Work Text:
The habit had begun without him noticing.
Kirito couldn’t remember the first time he’d done it — only that, somewhere along the way, his body had learned the distance before his mind ever did.
Half a step.
Never far enough to separate them. Never enough to draw attention. Just enough that if something rushed out of the dark, it would reach him first.
It wasn’t something he decided.
It was something his body remembered.
He told himself it was nothing. Just awareness. Just caution. The kind that kept people alive.
That was what he always told himself.
Even now, walking through the village as evening settled in, his feet moved ahead of Asuna without conscious thought. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, their warm glow spilling across the stone paths and wooden fences. Windows glimmered with soft light, silhouettes passing behind them — ordinary lives unfolding quietly.
Peaceful.
Still strange.
Kirito’s eyes kept moving anyway.
Rooftops. Corners. The bend of the road ahead.
His hand relaxed and tightened at his side in a rhythm he barely noticed. Even safe places carried echoes. Even quiet could turn sharp if he let his guard down too much.
Behind him, he could hear Asuna’s footsteps.
That sound anchored him more than anything else.
Soft, steady — matching his pace even when he didn’t slow. Sometimes, when the night pressed too close, he counted them. Not because he doubted she was there, but because the rhythm grounded him.
Still here.
Still walking.
Still alive.
He hated that those thoughts still surfaced.
There had been a time when he hadn’t needed them.
Once, he’d walked beside her without thinking. Without measuring distance or positioning himself between her and the world. Back then, walking together had felt natural — something easy, something earned.
Before fear had learned her shape.
It had only taken a second.
A flash of motion. A shout swallowed by noise. The chaos of bodies moving too fast in too little space. One moment she’d been in his line of sight — the next, gone.
Just a heartbeat.
Just long enough for his chest to hollow out completely.
He remembered the sound his own name made when he’d yelled it — thin and desperate and wrong. He remembered the way the world had narrowed until there was nothing but the absence where she should have been.
She’d come back almost immediately.
Unhurt. Breathing. Alive.
Everyone had told him it was nothing.
But something inside him had shifted anyway.
After that, his body had begun to move first.
Now it remembered even when he tried not to.
They turned onto a narrower path between two houses, lantern light thinning as shadows stretched longer. Without realizing it, Kirito angled himself slightly farther ahead — shoulder turning, stance adjusting.
Shielding.
It was only when the sound behind him changed that he noticed.
Asuna’s footsteps slowed.
The rhythm broke.
Kirito stopped at once and turned.
“Asuna?”
She stood a few paces back, lantern light catching in her hair. Her expression wasn’t worried or startled — just thoughtful, observant in that way that always made him feel quietly exposed.
“You’re doing it again,” she said.
He blinked. “Doing what?”
Instead of answering, she stepped forward.
Then — deliberately — she took one step past him.
The reaction was instant.
Kirito’s hand shot out before his thoughts could catch up, fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve.
“Asuna—”
She turned, eyes soft rather than surprised.
“See?” she said gently.
His chest tightened painfully.
It startled him how wrong it felt — how every instinct in him recoiled at having her even that small distance ahead. His pulse jumped, his shoulders tensing as though danger had suddenly appeared where none existed.
He hadn’t realized how deeply the habit had rooted itself.
“I didn’t even notice,” he admitted quietly.
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t say anything before.”
She stepped back until they stood beside each other again.
“You’ve been doing it for a while now,” she continued. “Not always. Mostly when it gets dark.”
Kirito looked away.
The lantern light felt too bright all of a sudden.
“It’s not because I don’t trust you,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I know how strong you are. I know you can handle yourself.”
She smiled faintly. “I know that too.”
That was the problem.
She always did.
He exhaled slowly, breath leaving him heavier than he expected. “It just… happens. I don’t think about it.”
They stood there for a moment, night humming quietly around them.
“When I can see you,” he said at last, voice low, “when you’re right there… it’s easier to breathe.”
Asuna didn’t interrupt him.
“There was a moment,” he continued, eyes fixed on the stones beneath their feet, “when I thought I’d lost you. Just for a second. But it felt like everything was starting over again.”
He swallowed.
“I don’t think my body ever forgot that feeling.”
She reached for his hand.
This time, he didn’t hesitate.
Her fingers were warm — solid, familiar. The simple contact eased something tight beneath his ribs.
“You don’t walk ahead because you think I’m weak,” she said softly. “You walk ahead because you’re afraid.”
He nodded once.
“Yes.”
She squeezed his hand — not to dismiss the fear, not to argue with it — but to acknowledge it.
“I get scared too,” she admitted. “But I don’t want you carrying that alone.”
She shifted their joined hands so they rested comfortably between them.
“Protecting each other doesn’t mean one of us always has to stand in front.”
Kirito looked at her.
“Sometimes,” she said with a small, steady smile, “it just means standing together.”
She took a step.
Not forward.
Not back.
Beside him.
Their shoulders brushed.
The tension in his chest eased — not all at once, but gradually, like his body was finally learning a new memory to replace the old one.
He adjusted his pace without thinking.
Their steps aligned.
They continued down the path together, lantern light stretching ahead of them. Kirito still watched the shadows — he suspected that part of him might never disappear entirely — but now, every so often, he glanced sideways instead of forward.
Asuna was there.
Warm. Steady. Unmoving.
And for the first time in a long while, half a step ahead no longer felt necessary.
Because when she walked beside him, the world felt survivable again.