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There are days that I wake up and there is nothing but love.
It overspills from me before I’ve even thought about it – clings to me, surprises me when I suddenly find myself tolerant of the craziest things. Biting back my sharpest insults.
He knows this, of course. He meets my eye over a morning cup of tea and a too quickly inhaled bowl of rice with that little smile. The one he always gives me when I’m being too soft, too stupid. Part of me wants to smack it off his ridiculous face and part of me wants to kiss him until I forget I’m even capable of such thoughts.
He always ruins the moment by opening his big mouth and then I do forget, too distracted by trying to cram my fist affectionately down his throat.
He will laugh and retaliate – probably with jabs and attempted punches that won’t land. Also distracted. Never tells me why, just has a bright red face when I pin him to the floor and threaten to strangle it out of him.
These are the mornings when I am only thinking about a tangled mess of blue hair and how much shit I’ll let him get away with.
I’m just beginning to entertain the idea of dragging him away and kissing him when a furious commotion echoes across the crowded room. I can feel my nose wrinkling in disgust; it’s far too early for such bullshit.
It’s Anna, as usual. She’s shouting something pointedly at Yoh and Manta, finger wagging. It’s pathetic really, watching those two saps hunch over and accept their penance. But it tells me it’s time to go and I only need to glance across briefly to meet a flash of blue that’s already up, already leading the way. And it soothes the bristling in my chest immediately, because I’m soft and overflowing with all these stupid, delicate feelings and I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to follow the clean lines of those shoulders, didn’t want that strength by my side.
I don’t know where we’re going today, but I don’t want to be cramped up inside.
The air outside is cool and damp, clings to my sleeve and drops a shiver down my spine. I can feel a too sharp exhale leave my chest. This isn’t a battlefield. It isn’t a dreary mist hiding the whispers of the undead amongst bloodied mountains. It isn’t. But the prickle of it is in the back of my head, creeping forward like a frozen, half severed hand—
A shoulder shoves into mine. Gently. Insistently.
He is already speaking utter nonsense with another lopsided smile and I know there must be something soft fluttering about in my scowling face somewhere. He doesn’t ask what I was thinking about. He just teases, brushes his fingertips against mine and practically drags my arm out of its socket.
He wants to go to the cemetery. Wants to check out those wailing ghost bride rumours Manta was having an absolute fit about the other night.
Obviously, he is an utter moron – if you’re trying to hunt out a ghost it’s far more prudent to be in a cemetery at night. How is he this stupid? But I keep my mouth shut because he’s practically quivering with excitement, a big, fat stupid grin plastered across his face, rubbing his nose the way he always does when it’s something dangerous like this. God, he’s adorable—
…Well, I suppose I should tag along. Make sure he doesn’t get himself killed. That would be a headache I don’t need. Maybe he’d make my chest flutter like this as an idiotic ghost too, but I’m loathe to find out.
I do put my foot down when his morning ghost hunt is as unsuccessful as I predicted and he insists on that ramen shop for lunch. It’s his absolute favourite. Of course it is. He’s told everyone that a thousand times and I’m starting to think he actually wants me to punch him the way I threaten to every time he says it again.
We argue unsuccessfully. I am disgustingly soft today.
It’s at least a thirty minute walk and though I’ve barely broken a sweat I still find a few pointed remarks about how far he is dragging me out for terrible, soggy noodles and overcooked eggs. But I’ve already lost this battle and he throws back mocking words to remind me I’m still following - that I’ve brought this awful experience on myself.
He orders before I can protest and beams when the server knows his order by heart. God, of course he’s here that often. I drop my gaze and pretend to sulk while he slurps offensively loud across from me.
It’s the sudden giggling that catches my attention.
A family sat a few tables over. Kid’s maybe four, five? He hasn’t quite mastered chopsticks yet and the broth splashes, messily, over him as he pinches at udon noodles. His parents don’t mind the mess – dad even ruffles his hair a little.
The kid giggles louder, happily when he finally traps a noodle, slurping it up. Mama claps her hands, laughing.
Something about the innocence of those giggles slips down my throat along with a slurp of broth, a heavy weight in my stomach. I swallow another mouthful but it’s still there, that longing ache. No blood. No screams. Just laughter and acceptance.
I look away. Pick a fight about the ramen instead. Something about the egg being overcooked. He rolls his eyes like he always does and launches into some absurd defence of broth as a spiritual experience.
