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Keigo thinks, as he lets the door shut behind him, that maybe this life of his was inevitable - this sacrifice was unavoidable. He thinks that, perhaps, there are some people who need to spend their lives fighting , who need to beat their fists against flesh and split their lips on the bloody knuckles of their rivals.
There are people who find peace only in war, and Keigo, so often, wishes he were not one of these people. As he kicks his boots off and tosses his phone on the side table, stepping further into his entryway, he thanks whatever's out there that he, at least, doesn't have to do it alone - that he's found someone to build a home with in this violence of his.
He doesn't bother changing out of his hero uniform when he sits on the couch, slouching into the cushions. It was a rough patrol - one that left him with scrapes and bruises, blood dripping from his jacket, drying on his hands. Maybe , he thinks as he rubs his palms together, the dark red coming off in little flecks, settling into the carpet, maybe if I was someone else, this would bother me. Maybe if I was something else.
But the violence in him stays, wrapping around him and choking him from the inside out. He stares down at his hands, palms facing up as he glares. How can I say I'm good when they've done so much bad, he thinks. There's a sort of desperation in him as he reaches for the remote, turning on the television, wanting some sort of background noise to drown the whirring of his thoughts out, to drown his voice out, to drown him , to -
But then there you are, on the news - still working. Still fighting. Still bleeding. Keigo chokes, his hands balling into fists as he watches, as he sees you, blood marring your hero uniform. Not really your blood, he notes, but a stain, nonetheless. And there's still that wild look in your eyes, a ferocity that couldn't be stamped out. The reporter drones on about your reputation , your blood-soaked, violence-stained reputation. Brutality, war, violence - all for the sake of peace.
We get our hands dirty so that normal people don't have to . That's what you'd always said to him. Keigo never had the heart to tell you that he didn't think either of you deserved to have to be these things.
But neither of you got to choose this life - this calling, thrust upon you. Neither of you chose to be raised this way, trained this way, a violence so ingrained in you that you cannot be anything else anymore.
There are few things Keigo gets to choose in this life. Loving you, though - that is something he chooses every day. Waiting for you - that is something he would choose until the end of time. So he waits, turning the TV off with a sigh and tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. As he sags down onto the couch, he can't make himself care about the blood that seeps into it - although he wonders idly how many new couches he could buy with the money he makes from wrapping his hands around other people's throats.
But they're villains , he reminds himself. But isn't he? Aren't you, for the things that you do? Keigo, most of the time, doesn't think he knows where the line is anymore. You always do, he finds, and as he listens to the sound of the front door clicking open, he finds himself breathing a sigh of relief that you're back, that some tether to morality and sanity has returned to his life.
"Hey birdie," you call softly, and it's wrong , the way your voice comes out soft and tender and delicate; it lurches in contrast to the way you pull off your jacket, heavy with the weight of blood, and let it drop onto the floor with a dull splat. But he looks at you - at your eyes, warm and soft and loving. A trickle of blood trails down your temple and the couch cushion dampens under his weight, blood seeping into it.
Whatever , he thinks. I'll call the cleaners in. It's not like it would be the first time. It's not like it will be the last. Keigo leans forward, tips himself onto his feet so that he can make his way over to where you still stand in the entryway.
"Hey, dove," he says softly. When he gets to you, he holds your face in his hands with a gentleness that feels like it shouldn't belong to him, a benevolence that feels stolen, his hands having been wiped clean hastily on his pants, leaving trails of crimson behind.
But he just smoothes his thumb across your cheek, maps himself out a clean spot so he can press his lips to it, and the touch is so soft that you find yourself holding your breath, your heart thumping painfully against your ribs. Because when, you think, did touch become so soft? And when did we become deserving of it?
"Leave it here," Keigo shushes you softly, prying ever so gently at your clenched fists to loosen your grip on whatever happened out there, his nose brushing against your cheek as he speaks against your skin. "Leave it out there. It's safe in here." That's all it takes, really, a sigh leaving you as you let your head thump against his shoulder, fist loosening enough that he can tangle his fingers with yours and bring you closer to him. The blood on you presses against him, staining his jacket more. Neither of you find it in you to care - it's not the first time, and it won't be the last.
"You need to clean yourself up," you mumble against his shoulder, fatigue seeping into your voice. Keigo huffs out a laugh, poking your side gently.
