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You’re standing outside the shooting range, chilly air pricking your skin as you stuff your hands deeper into your pockets. The vast grounds of True Cross Academy are still cloaked in pale morning fog, quiet enough that the anxious shuffle of your own feet on gravel is the loudest sound.
The world is hushed, the campus empty save for the distant rustle of wind through the trees, the faint echo of footsteps that, finally, grow louder behind you.
“Good morning.”
When Yukio arrives, it’s almost soundless: shoes scraping, glasses flashing, exorcist coat crisp and buttoned up even this early. “You’re early. That’s… admirable.”
“I hope you didn’t have to wait for too long,” he says, voice even. The keys in his hand glint as he unlocks the heavy door. “It gets colder than expected this early. Let’s head inside.”
He holds the door for you, and you slip past him into the cavernous range, the unfamiliar scent of gun oil and old paper targets enveloping you. The door thuds shut behind, sealing the two of you in silence broken only by the mechanical click of Yukio flipping on the lights.
You stand awkwardly at the bench, anticipation coiling in your chest as Yukio sets a case on the table. With methodical care, he opens it—everything about his movements precise, deliberate, almost ritualistic. Yukio scans your uncertainty with sharp blue eyes, and his posture grows a shade softer.
“I understand you’re new to firearms?” he asks, voice gentle. When you admit as much, he nods, almost approving. “That’s okay. Everyone starts somewhere.”
He runs through the basics: never point at anything you don’t intend to shoot, keep your finger off the trigger, always check if it’s loaded. His instructions are clear, unhurried, and when you falter, he simply repeats himself with a slight nod, as if reaffirming that it’s alright to ask twice.
You try to listen, but your focus drifts—he’s so composed, so self-contained, a model of discipline that only makes you more aware of your own nerves. You watch his long, capable fingers as he checks the chamber and slides the magazine in, all deft and steady. Yukio demonstrates each step, hands steady, voice quiet but carrying. When he hands you the weapon grip first, your hands tremble faintly.
He notices, of course. “It’s heavier than it looks, isn’t it?” There’s a faint, almost imperceptible smile at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”
You mirror his stance, feeling shaky and a little foolish, as if you’re made of mismatched parts. The gun feels awkward, your shoulders tense. Yukio watches, expression unreadable, then steps closer.
“Here,” he says, and reaches out. His touch is careful, almost apologetic; his hand barely brushes your shoulder as he corrects your stance, the barest pressure guiding your elbow down, your wrist straight. He moves with caution, every adjustment brief, impersonal—yet his fingers are warm, his presence suddenly, impossibly close.
His voice dips low, just above your ear. “Relax your grip. You’re holding it too tightly. And… try to keep your shoulders down. Like this.” He shows you, his hand at your waist for a heartbeat, steadying your balance.
You can barely focus on the instructions, distracted by the heat of his chest at your back, the subtle scent of his aftershave. Your heart pounds—not from fear, or even anticipation, but from the realization of how gentle he’s being, how his careful distance feels almost intimate.
Yukio lingers behind you, his breath a ghost along your cheek as he lines up your arms. “Don’t lock your elbows—here, let me…” He shifts your grip, his thumb brushing the inside of your palm, his other hand bracing your shoulder. His touch is feather-light, but it grounds down your nerves, leaving your skin tingling in its wake.
He’s so close now that you can see the shadows under his eyes, the strain in the line of his jaw. Despite his calm, you sense the tension he carries—how he’s carefully measuring every movement, every word, afraid of crossing the invisible line.
“Focus on the target,” he murmurs, voice quiet, almost coaxing. “Breathe in… and let it out slowly. Good. Now, when you’re ready, gently squeeze the trigger.” Yukio steps aside and gently withdraws his hands, his fingers sliding away as if he’s afraid to linger too long.
You try. You really try. But your hands are shaking, your breath uneven, your mind spinning from the nearness of him.
So you fire the trigger. The gun kicks up in your hands. You barely have time to register the feeling before Yukio steadies your arm with a gentle but firm grip.
You relax your arms, cheeks warming with embarrassment as you squint at the distant target. The shot didn’t even graze the paper—just a wild mark somewhere off in the empty space to the left. You glance back at Yukio, expecting to see disappointment, maybe even a little amusement.
Instead, he steps around to your side, eyes flicking briefly to the target, then back to you. There’s no trace of amusement or irritation—only a calm, measured patience that somehow makes you feel worse.
You can’t help but grimace and let out an apologetic half-laugh. “I think I missed the entire board.”
“You flinched,” he observes quietly, as if speaking to himself. “That’s normal for a first shot.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, gaze softening. “The noise, the recoil… it’s a lot to take in.”
He gives a small, almost invisible shrug, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “It happens.” He glances at the gun in your hands, then at your trembling fingers. “May I?” His tone is gentle, and you nod, relief mingling with embarrassment as you hand the pistol over.
Yukio checks the chamber with practiced ease, the metal clicking in his hands. “The first step is learning to control your body’s reaction. Instinct says to close your eyes, tense up, pull away. But you have to train yourself to do the opposite—relax, breathe, keep your eyes open.”
Warm and steady, his fingers brush yours as he hands the gun back. “We’ll go slower. One step at a time.” His voice is softer now, less like an instructor and more like a confidant. “You’re not expected to get it right immediately.”
You take a breath, steadying yourself. The range is still empty, the only witnesses the rows of battered paper targets and handful of Coal Tars floating in the pale morning light. Yukio watches you, his expression unreadable, but there’s a gentleness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
He moves behind you again, closer this time. His hand finds your waist, fingers pressing lightly—not possessive, but grounding. “Try again. Feet apart. Shoulders relaxed. You’re holding your breath—let it out slow. Good.”
His voice, low and near, seems to fill the space between you. The world narrows to the warmth of his presence, the steadiness of his hand, the quiet encouragement in his tone.
You raise the pistol, conscious of every point of contact—his palm at your side, his breath near your ear, the faint brush of buttons of his coat against your back. You aim, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.
“Focus on the front sight. Ignore everything else,” he murmurs. “When you’re ready.”
You squeeze the trigger. The gun jolts, but not as badly this time. The shot lands on the edge of the paper, barely a graze—but you hit it. You turn, almost disbelieving, to find Yukio watching you, the smallest smile breaking through his reserve.
“Better,” he says, and there’s real pride in his voice now, quiet but unmistakable. “See? Progress.”
You can’t help but smile back, the tension easing from your shoulders. “I think that was luck.”
He shakes his head, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “No such thing as luck in marksmanship. Only control, and practice.”
He takes a step back, giving you space, but you can still feel the echo of his touch. “Again?”
You nod, eager now, emboldened by his approval. You set up your stance, this time more aware of your posture, your breath, the line of your arms. Yukio watches, arms folded, his gaze intent but encouraging.
You fire again. Another hit—closer to the center this time. Yukio’s lips twitch, almost a real smile, and he nods, satisfaction softening the usual tension in his face.
“Good. Much better.” He unfolds his arms, gestures for you to reload. “Let’s keep going. I’ll correct you as needed.”
Time begins to blur as you repeat the motions, shot after shot. Yukio’s instructions are precise, but his corrections are less frequent now—just a hand at your elbow, a nudge at your hip, a murmured word of encouragement. The cold of the morning fades, replaced by the heat of concentration, the thrill of small victories.