He knows though. Of course he does. When he thinks I’m not looking his eyes flick briefly over to the table – the kid has managed to grab two noodles now.
His gaze shifts when he looks back at me, face briefly a little quiet. Then he jabs me in the nose and calls me a stubborn bastard who doesn’t have the taste buds for the miracle of tonkotsu broth.
We’re still arguing by the time the sky starts to dip pink around the edges. Not about noodles anymore - now it’s whether or not chimimoryo count as ‘real’ threats. He insists they do. I insist he’s an idiot.
Somehow this becomes a debate about whether ghosts can be fashionable, which then becomes a claim that I would make a terrible ghost because I’m too petty to move on.
“You’d haunt people just to critique their outfits as terrible.”
“At least I’d be right.”
He laughs too loud and bumps my shoulder again, and I don’t tell him that I like it when he does that. I grab his wrist in retaliation, enjoying the way he stumbles, breathless, against my side. He is close enough that I can feel the warmth of him sinking into me and it’s not nearly enough.
The sun is bleeding orange by the time we enter the hum and bustle of the onsen and I don’t even remember how we got here, only that I’ve been smiling the whole damn time.
How is it this loud in here? Ryu is shouting from the kitchen, steam on the windows, the smell of grilling fish in the air. Chocolove is actually on the table and saying something about donkeys and asses that makes zero sense, but Lyserg is laughing anyway. A slap rings out – Anna backhanding Yoh and hurling something in his direction, a teacup?
He slips past me, already moving into the chaos. He’s such a natural at this - taps Ryu on the shoulder, steals a bite of fish. Tosses a pilfered mochi to Chocolove, tells him: “You’re the ass, asshole.”
I take longer. I always do. I stand in the genkan and pretend I’m waiting for a better moment to come in. Really, I just like watching him.
Obviously, he’s laughing like a maniac. Retrieves Anna’s teacup and refills it, offers it to her with an exaggerated bow. A fleck of hastily devoured fish clings to his jaw and he scrubs at it with his sleeve when Lyserg points it out. His chin is pink, he’s flushed and grinning and fuck what did I ever do to deserve this wonderful person in my life?
He catches me looking. Throws me that smile again and I know, I know. If I get any softer I’ll be boneless, jelly on the floor.
The place is finally quiet by the time I drag myself up to bed.
He is already curled under the futon, facing away from me. I think he’s asleep until I slip in beside him and he instantly grabs my hand, tugging me in, squeezing softly. I finally get to bury my face into a messy blue nest, breathing in the scent of him faintly overlaid by a hint of shampoo.
He’s already tangled our legs, pressing his back in tightly. He is warm and solid and he is mine.
I fall asleep, like I do every night with him, listening to the quiet hum of his chest rising and falling.
I try not to think too hard about how safe I feel, cuddled into him.
Something else curls itself around my hands.
Noodles. Thick, chewy ones.
I reach out, try to take hold, but I can’t grasp them, snakes slipping through my fingers. They are endless, coiling. Wrong.
The noodles wrap around my wrists, snap my arms taut, the familiar ache stabbing though my shoulders. The rattle of old, rusty chains slick with blood surrounds me, chest burning with a deep, visceral terror.
This is my punishment. I am a fucking monster and I deserve this.
You are weak. Unworthy. A disappointment.
God yes, I know. I know.
I bite my tongue at the first lash, blood rising hot in my mouth. I won’t show weakness. I won’t be broken.
This is not love. I am a scared child and I do not know love, only the quiet, aching loneliness left in its absence.
You need to be stronger. Ruthless. Crush our enemies.
The second lash drags the air from my lungs – but it takes a long moment to realise the darkness around me isn’t a dungeon that never sees the light of day.
I am sat bolt upright in bed. Trembling. Whimpering. Cold sweat on my brow.
A familiar warmth seeps into my shoulder and I shove him away. I hate it when he sees me like this, cracked wide open, a gaping chasm of hate and spilled blood.
He curls in next to me anyway. His hand lands soft on my shoulder again and I flinch, ashamed, but I don’t push him away this time. I hate that it’s kindness. I hate that it helps. I’m disgusting like this. Weak. Shaking like a child and letting him hold me anyway.
