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Tenma has only ever been kind to you.
You know that it’s kindness, a genuine feeling. You know it’s not a lie, a facade, a mask. You know, because he asks you how you are feeling. He doesn’t tell you that everything is fine, but he tells you that it will be, that it can be with time. He doesn’t look at you with a plastic smile, but with a guilt-filled sorrow. That sorrow is for you, not for himself; it’s his empathy, his empathy that makes him kind. You were drawn in by that kindness, in that place that was nothing more than a lesser hell.
In that place, you had convinced yourself it was the best, the only, way to live. The world outside would hunt you and take you however it pleased, reaping the benefit of your immortal curse simply because you were made another creature. You look no differently, you feel, you hurt, you speak no differently...and yet, 'Ajin’ is all it takes for men to turn on you, to transform you from a human at their level into an item, a monster, or both. You made yourself believe that the agency was the better place.
They hurt you, but at least it isn't constant. They speak down to you, but certainly less than others would. You allowed yourself to accept this as bliss, as the closest to comfort you would have.
In that place, you no longer loved smiles, nor handshakes. Those hands that took yours would only be used for pain, and those smiles would seem to leer down at you through those masks. Perhaps they weren’t smiling, not really, but in your mind it was all you could see.
You were more appreciative of coldness. To be treated coldly felt like less of a twisted violation. With a smile, you felt that they were lying. But when they were cold to you, at least you knew they were being honest. You were a tool for them and nothing more. But being a tool for progress, progress that could save countless other lives, was better than any alternative. You let yourself continue to believe that, distancing yourself from friendliness, from warmth.
It was why you had, at first, been wary of Tenma. Why you wished you had never met him.
You knew, of course, that in the end, he would be standing at that table in that bright, bright room. That he would sacrifice you day to day for the benefit of others, strangers, and for science. His smile had been the kindest, and he had seemed so eager, so glad to be on the project. And oh, how you had hated to hear that. Glad, he said! Speaking as though it was a friendly business operation. Would you bring the young doctor experience? A heftier resume, or paycheck? Glad! At the time, you had deemed him no different from the rest. Once again, you shut away that smile.
But it changed, when you saw him in that room, with those men holding clipboards. The men who watched, with those unfeeling eyes that were so empty, the men who scribbled notes and whispered to one another and laughed idly at something mundane as your blood was spilled, as your mind grew hazy and confused, your body resetting time and time and time again.
He had looked at you with sorrow. And never did that change. That sorrow had felt relaxing, had felt relieving. He felt something, for you, and that was strange, was new, was unusual. But it made you feel safe beneath his gaze.
You didn’t fear the thought that he would be standing there in the operating room with you. You anticipated it. You looked forward to that day, to being able to see warmth that was genuine, to see a heart that shone kindly for you. It wouldn’t be so bad, you had thought, if he was the one. You could feel the sympathy pouring from him in waves, even from so far away. He cared, and that was all that mattered to you.
But he had given you more than mere kindness. He had given you hope, had given you a future. He gave you freedom, and friendship. And then he had given you something impossibly great, something you had only been given once, when you were human; something you never thought you would receive again.
He gave you love.
He loves deeply, genuinely, attentively. He minds you, and your feelings. He is patient with you. He recognizes that when you tense at his touch, when you flinch, it’s a reflexive response built with time in that place. He speaks gently to you, whispers reassurances that he won’t hurt you, that it’s safe here. You know all of that, but the gesture is sweet nonetheless. It shows how much he cares. You tell him so.
When you wake from terrors, he grounds you, as he always did before. He tells you where you are with a slow, confident voice. It gives you somewhere to focus, and you take it. But sometimes, on worse nights, when the dreams are too real, when moments trigger memories, his voice isn’t enough. He won’t stop reaching for you, though. Even when you can’t hear him through the fog, he does his best to placate you. He takes your hand, he holds it tightly and he draws you near, to the warmth that is him. If his voice cannot reach you, then his touch does. You could never mistake that touch, tentative but reassuring.
His hands are never used to harm you, his words are never used to threaten nor demean you. You trust him, you lower your guard, you allow yourself to open up to him. You learn that it tickles when he brushes your cheek with his thumb. You learn to appreciate the gently electric feeling it gives. You learn that waking to someone standing over you can be the result of a gentle kiss, and not a precursor to pain. The soft feel of his lips against your brow makes you smile without fail.
He asks you not to give your life; tells you that as a doctor, he'll save you, that you don't need to let yourself die. He keeps his word; when you injure, he treats you. Never do you fear his touch; you trust his hands, his motives. He never betrays that trust.
You give all you can in return. You shield him, protect him. Your body will heal; you allow it to guard him. Still he insists that you mustn't die for him; that he stays with you, helps you, loves you by his own choice, that you owe him nothing. But it's never been about that. You give your life to protect him because you choose to, because he is precious, someone you don't mind dying for. But still he sorrows, laments for you. You are the one to give comfort then, reminding him of the change he made in your life. Back then, your sacrifice was decided for you; you were deemed an asset, a tool of use. But this...you choose this, freely choose to give your life for him. He feels unworthy of such a steep cost, but when this man brought freedom to you...how could he deserve any less? "You owe him nothing." The reverse is also true, isn't it? He owed you nothing, but he gave you freedom, he gave you your life. He gave you the world.
You would give him the world. You give him yours.