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1.
The first time it happened, Gusion was pretty sure it was an effect of falling at least a hundred feet from the sky.
Which, in his defense, wasn’t entirely his fault. Mostly.
He remembered the fight: the flash of blades, the burst of mana too strong for the barrier to hold, the moment he realized, oh, that explosion’s way too close. Then there was a blur of light before the ground decided to introduce itself to his ribs.
The rest was static.
When awareness crawled back, it did so slowly, like wading through molasses. Everything was muffled: faint voices, hurried footsteps, and the distinct, sterile scent of antiseptic and blood. He could feel the scratch of a blanket against his arm, the ache down his spine, the subtle throb behind his eyes.
And through it all, a voice.
“Idiot.”
He almost smiled, which was stupid because he could barely move his face.
Of course it was him. Hayabusa’s tone carried that rare kind of exasperation only reserved for Gusion. There was shuffling, the sound of someone lowering themselves into a seat, and then a sigh.
“You should have waited for me ,” Hayabusa said quietly. “That was reckless.”
Reckless. Gusion wanted to laugh. He tried to move, but his body was too heavy, his throat too dry. So he just listened, floating somewhere between consciousness and that strange, half awake haze.
Hayabusa went on, “You always do that. Charge first. Think later. Like you’re untouchable.”
Gusion wanted to roll his eyes. I am untouchable, he wanted to say.
A pause followed. Then another sigh, softer this time.
When Hayabusa spoke again, the words came quieter. So quiet that if Gusion had been any less stubborn, he would’ve missed them completely.
“I love you, idiot.”
There was a faint rustle. Hayabusa shifted, maybe running a hand over his face, and then, almost as if to erase what he’d just said:
“Wake up soon.”
Gusion’s heart did something traitorous. He wasn’t sure if it skipped, tripped, or outright crashed into a wall, but the damage was done.
So instead, he lay there, half dead, fully stunned and thought, very faintly:
No way. I actually hit my head too hard this time.
Then everything went dark again.
2.
The second time it happened, Gusion really wasn’t unconscious.
He was just on the verge of falling asleep because apparently, nearly dying again was exhausting work.
The battle had been a blur: explosions, chaos, far too many enemies for one squad to handle. And yet somehow, through his adrenaline alone, he’d survived. Barely. The backup that was supposed to arrive in ten minutes had taken nearly an hour, and by the time they showed up, Gusion had already carved a path through the enemy line, burned through all his mana, and possibly his will to live.
Now, with the war zone finally quiet, he sat slumped under a tree at the edge of the field, staring at the orange sky bleeding into dusk. His hands trembled faintly. He ignored that. His eyelids were heavy. He ignored that too.
Damn, he thought to himself. I really need a nap.
So he leaned back.
One second, he decided to close his eyes.
The next, he was being lifted off the ground.
“…what the-“
His brain lagged. Limbs sluggish, senses muddled, he blinked up just enough to see a blur of dark fabric and familiar black hair.
Oh.
Of course.
Hayabusa.
Because who else would show up at the exact moment Gusion finally sat down to die sleep under a tree?
He stirred weakly, trying to gather enough strength to at least say something, maybe something coherent like “put me down, asshole,” but the words came out in a soft, unintelligible groan.
Hayabusa shifted his grip. The motion was fluid, careful, too careful.
“Don’t struggle,” he said. “You’ll injure yourself further.”
Gusion wanted to protest, to say he was fine (he wasn’t), to point out that being carried bridal style through the aftermath of a battlefield was humiliating (it was). But all that came out was something between a sigh and a mumbled ‘whatever.’
Hayabusa’s response was a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh but softer.
Then, a whisper. Close enough for Gusion to feel the warmth of it against his temple.
“You’re tired. Close your eyes.”
And maybe it was the way his voice gentled, or maybe it was the sheer exhaustion finally catching up, but Gusion obeyed before he could stop himself.
The world tilted. The sounds of the forest dulled. And just before sleep took him completely, he heard it again. Quiet, steady, achingly sincere:
“I love you.”
Yeah. Gusion was tired.
He’d internally scream about it later, and probably pretend that he didn’t hear it.
But for now,
he let himself rest.
3.
The third time it happened, Gusion wasn’t dying.
He was drunk.
Which, in his opinion, was worse.
He sat slouched over a tavern table, one arm dangling off the edge, the other wrapped protectively around a glass that had long since stopped being full. His head was pleasantly heavy, the world slightly tilted. It was weird, but he didn’t hate it.
Until a voice cut through the din.
“You’ve had enough.”
Gusion squinted up. “Says who?”
Hayabusa stood over him. He looked far too sober for this environment. Far too Hayabusa.
Gusion grinned. “Relax, ninja. I’m celebrating survival. You should try it sometime.”
“By destroying your liver?”
“Exactly.” He raised his empty glass like a toast, missed his own joke halfway through, and leaned back instead. “Don’t worry. It’ll take more than alcohol poisoning to get rid of me.”
Hayabusa sighed. “You’re already at your limit.”
“Yeah,” Gusion said, soft but not from drink. “Been there for a while now.”
Something flickered in Hayabusa’s eyes. He stepped closer,“You should rest.”
Gusion’s laugh came out quiet. “If I rest, I’ll think.”
“Then don’t think.”
Gusion blinked up at him, and for a moment, the tavern noise melted away. The lights, the warmth, the noise all fading until it was just the two of them.
“…You’re really bad at comforting people, you know that?”