He waits until my chest stops shuddering and I can mutter something that isn’t a choked noise of desperation. Then he drapes his arm fully around me and suddenly I am exhausted from fighting my demons, a weariness that drags deep in my bones.
I don’t protest when I slip back under the surface, curled against his chest.
He holds me tightly all through the night. Until the morning light breaks through.
Then he kisses me softly, a morning hush clinging to us as we lie a tangle of limbs and sheets and I know I do not deserve this gentleness. This patience. I don’t understand how he can stand to look at such a pathetic mess and not walk away in disgust.
Just because I am in the shape of a person, does not mean that I am one.
Irritation prickles under my skin this morning, carries itself in every harsh word, each sharp movement. The room is a chaotic blur - sound bites of affection, laughter, the ease of people who belong. It rubs grit into every raw, open wound I’m carrying.
He can read this in me too, of course. He meets my eye over a steadily eaten bowl of rice, a seriousness clinging to him like the stubble on his jaw. He hasn’t said a word yet. Not because he doesn’t want to. But because he knows right now I will unsheathe my harshest blows, even for him.
It’s a deliberate silence - he’s smarter than I’ll ever admit to. Part of me is grateful for the anchor in an ocean of screaming banshees, and part of me wants to punch the shit out of his stubborn fucking face for having the absolute fucking nerve to know me that well. How dare he.
A thunk of chopsticks hits the wood. His hand lingers over my knuckles for a few seconds, dark, affectionate eyes meeting mine, and for a brief moment, the storm raging inside me is soothed a little. Then I snatch my hand away and refuse to look at anything except a half-drunk teacup.
Ryu interrupts by crashing into the room, declaring dramatically that there are no eggs left and I throw my empty rice bowl at Ryu’s ridiculous fucking head. The room descends into a foul commotion until I finally declare that I will go get eggs if it will make Ryu shut up.
Of course, I don’t give a shit about Ryu’s complaints. I just need to not be here right now.
I know his brow is already half raised in question, and I shake my head slightly when I turn around again. He doesn’t deserve to be haunted by my demons today.
I don’t look back to see if he is still watching. I know he already is.
The door slides open with a creak when I return a few hours later.
An empty room, as I expected. Good. I creep through and leave the eggs silently on the kitchen counter, grateful that I don’t have to deal with theatrics and demands. I don’t need to explain myself right now. I don’t know how.
I pause in the genkan, something jumping into my throat when I catch sight of his coat. That beautiful deep blue that makes his warm skin look gorgeous. The collar is soft and worn, lived in. Like every genuine smile that crosses his face.
My hand lingers on the collar, fingertips rubbing across a loose thread. I’ve disappeared on him again – fuck, I’m disappearing again now. I didn’t mean to let old wounds bleed out, like they always do. Didn’t intend to shut him out, to vanish without a word.
But it’s still too close to the surface. Still too raw, too dangerous. I can’t—don’t trust myself. I am a selfish, weak bastard, unworthy of his affections and I can’t face him yet. Not until my words are no longer a weapon.
I don’t look for him. I don’t look for anyone. I slip back out into the gloomy afternoon, letting my feet carry me in search of a respite that doesn’t exist.
The path crunches under my feet for a long time, heavy grey clouds dragging across the dark sky. I don’t really have a destination in mind, just somewhere I can try and forget about everything stirring inside me.
I trace the cemetery paths we plodded along yesterday, but I am the only ghost haunting these gravestones now. Stone and marble are cold under my palm, a phantom sting of steel chains digging into my wrists. I know there’s nothing there – my fingers brush against warm flesh and a rapid pulse, but the memory of it cuts down to the bone.
I end up wasting time kicking pebbles by the river bank, sulking on the grass, watching laughing school children shout as they follow the winding path. It will take them home. Somewhere warm. Somewhere safe.
I should go home. There is someone safe there for me too.
The scent hits me before the voices do. Soy and octopus and something sweet. My stomach knots a little. Then I hear him - that laugh, clear and bright - and it cuts clean through the noise.
The long table is already crowded, the damp of too many bodies permeating the room. The hum of familiar voices. Chopsticks clacking and pinching. I know there are faces watching, judging. Asking silent questions.
Chocolove tosses out teasing words – something about dragging in cats? I bite back with something equally stupid. An unsettled feeling is already crawling in me, digging deeper. I turn away from Chocolove, let my gaze settle nowhere in particular, just a blur that knows I am truly something grotesque—
And then, his bright blue eyes meet mine.
