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Manjiro looked at him with an expression Ken wasn’t able to decrypt.
What was it?
What did it mean?
There was always something about Manjiro that pulled him in. He couldn't figure out what it was, and yet it felt as though there was no way to escape him—not like he wanted to in the first place. He didn’t want to escape—not really—but he kept trying to maintain a distance, as if that could save him from being pulled in. And still, Manjiro lingered—always around his place, like he was trying to mark him with an invisible thread.
Was it a thread? Was he even trying to escape him?
No. He wanted distance so he wouldn’t be drawn in—and yet he didn’t want to leave either.
But what was it for? Why was he doing this at all? Was he afraid of something?
Sometimes, he felt that distance would make him cold. But whenever Manjiro shortened it, it became suffocating.
So what was Ken even doing? Was this some kind of existential crisis?
Mitsuya had once told him he was afraid of losing his individuality—maybe that was it. Ken had grown so used to handling everything on his own, always being the one others relied on, that when he met someone who also carried the weight of the world—in a way so different and yet so similar to his own—it made him ache.
Would they ever collide and become one?
Maybe he wanted that—maybe he always had.
But was he even allowed to?
Was it okay to wish for it?
Manjiro’s expression was hard to read. And even though Ken wondered why—after all these years—he still couldn’t decipher it, his mind was elsewhere entirely.
Ken sat on the stairs, covered in blood after a quick fight. It was freezing, and yet his cheeks emitted a kind of heat that spread through his entire body, despite the ice-cold ground beneath him. He should have been thinking about it—about the frozen pavement, the howling wind, where he could go to get warm—and yet all he could think about was how Manjiro looked like a god.
Why was it always Manjiro?
Even though his body was supposed to be sore, adrenaline spiraling through his veins from the fight, all he could focus on was the way his breath started to quicken when Manjiro showed up, how his fingers tingled, a fire lighting up in his throat, his chest getting tighter and tighter, his heart rate slowly crumbling into itself—maybe it would totally collapse, destroying his entire being.
Was it too extreme? Maybe. But the way he looked at the small person in front of him was already abnormal and forceful anyway.
A war god? A god coming to his rescue?
What even was he?
Sitting there, Ken felt like he was witnessing something holy. Manjiro’s expression was undecipherable—and yet, a light seemed to surround him. He was shining, ethereally beautiful. It felt like the entire sun had poured itself into him.
Why was he always so pretty?
No matter what, Ken would never have stopped looking his way—if the choice had been his.
Ken couldn’t possibly look away. He was so mesmerizing. He blinked, needing to drag himself out of whatever fantasy had overtaken him. He just sat there, surrounded by bodies, covered in blood and bruises. His skin was a livid purple, and the contrast with Manjiro’s skin was even more palpable than usual.
Manjiro looked away, his hands slowly moving into his pockets.
“So?”
Ken felt like he’d been brutally dragged back to reality.
“What?” His gaze followed Manjiro’s hands. He was shaking. His voice sounded so confident, and yet his body betrayed him.
Manjiro bit his lip, still looking away. His hands slowly crumpled inside his jacket.
“I said: I am going to kiss you.”
Ken’s mouth moved before his brain could catch up.
“Do. Yes.”
He couldn’t look at Manjiro’s hands anymore, but his voice cracked slightly. Ken didn’t want to question why he sounded so eager—so painfully excited—as he rushed to beg him to actually kiss him. He should have thought he was pathetic, but he didn’t care anymore.
How many years had he been feeling this way?
How long had he been trying to resist him?
How long had he told himself he wasn’t supposed to feel this? That he had to stop before it was too late—before he couldn’t control it anymore.
Before he couldn’t move on.
He was making a fool of himself—ridiculously, stupidly trying to hold on to something that had never even existed.
It was love. Not friendship.
Not a familiar bond.
Love.
Since the beginning—no matter how much control he tried to impose on himself—it had always been love.
And Manjiro? He had been stupidly dancing around with him, tiptoeing as they both crossed over and over the blurs of the distances they were never able to set. Acting like lovers, but never brave enough to acknowledge it—just pretending to go back to being friends, as if they ever were that in the first place.
Because Ken was painfully aware of it: they had never been friends. The way they met alone had sparked and ignited whatever red strings of fate would intertwine around their fingers. There was no friendship to go back to.
Manjiro finally looked his way. He blinked, his hands slipping out of the holes in his sweater. As he opened his mouth to speak, Ken panicked.
“Wait! Actually, I have blood on me right now.”
Manjiro’s lips exploded in soft laughter.
“I’ll still kiss you,” he said, smiling through his teeth. And yet, his tone felt like a challenge.
Ken bit his lip. He definitely was a god. Even his laughter sounded heavenly.
Had his body and soul ever responded to someone else like this?
What did he even have to do to spend the rest of his life swimming in that light?
What could he do to let those sweet, caramel-like sounds stay in his ears forever?
What did he have to do to feel those small hands touch him for the rest of his life?
There was something luminous and dreamlike about having him in his life. He didn’t know what it was, but it had always been that way—from the very beginning.
No clue why. No reason behind it. Just some kind of awakening—and that was it.
But he had already surrendered.
He didn’t want to run. So what did he need a reason for, anyway?
No escape. No reason.
Just letting his desire run wild, without resistance.
He didn’t have to act on every impulse—but he didn’t need to deny them either.
He would have worshipped him anyway, for the rest of his life. He would have looked at him forever, because that’s what love felt like to him. He was the sun, his own personal god—ethereal and terrifying, vulnerable and indestructible. They said humans made gods so they could give them all the characteristics humans would never achieve, but Ken didn’t need to achieve anything—he was just naturally drawn to his own god, because he couldn’t look away from him, because there was no existence without him, because there was no meaning in the entire universe without him.
His love was transcendental, painfully raw—something deeply spiritual. It was like religion. He wasn’t sure if it was love, or just his love for Manjiro—but it was like that.
And Ken was his true devotee.
He was the sacrificial lamb—the most willing one.
So, he surrendered.
To his love, to his desires, and ultimately, to that kiss.