Work Text:
The city streets blur past him. Neon lights smear across the wet pavement, distorted through the haze of exhaustion clouding his vision. One foot in front of the other—that’s all he focuses on now. Not the throbbing pain in his ribs, not the weight of dried blood stiffening his collar, and certainly not the echo of his own breath, too shallow, too uneven to even begin to register just how cursed tonight’s mission had been.
He’s still alive, but for how much longer?
He swallows at the thought, the dry feeling tasting almost metallic as it goes through his wounded throat. His voice is nowhere to be found, the words he yelled, the grunts and agonizing screams of pain had taken it too long ago.
Then, a familiar voice stirs in his memory.
“It’s reckless, Nanami. You’re pushing your luck.”
He hisses. It’s Gojo’s voice, half-chiding, half-amused, from earlier that evening. A fight they should have won easily—if not for the sheer unpredictability of curses. A split-second mistake, yet one that could’ve costed them everything. A shard of cursed energy slicing too close to his throat.
His skin prickles as he relives the sudden chilly sensation from the cut, still half bleeding. He just wanted to end things quickly, to make sure he could come home back to you as soon as possible, but, if he had been a moment slower, would there even be a body to return home with?
Would he still be walking this path back to you?
He swallows hard once more, blinking against the intrusive thought, the laughs of a passerby couple making him sigh and he silently thanks them for pulling him back to reality.
No. Not tonight. Tonight, he would make it home, make it back to you.
However, his hands tremble at his sides. His fingers flex uselessly, as if grasping for something unseen, something warm, something grounding. Something only you can give him.
A flash of memory passes by his hazy, clouded mind: your touch, fleeting but somehow very real to his troubled self.
A week ago, when your fingertips brushed against his wrist, featherlight, as you passed him a cup of coffee with that sweet smile you always wore. The warmth of it had lingered long after the cup was in his hands, haunting yet comforting. He remembers how his breath had caught in his throat, how he’d curled his fingers inward, as if trapping the feeling before it could slip away to make sure he could engrave it in his heart and soul.
Another memory passes by, an old one, one he can’t forget— a child, younger than he can remember, reaching for comfort that never came.
The scent of old books and polished wood lingers in the air, the only warmth in an otherwise cold house. He sits at the dining table, small hands folded neatly in his lap, posture perfect as it was always expected. Across from him, his mother places a cup of tea in front of him. She does not touch him, and he can’t help but wonder why.
“Am I dirty? Am I not deserving? Is something wrong with me?”
He had seen it in movies, read it in books; the touch of a mother, the gentle caresses and the softness of a comforting embrace he had never received.
His innocent eyes are watching, waiting, hoping for something—a hand on his shoulder, a brush of fingers against his own. All he wants is a simple acknowledgment of his existence. But she only gives him a glance, impassive and fleeting, before returning to her papers.
She never does anything.
So he tried for himself.
He remembers reaching out, a tentative tug at the sleeve of her blouse.
“Mother?”
He remembers stretching his arms, them being wide open as his hopeful heart thumped with great anxiety inside his chest. He watches her face, the expression on it being one far from pleasant. He remembers a hand, her hand, clasping his wrist, firm, distant.
“Don’t cling, Kento. You don’t need such things.”
Her touch lasted only a second, but he never forgot the cold of it.
“You don’t need such things.”
It’s a mocking oxymoron, one that he humorlessly laughed at as his feet almost gave up on the beginning of the stairs. He had never feared rejection, not even by a little. It was part of life, something that one could never avoid, and yet he couldn’t seem to get those awful memories out of his mind. They stuck to him like a constant buzzing on the back of his head, like an angry man knocking over and over at the door to his heart.
Maybe that’s why, he thought; why he always avoided it. Why, even now, the idea of physical affection sets him on edge—except when it’s you.
Only you.
Another memory, one from his teenage years, passes through his mind as he slowly starts to make his way inside the apartment complex.
His classmates drape arms around each other in casual camaraderie, easy and thoughtless. A boy nudges his shoulder in passing, laughing at something. Nanami stiffens. The touch startles him, it sends a strange discomfort crawling up his spine. He doesn’t react, doesn’t let it show, but his skin is filled with goosebumps for the rest of the day, like an itch he can’t scratch.
By the time he’s an adult, he’s learned to avoid it entirely. Handshakes are brief, hugs are declined, unnecessary closeness is evaded with precision. He builds his walls carefully, brick by brick, until even the idea of physical comfort feels foreign.
And yet—
He exhales sharply as he reaches the front door. His shoulders sag, exhaustion finally seeping into his bones. He doesn’t even bother with the tie, doesn’t waste time checking the wounds beneath his torn shirt. None of it matters.
Not right now.
The first time you touched him, something changed inside him.
