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Miyama Kirishima preferred the saying “the early bird gets the worm” to the more accurate medical diagnosis of insomnia.
It wasn’t insomnia, really; he didn’t have trouble falling asleep nor staying asleep. It was just that his circumstances prevented him from such defenselessness and vulnerability for such long stretches of time. Perhaps in another life he would be granted the privilege of reincarnating into the shells of the blissfully ignorant and indulge in such foolish pastimes, but not this life.
He stood to lose too much. He was in too deep to start over, and more importantly, there was something that he had sworn to protect with his last dying breath.
His eyes fluttered opened, his vision greeted by the blank blackness of his bedroom ceiling in the absence of the light. Three — no, four — hours have passed since he had allowed himself to close his eyes; it was time to rise once more and stand guard to fight for the chance to see the sun set for another day and the chance to see the plethora of expressions pass through her face just one more time.
He had once thought of her as the light at the end of the tunnel — perhaps something akin to the North star in the labyrinth of life. Kirishima had briefly pondered over his right to stand so close next to her — to dare to hold her in his embrace — when his own hands remained stained as they were from the bloodshed of his past, present, and future.
He reached out his hand, staring at the dark silhouette of his fingers from where he lay on his back. A wave of pain pulsated down the limb, sending shockwaves of would-be anguish down to the depths of his cognitive consciousness. It didn’t bother him too much, truthfully; pain was merely another reminder that he was alive, and he much preferred it to being dead. The cost of getting stabbed in the arm was but petty change for getting to live another day with his head intact, after all.
The soft rustle of a person shifting in their spot caught his attention, and for a second, his eyes widened — his heart rate increasing as his hand curled around the covers, prepared to throw away the blanket and roll out of bed in an instant. Had he unwittingly let down his guard in the four hours he had sacrificed to sleep? It should have been impossible for someone to snea—
A light groan escaped from his companion, and he caught a whiff of the faint scent of the cherry blossoms blooming in the early spring. His grasp on the duvet relaxed, and his hand found itself now resting on the shoulder of the person asleep next to him, his mind now aware of her maroon hair brushing against his cheek.
Yoshino.
His breath hitched at his throat, his eyes reflecting the bewilderment of his subconscious. So she had stayed with him after all.
In truth, he had been joking when he had asked her to stay with him after she bandaged his wounds for him, brushing off the sincerity that must have accidentally leaked through with sweet nothings and grandiose proclamations of love that, to normal ears, must have surpassed the threshold of genuine affection and treaded into the area of make-believe. He knew his position and her impression of him well, and he knew with both certainty and unequivocal conviction how she would react — though for reasons unknown he still found himself asking the question regardless. It was a momentary disconnect between his mind and his soul where his desire overruled rational thought, though he was certain he had covered his tracks well to distract her from noticing the slip.
He stayed staring for a moment, his face remaining the expressionless slate it was since the beginning, as his fingers danced along her shoulders and up the back of her neck to rest in her hair. To think that she had actually considered his request and had agreed to keep him company…
He let out a light chuckle as a soft smile found its way onto his lips. She never did cease to surprise him.
She was his equal in each and every way, and yet near paradoxically, she stood as his direct opposite as if they were two sides of the same coin. If he made a move to kill, she would remain on the side and deal with the aftermath. If she went ahead in an interrogation, he would pull back and spectate from the side. Her methods were as ruthless as she was beautiful; the end justifying her means.
She was both everything and nothing — she was the only person he could call his partner, and he firmly held onto the belief that he was the only one for her. He didn’t deserve her, but there was no one else. There would never be anyone else.
If he were to vow to protect her for as long as he remained in the realm of the living, would she do the same in the world of the dead?
Miyama Kirishima had no room for mistakes — no foolery, no fault. His sleep duration was limited to the four hours he could spare — alone, for the matter. His body and mind conditioned to stand on guard with the first fluttering of his eyelids, he had to be ready to fight to his death within a moment’s notice. Exhaustion was a sign of weakness, rest was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Yet there was this inexplicable desire to surrender his all to her of his own volition. If tragedy were to befall because he had let his guard down around her, then that would be a consequence he would gladly accept. Somei Yoshino was his one and only partner, and if his own foolishness for believing in her was the sole reason for his downfall, then he’d happily offer his head up on a silver platter for her.
He drew in a deep breath, wrapping his hand around a lock of her hair before bringing it up to his lips.
“I guess I’ll have to work harder to make you want to kill me, huh,” he murmured, his tone low yet imbued with amusement as the scent of cherry blossoms flooded his each and every thought.
He gently pulled at Yoshino’s neck to bring her in closer against his form, and for once, Miyama Kirishima allowed himself to return to sleep.