Hayabusa didn’t answer. He just reached over, gently pried the glass from Gusion’s fingers, and set it aside. His hand lingered a second too long on Gusion’s wrist.
“Go to sleep, Gusion.”
Gusion smirked. “Bossy.”
“Drunk.”
“Touché.”
Hayabusa started to move away, but Gusion caught his sleeve; clumsy, desperate, unthinking.
“Hey,” he muttered. “You’re too nice for your own good.”
“Nice… is a word not often used for me.” Hayabusa said.
“Yeah, you are nice. You just don’t notice it.” Gusion’s words were slurred, but the tone wasn’t. His gaze softened, eyes half lidded, unfocused but honest in that way only the half drunk ever are. “Don’t- don’t look at me like that. I might start thinking you actually care.”
Hayabusa went still.
“I do,” he said quietly.
It was soft. Simple. So painfully sincere that even Gusion, half swaying between laughter and sleep, couldn’t deflect it.
He blinked up at him, the beginnings of a grin dying somewhere on his lips. “…Huh.”
Hayabusa shifted his weight, almost awkwardly. “Sleep it off.”
Gusion hummed faintly, his hand slipping from Hayabusa’s sleeve. “You first,” he murmured, voice fading into something between a chuckle and a sigh.
By the time Hayabusa glanced back, he was already drifting to sleep, head buried in his arms, a faint smile ghosting across his lips.
It didn’t stop Hayabusa from whispering, too quiet for anyone but Gusion to hear—
“I love you.”
4.
The fourth time it happened, Gusion wasn’t asleep.
He wasn’t even close.
He just… pretended to be.
Because, based on experience and statistically speaking, people say the wildest things when they think you’re unconscious. And Gusion Paxley was many things, but above all else, he was curious.
It already happened three times, three of which the possibility of him imagining it was close to eighty percent because he was either dying or drunk.
So he did what any self respecting, emotionally repressed, possibly-in-love-with-a-ninja intellectual would do. He faked sleep.
It wasn’t even a convincing act at first. He had to force his breathing to slow, angle his head just right, and try not to flinch when Hayabusa shifted beside the cot. The faint rustle of fabric, the click of a blade being set down, then-
“…Gusion?”
Ridiculous how much damage hearing his own name can do to him.
Gusion stayed still. Committed to the bit.
Hayabusa didn’t move much. Just… sat beside him, quiet as always. The sound of a page turning broke the silence, then the faint brush of fabric as he shifted, settling more comfortably. Of course Hayabusa would read after coming back from a life or death mission.
Another page turned.
Gusion counted the seconds between them, forcing his chest to rise evenly. He was going to break character if this went on too long—
And then, in the same unbothered tone one might use to comment on the weather, Hayabusa said,
“I love you.”
Flip. Another page.
That was it. No dramatic pause, no sigh, no tragic weight behind it. Just I love you, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Gusion’s mind blanked. His entire nervous system short-circuited.
He could feel his pulse thrumming in his neck, his jaw, his fingertips. His body screaming react, but his brain going don’t you dare.
Hayabusa turned another page, completely oblivious to the emotional war he’d just started.
And Gusion—who had once fought the abyss, demons, and even his very own family—was currently losing to one calm, three word sentence.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to sit up and say you can’t just say that while reading about meditation techniques, you menace.
But he didn’t.
He stayed still, eyes shut, and let his chest rise and fall like none of this was happening.
Hayabusa turned another page. Hummed softly.
And somewhere between the steady rhythm of turning pages and that quiet hum, the tension drained from Gusion’s body. His shoulders loosened. His breathing evened out for real this time.
The comfort of it— of him —pulled him under before he could fight it.
Gusion fell asleep to the sound of Hayabusa reading beside him.
And when Hayabusa glanced over a while later, the faintest smile tugged at his lips.
“Finally,” he murmured, turning another page.
+1
The first time it wasn’t Hayabusa saying it, he was the one unconscious.
Figures.
Gusion sat by the infirmary bed, elbows on his knees, watching the steady rise and fall of Hayabusa’s chest.
It was supposed to be a simple mission. Simple, of course, being the kind of word Hayabusa threw around before ending up with half his side torn open.
Gusion exhaled through his nose. “Idiot.”
The word came out softer than he wanted. It sounded almost fond. Gross.
He leaned back in the chair, fingers drumming against the armrest, eyes never leaving him. Hayabusa looked annoyingly peaceful for someone who’d scared ten years off Gusion’s life.
“You know,” Gusion muttered, “if you were awake right now, you’d probably tell me something stupid like ‘you worry too much.’”
No answer. Of course.
Gusion’s hand found the edge of the blanket without meaning to. Adjusted it. Smoothed it down.
He sighed again, head tilting to the side, studying that stupidly calm face. The one that always looked like it was made for solitude. The one that always, somehow, found him anyway.
“…You’re impossible,” he murmured.
He waited another beat. Two.
Then quietly, almost to himself—
“I love you, you absolute menace.”
And how true it was.
Gusion moved to sink back in his chair and only then did a hand wrap around his wrist.
“I love you too.”
Gusion looked down But Hayabusa had already closed his eyes again, hand slipping free as the faintest, smallest smile ghosted his lips.
Gusion stood there, wrist still warm where Hayabusa touched him, ears burning hotter than any healing spell could fix.
“…I hate you,” he whispered, because it was the only thing he could say.
But the tremor in his voice made it sound a lot like love.