his shoulders. "[Name], I don't say it a lot, but I really am sorry."

Your mind jumps to the worst-case scenario and your throat instantly closes up, an uncomfortable lump resting on your epiglottis. There's a pit in your stomach — an allegory for dread.

You struggle to find the words to properly express yourself, though you settle for a simple, "Sorry? What for?" You don't want to hear him say it out loud. A part of you hopes he backtracks like he always does, though something is different this time and not in a good way.

Don't say it. You plead to no avail. You know exactly what kind of storm is heading your way. You've known since the moment you first met him, but you chose to face it head-on. This is what resilience gets you: perpetual despair.

Fubuki, as if reading your mind and choosing to spite you once and for all, places the final nail in the coffin gently, with feather-like meticulousness. His last venture to destroy you, to utterly devastate and crush you, is delivered with a voice akin to that of a lullaby. "I'm sorry for everything."

The lights are off and then it's just static silence between the two of you, under the guise of sleeping or at least trying to.

There's a blizzard outside. The snow and rain pelts hard against the window in your shared bedroom and you can practically hear Fubuki's breath hitching in his throat. You sense him trembling slightly. He seeks no comfort and you don't attempt to give him any; two strangers stuck hostage on a cold bed, claiming they're in love.

Before you realize it, you're crying. The tears drip down and stain your cheeks, but you don't bother wiping them away. You let them flow freely because you fear that you'll be far too numb to bawl like this ever again in the near future. And if Fubuki hears you crying like a baby, he ignores it in favor of suppressing his guilt.

You seek no comfort, especially not his, and he doesn't attempt to give you any. Everything comes full circle when it regards the two of you.

Fubuki's sorry he can't love you the way you love him: devotedly, ardently, unconditionally. Try as he might, he can't bring himself to love anyone. Not anymore.

However, he's selfish and wants to have you remain by his side. He hates being alone — to the point it becomes unbearable. He doesn't think you'll forgive him and he simply can't forgive himself and his actions, either. Perhaps, if you were to despise him from the bottom of your heart, that'd be for the best.

It's better for things to remain this way. The Atsuya in his head agrees, too.

★

"Good morning, [Name]," Fubuki greets you cheerfully the moment you step foot into the kitchen. You're blinded by his smile, the one he uses to sweep truths and details under the rug when he divulges too much against his will.

You play along and return the gesture. It's your forte. You and Fubuki are constantly entangled in an intricate dance, treading on thin ice between lies and sincerity, between hiding and revealing.

How easy it is for the both of you to act like nothing ever happened yesterday is nothing short of disturbing, yet befitting.

You hug him and wrap your arms around his torso, his own reaching out to cradle your face in his cold fingers. His eyes are kind, but there's no sentimental depth when he gazes at you from up-close. You're his polar opposite.

You kiss him and though he's quick to react, you can still see the way his eyes visibly widen in shock before you forcibly close your own so as not to perceive any negative reactions he subtly expresses.

Fubuki's sad because he's consciously leading you on, purposefully, and this kiss is a manifesto of his greed and opportunism. The remorse brewing within him is repressed and kept at bay, determined to do everything in his power to keep you around for as long as possible.

You deepen the kiss and push him against the countertop. His back slams against the cups behind him and one of them falls down, breaking into pieces.

You separate from him, by reflex and definitely not by choice, and cringe. "Sorry. Didn't mean to act like a horndog." The embarrassment creeps in before you can stop it and you merely watch as Fubuki crouches down and begins to pick up each of the shards.

"You always worry too much about everything. I wonder if it's a chronical condition," Fubuki makes an astute observation and you're tempted to roll your eyes because you can hear the snark behind it, though you hold back.

You watch as he carefully holds the pieces and carries them over to the trashcan, blinking with a small smile.

You look down at the floor and notice he missed one. Whether it was done on purpose or not, you can't really tell. With Fubuki, it's always hard to distinguish. You pick it up, holding it between your fingers, and stare right back at your reflection. The likeness of you is distorted, off putting and jarring.

"It's kind of familiar." You begin with a clipped tone. Fubuki stares at you before squatting down in an attempt to figure out what you mean.

It's not like you to be vague, Fubuki thinks. He doesn't like it when you beat around the bush, nor does he appreciate having to guess where your trail of thought leads to. He likes you best when you speak your mind, brash and reckless as it may be. It's familiar, nostalgic, and it makes him homesick.

He follows your gaze and fixes his attention onto the stray piece. He can already see the small cut opening up on your skin after the glass accidentally grazed it. He just smiles; it's not his mess to clean. "What is?"

It reminds me of us, you want to say out loud, but your lips are sealed shut.

The blood from your wound smears against the piece. It doesn't even hurt.

When something is broken, you can always glue it back together. When it's people that are shattered, no amount of glue can be of use.

You didn't know it at the time, yet you tried to play hero with the naïve ambition of binding Fubuki back to reality and away from the tumultuous waters threatening to swallow him whole. Now, you're afflicted with the same cracks you first saw in Fubuki. You never knew self-destruction could be a contagious disease.

"Never mind. I was about to say something lame." You shake your head and proceed to wince from the sting, pretending it hurts. You turn to look at him, raising your hand up to him with pleading eyes. "Kiss my boo-boo to make it feel better?"

"I'll pass," Fubuki declines within a heartbeat, rocking to and fro on his heels. You huff at his flower boy persona.

★

That night, Fubuki wraps his arms around you and brings you close to him, his chin perching itself on top of your head. You, in turn to his sporadic display of affection, snuggle even further into his chest, desperately listening to the sound of his heart, which is surprisingly peaceful in comparison to other nights that fly by just like this.

He holds you tight and despite the soothing heat of his body and the slow, content breaths he lets out, you've never felt colder or more alone.

There's a storm brewing, but it's not outside. It's always been an invisible force between the two of you and only you can see how it will end. You pray that the end is not near, but each and every day you can sense it being your last.

★

The following morning, you see Fubuki holding that same picture of him and his brother.

It feels like heartbreak. You're left to helplessly watch him perish with the knowledge that there's nothing you can do for him.

You're just collateral damage.

#SORRY...#I know its pretty uncommon for ie x reader fanfics to be posted on the tumblr community #so im sorry for the jumpscare everyone #You can ignore this #this is more like a character study tho #fubuki shirou x reader #fubuki shirou #inazuma eleven #inazuma eleven x reader

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