He remembers how you tugged at his sleeve, then grabbed his wrist— the scene was too familiar to him, reminding him of the one with his mother. However, your skin feels soft, your hand is warm, and the way it pulls at him to get him to follow you was… gentle.
Instead of discomfort, instead of the usual static in his bones, he feels steady. His pulse jumps, but not in panic. There’s no tension in his shoulders, no instinct to pull away. He expects the usual sensation of wanting to shake it off, to retreat behind his usual barriers.
But nothing comes.
The warmth lingers, settling into his skin like an ember that refuses to burn out. It unsettles him— not because he dislikes it, but because he realizes he wants it again.
His bloody knuckles graze the wood, only giving it a soft knock before he hesitates to enter. Then, after a few seconds of trying to at least steady himself, he finally pushes the door open.
And, when the door opens wide enough, he gets a glimpse of you. He freezes, his eyes watching over your form, sitting ever so patiently on the edge of the sofa, your back turned to him as you seemed to be focused on the book in your hands. The instant warmth he feels by just being in the same room as you remembering him why it’s different when the touch comes from you: You won’t demand words from him, you won’t ask him to explain the unspoken weight pressing on his ribs, nor will you flinch away from the bruises marring his skin.
You will hold him.
And for the first time in his life, he will let himself be held, because he doesn’t just allow your touch, he craves it without fear.
At first, you don’t react. You’re used to hearing Nanami come home late. He’s always careful, always composed, always himself when he walks through that door, but something is different tonight— you feel it before you see it.
It’s the silence.
It stretches unnaturally, thick and suffocating, lingering in the air like a held breath. Normally, he’d at least greet you, a soft “I’m home”, a quiet presence to signal his return. But this time, there’s nothing.
Your stomach tightens. Then, you turn toward the doorway, the words “Welcome home” die in your trembling lips as you freeze. Your eyes are now taking in the scene before you: Nanami stands there, his figure slumped against the frame, a stark contrast to the man you know. His dress shirt is torn, splattered with dried and fresh blood, staining the fabric in dark, uneven patterns. His tie hangs loose, barely clinging to his collar, and his face—
His face looks hollow.
Your breath catches at the back of your throat, like a silent reprimand of the universe to stay quiet, to not say anything unless he does first. But you can’t help yourself, and his name falls from your lips like a tentative call, shaky and low.
“Kento?”
He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t even make an attempt to move. He just stands there, staring at you.
You throw the book on the coffee table next to the sofa. Your steps are heavy now, but not rushed; you’re not sure how to approach this.
It’s unsettling. Not just the sight of him bloodied and bruised—he’s come home wounded before, you had fought beside him, your used to seeing blood and wounds, but never like this. Never this quiet, this distant, as if some part of him is still caught in the battlefield he barely escaped.
You rush forward, hands instinctively reaching for him, but you hesitate. He doesn’t like to be touched—not after missions, not when he’s like this. You’ve always respected that.
Now, your hands are trembling, hovering, one over each side of his face. Just one more shaky movement and your fingers would be brushing the blood out of his cheeks.
You know he will ask you to stay away, to not get yourself tainted with the dirtiness of the sins from his duty; that’s what you expect, at least.
But this time… This time, he steps toward you first.
And then, he collapses.
Not fully, not dramatically. It’s just enough for you to catch him, his weight pressing into you like a man too tired to hold himself up any longer. Your arms instinctively wrap around him, steadying him, heart racing in fear and confusion as your breathing becomes unsteady.
“Kento, what happened? Are you hurt?”
Your voice is urgent, frantic, but he doesn’t answer.
Then, you feel it: this fingers clutching at the fabric of your shirt, gripping it as if afraid you might disappear. His head drops, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, his breath warm but unsteady against your skin, causing it to fill up with goosebumps.
You feel a damp sensation on the collar of your shirt, yet you don’t dare to question it. It’s faint, but the feeling it’s there. It raises an alarm in your head. You’ve never seen him like this.
As you’re about to speak, his voice interrupts you. It’s soft, so soft, and so fragile, that you barely recognize it.
“Hold me.”
Two words. Just two. But they shatter something inside you.
Your arms tighten around him immediately, pulling him closer, pressing him against you. If he won’t speak, if he won’t tell you what happened, then fine. You won’t ask. You’ll just hold him—as long as he needs, as tightly as he needs, until whatever weight he’s carrying feels just a little bit lighter.
Because right now, he isn’t Nanami Kento, the composed sorcerer, and you know it. Right now, he’s just a man—a tired, broken man who needs you more than ever.
“It’s okay”, you whisper back, hands now caressing the back of his head, your fingers tangling with the golden strands, damp with hints of sweat and blood. “I’m here. Everything’s okay.”