For a brief moment, the whole world stops.
And I couldn’t tell you if there’s anyone else in the room right now. They aren’t important. Not like he is.
He holds me in a beautiful blue sky and the air I breathe would be bitter without him to share it. If I am as barren as those undead mountains, then he has planted a whole forest deep inside me, growing softly in the places that do not see any light.
He loves; oh he loves. He loves when I cannot love myself.
He’s already next to me, pressing a bowl of rice into my hands, the yolk on top a wobbly, golden sun. I snap something about being perfectly capable of feeding myself, but he has shattered half my defences under a simple look and he knows it. I’m already being dragged across the room, pulled down next to him, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.
It is pointless to resist. He will stare me down until it’s gone and so I let my lingering frustrations whisk a frantic swirl of rice, egg and nori. His knee bumps errantly into mine every time he calls something asinine across the table or stretches over to snatch another takoyaki. I let a scowl feign that it bothers me, shove affectionately at his knee when it drifts into my space.
It only takes a few bites for my body to remind me how hungry I am, but I resist immediately devouring the rest. He might have the manners of a pig but some of us are capable of more than a modicum of self-restraint.
I catch him glancing at me every now and then, a little flash in the corner of my eye. That stupid grin flickers a little, briefly drops into something appreciative as he watches me eat. Something that makes each bite feel warmer than it should, like its settling into places I hadn’t realised were so hollow.
For the first time in this living nightmare of a day, a calm settles over me.
With food comes clarity. I wince a little, and it must show on my face, because he nudges my knee with his own.
“What is it?” he asks without looking, shoulders hunched as he prods at a lone grain of rice.
Apparently, my face is doing a shit job at hiding anything.
“Trying to figure out Anna’s punishment for not fixing the fence today.” I eventually mutter.
A little amused noise escapes him and he lets the chopsticks slip to the table with a clatter. His back becomes a relaxed fluid line as he slumps back, face wide, eyes shimmering with a gentle warmth.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s taken care of.” He says in a voice low enough for only me to hear.
I blink, rapidly.
It’s what?
Oh.
A prickle of guilt twinges through me. I’ve been out licking my wounds, hiding from the world, hiding from him. And he doesn’t even have a word of resentment, nothing beyond pestering me to eat. He’s just been quietly fixing my messes, holding my life together, waiting patiently for me to come back to him.
I look at him properly, let myself smile a little. I wish I knew how to tell him that I do not deserve his kindness. Not that it would stop him. I don’t think anything could. I settle for letting my hand rest on his knee, squeezing softly and he has the biggest, stupidest grin on his face than he’s had all day.
Later, when the meal is over, he finds me again in the tiny utility room, washing dishes. It’s nothing that deserve words, but I do feel a twinge of remorse for throwing a bowl at Ryu’s head this morning. I can still hear the commotion that he has left behind the curtain – happy voices, riotous laughter. He should be with them where he belongs but instead he is here, arms slipping around my waist, the smell of takoyaki still clinging to him, planting soft, gentle kisses along my neck beneath the flicker of an old bulb.
Even now, when I am more monster than man, he doesn’t hesitate. He wraps me in tenderness; fills me with all the love and softness I do not have. He loves, even when I can’t love.
“Are you going to sulk in here all night or can I steal you to bed?” He asks around another delicate kiss.
Stop asking stupid questions and maybe I’ll think about it,” I mutter, already smiling like an idiot.
He waits patiently until I am done and then he simply grabs my hand, drags me back under flapping fabric, through the dark corridors. He doesn’t look back at the crowded, noisy room he’s left behind, only to where he’s taking me to.
He pauses halfway along the upstairs corridor, face suddenly frowning. It is unexpected, and I almost bump straight into him, muttering curses under my breath.
“Do you think there even is a wailing bride ghost? What if was an actual bride who got lost?” He asks with such a seriousness I don’t know if I want to punch him or kiss him.
I settle for rolling my eyes and jabbing him in the shoulder.
“Horohoro? Shut up and kiss me.”
He snorts with laughter, broad hands slipping around my shoulders and then there is nothing else that matters except the warmth of his lips against mine.
When he pulls back, he has that silly little smile on his face again, blue eyes brighter than ever.
Soft.
Stupid.
Loved.