"You're one to talk," he quips back, but there's no real bite, especially when he moves to tug you down the hallway toward your shared bathroom. You grumble as you walk after him, letting him pull you by your hand as you pretend to put up a fight. But there's never really any fights here, in this home that you share. Keigo thrives on it, notably - being able to take care of you, being able to channel that fight in him into protectiveness and have his hands heal for once.
Back when the two of you were younger, when you were both hot-headed rivals battling for the top hero ranking, you'd always argued that there was peace to be found in war.
"Don't you understand, Hawks?" You'd said to him. "You can't have one without the other."
He never knew what you meant by that until you had him sitting on your kitchen counter for the first time, cleaning blood from his face. He hadn't known your touch could be so tender, until then.
Now, of course, it's second nature to you both, the way you smooth a hand across the nape of his neck as he lifts you to sit on the bathroom counter. Now, there is nothing but softness between the two of you, a gentleness found only in the privacy of your own home. You watch, through tired, hooded eyes, the way his wings twitch and flutter, spreading slightly to take up more space, to block your view from the mirror if you were to try to turn. He always does that now - you pretend not to notice and he pretends not to know.
You remember the first time you'd come home like this, when your relationship was still new - tentative and stumbling. He'd never seen it before - the tug of war that takes place in the doorway of your home, the attempt to put the fight aside for the night and learn to be human again. Oh, how bad you'd been at it then, pulling your hands away from his and spluttering concerns about getting blood on him, about leaving your marks on him.
"I'm already all marked up," he'd cooed, taking your hands and pressing them to his chest, letting you feel him, solid and warm and yours . "I've already got my own stains. There is no mark you could leave on me that I wouldn't thank you for." You'd laughed when he said that, a pitchy, tired noise.
"You and I really are the same, aren't we?" You'd said. Keigo had found himself agreeing.
But when he'd taken you to the bathroom to clean up, the same way he does now, you'd caught sight of yourself in the mirror. The blood that dripped from your face and the wild look in your eyes were so familiar to you, but when they knocked against Keigo's tender grip on your waist and fluttering kiss to our cheek, the softness of it all made your breath stutter, panic rising in you. There is anguish in love when it is something so foreign, you'd thought. You couldn't articulate that, of course, as you buried your head in your hands and sobbed. But Keigo knew - he knew from when you'd helped him that first time, in your kitchen. He knew from excusing himself to the bathroom after, just so that he could clamp his hand over his mouth to muffle his sobs. You'd been right, of course - the two of you really are the same.
"Where'd you go, baby," your voice snaps Keigo back to the present, your finger flicking against his forehead gently. He grins at you, cocking his head to the side as he stares.
"Just thinking about you," he says, and you roll your eyes. "You want a shower?"
"Yes please," is your answer, but he stops you from moving, murmuring a stay put against your lips before giving you a quick kiss and stepping away to get the shower running. You slide over on the counter, smiling at the glare he shoots you as you move to lean sideways, turning the tap on and beginning to scrub your hands in the sink.
"We're about to get in the shower, dove," Keigo points out as he reaches a hand under the spray, frowning and adjusting the temperature.
"I just want my hands to be clean," you say earnestly, and he finds he can't fault you for that. He stares at his own, for a moment, before moving to the other sink, scrubbing at his palms with soap and water as steam begins to fill the room.
"You take your showers too hot," you point out.
"You take them too cold," he retorts.
"Maybe we should stop showering together," you pout teasingly, drying your hands on the towel Keigo's tossed you while he shoots you a look.
"As if. Get in, dove, before I make it hotter." You roll your eyes at his words, but slide yourself off the counter nonetheless, letting Keigo peel off the layers of your uniform as you do the same for him.
"Thank you, Keigo," you say quietly, slipping into the shower and turning to see him follow after you. As if he wouldn't, if you weren't checking. As if he could do anything other than chase after you.
"You don't have to thank me for this," he says easily, using a hand against your cheek to bring you forward, resting his forehead against yours. "You don't have to thank me for loving you."
"But still," you press. "It's nice, isn't it?"
"Of course it is. But it's also deserved," he points out. You smile.
"For you, too, then," you say. "You deserve this softness, too."
"Well," Keigo drawls, but you don't miss the way he wraps his arms around you to tuck you into his chest so that you can't see the blush creeping over his cheeks. "Good thing I have you to give me that, then, hm?"
"Yea," you laugh, burying your head in his chest and watching the way the water runs red, stains of blood blurring off your skin and disappearing. "Good thing."