Nanami lets out a shaky exhale and holds your tighter, his lips and nose pressing impossible further into the crook of your neck, as if he’s searching for refuge, for a place to hide away from the disgusting world he had been living in, knowing that you’ll never let him go.
After a few fleeting minutes, Nanami doesn’t know when his legs give out.
He barely registers the moment his body folds, knees hitting the floor, the strength he had clung to for so long finally slipping through his fingers. You barely have time to react before he’s sinking down. But even now, even as he collapses, he refuses to let go of you. His arms remain locked around your waist, fingers gripping the fabric of your clothes as if they’re the only thing tethering him to reality. As if the moment he lets go, he’ll disappear.
He doesn’t know why he’s holding on so tightly. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s always known. He just never let himself acknowledge it.
Your height now equals his, and as you desperately search for his eyes, you catch it— he’s trembling.
Nanami never trembles.
Your heart aches as you try to remain composed, not wanting to scare this moment of vulnerability away, hands cupping his face. Or, at least, you try to, since he doesn’t look at you. Inside his mind, he can’t.
He can’t look at you. Not like this.
Not when his breath is shaking. Not when his chest is tightening with something ugly and unbearable. Not when he can feel the burn of unshed tears, threatening to spill.
He clenches his jaw and swallows hard, silently cursing himself as his mind torments him with the memories of that child that doubted his worth.
He’s spent a lifetime keeping his composure, holding himself together because he had to. Because there was never another option.
There was never anyone to catch him.
So why… Why does he want you to catch him now?
Your hands are soft and warm as they reach out, but this time he stiffens, thinking that he should pull away like he always does. Yet, he doesn’t.
He resists, turning his face away and pressing his forehead against your shoulder, hiding from your gaze. His shuddering breaths intensify, and it makes your heart ache even more than before.
“Kento…”, you softly call for him, trying to at least get a glimpse of his face, to catch those beautiful emeralds that drown each of your thoughts wherever you look at them.
He shakes his head, still facing the floor— your lap.
“Don’t”, he hesitantly whispers, his voice is rough, strained, barely holding itself together. “Don’t look at me.”
If you see him like this, if you see him break, then it’s real.
Then he’s no longer the man who always knows what to do; no longer the pillar of strength, the one who carries the weight of responsibility with quiet endurance. Then he would be just a man, a man who’s hurting and afraid, a man who’s broken.
And he doesn’t know if he can bear that.
Your chest tightens, mostly because you can almost hear what he’s thinking. You don’t care if he doesn’t want to be seen like this. You don’t care if he thinks this makes him weak, or broken, or anything else that his mind is telling him. Because to you, he will always be Nanami— the man who, no matter what happened, you would always love.
So you don’t ask for permission this time, and you make him face you.
“Please?”
You reach for his face again, firmer this time, hands cupping his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. You can feel how he resists for a second longer, but his strength is gone. He gives in.
Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts his head. The moment his eyes meet yours, he knows he’s lost. There is no judgment in your gaze. No disappointment, no hesitation. Only softness. Only warmth. Only you.
And just like that, the last of his restraint crumbles; a sharp inhale, a tremor that shakes his frame. Nanami barely recognizes the sound that leaves him. It’s something between a sigh and a shuddered breath, as if his body is exhaling a weight he didn’t realize he was carrying.
You don’t speak. You don’t tell him it’s okay, don’t try to force words into the space between you. You just hold him, looking like you’ve encountered the rarest piece of artwork in the world.
He’s crying.
Tears slip down his cheeks, silent and unchecked, his brows furrowed in something between pain and relief. His eyes are glassy, his lips parted as if searching for something to say, but nothing comes. He doesn’t speak. He just breathes. It’s ragged, uneven, like a man who has spent his entire life holding it in, and it makes your heart shatter into a million pieces.
You freeze as well, not knowing what to say or do— should you even do anything? You’ve never been one to know how to give comfort to people, at least not in times likes this. However, you feel a push this time, an impulse. It’s not one that you’ve felt before, it feels weird, like your mind is rushing you, urging you to do it.
Without another second thought, you don’t hesitate anymore; you kiss him— not on his lips, but his tears.
One after another, soft kisses pressed against the streaks of salt on his skin. One against his closed eyelids, another against the bridge of his nose, some over his blood-tainted cheeks.
He stiffens at first, but eventually his entire body goes limp, as if melting under your touch, letting a softer, steadier exhale escape from his lips.
His arms tighten around you once more, but not out of desperation, out of surrender.
Because now, he finally believes it: it’s okay to be held, it’s okay to need someone. He doesn’t have to carry this alone.
And as you hold him, as you whisper his name with nothing but love, he lets himself fall apart in your arms, knowing you’ll be there to put him back together whenever he needs to.