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syrupyuu · 22 days ago

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— 𝐀 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐘.

ft. m! yandere! monster hunter × gn! shapeshifter! reader

word count: 16.7k || tags: semi-slowburn, murder, descriptions of gore, reader is briefly decapitated for plot progression. it's mostly wholesome until the ending. partially unedited by time of posting.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊, unspoken ones. Learn fast, or leave your guts in the dirt. Watch the wind. Never name what you can't kill. And above all—never trust the partners they assign you.

Kazu had to learn that last one early.

He'd buried too many half-eaten corpses to believe in coincidence. Most died because they didn't listen—blindly thinking they were apex by default simply for being born human—only to die at the maws of the very monsters they sought to outsmart. He had survived this long because he knew better.

No noise was ever just wind. No body was ever just a body. No "lost traveller" ever truly wandered into black pine territory.

And monsters? Not all monsters were disfigured, snarled and bore fangs—no. Some wore faces that smiled too much, spoke sweetly, laughed and chattered with townsfolk like they'd never eaten raw meat by the handful.

That was why he worked alone, or as close to alone as the Guild allowed. He didn't like watching people die, and he liked trusting them even less. Babysitting rookies was the worst kind of assignment—ink-hands in the Guild always threw him one when they'd run out of uses for their wet-behind-the-ears recruits.

'Toughen 'em up,' they'd say. 'if they make it a week under you, we'll know if they're worth keeping.'

But they never make it a week.

So when he got the dispatch with the latest name—no face, just initials and a curt write-up, like the Guild didn't even believe their own pick—Kazu had already written them off. Some no-name wannabe with a polished sigil and a blade, probably. Here to ask too many questions and fall behind when things get bad.

Maybe he’d play along, entertain them for a day or two, let them believe they were doing the work while he cleaned up the mess behind them—then snap the illusion and scare them off before another rookie's name is crossed off the list.

That was the reality of it. He wasn’t brought in for company—he was called when things had already gone to hell. He was what they sent when there was no one left to evacuate, when the town militia was found strung up like scarecrows, when they didn’t care what did it—only that it stopped, and when failure wasn't an option because someone else had already failed.

He never asked for thanks or waited for gratitude, neither did he want it—not from the Guild or survivors, not from anyone still breathing after dawn.

All he wanted were clean kills, silence, and solitude. That was all for the best.

It was a good run, right up until they handed him you.

When he finally meets you—his assigned rookie—you were waiting for him barely past the treeline, sitting squat against the bark like you had nowhere else to be, eyes so dazed you looked like a lost child—as if you weren't in one of the oldest kill zones this side of the ridge.

For some reason, he got the feeling you'd been here, waiting for him all morning. He'd never admit it, but that thought alone sat bitter in his sternum.

And maybe that was the thing that irritated him—the fact that you didn't look like anything. You didn't carry yourself like a person trying to impress, someone arrogant enough to think they could keep up, or a coward scared out of their mind. Just... neutral. Boring. Calm. The Guild had sent him warm bodies before, all nerves and overeager chatter, but this? You didn't say anything as he approached, only watched him like you were waiting for him to speak first.

He didn't. Yet.

Instead, he took one long look at you and committed everything to detail. Your clothes were Guild-issued but too soiled and dirty to be new. Pack was light. Your boots clearly hadn't seen enough mud, and the weapon hung over your back was sharp but discolored—old, but it hadn't been used for any real work.

That was enough to convince him you weren't a normal rookie, at least not in the typical sense.

"...You're quiet." he says at last, low and flat.

The words leave him without much thought, more observation than accusation, but the moment they do—your head tilted slightly, pupils dilating in the process. Not wide-eyed with fear, or to size him up. You were just watching—curious and placid, but a little too still.

You blink once. Then—like you just realize you forgot to reply, "Oh. Should I not be?"

The sound of your voice startled him more than he'd like to admit—not because it was too loud or harsh, but because it was gentle. Wrong. Gentle never belonged in places like this. Not the kind of gentle that cut through hush like a ripple on a stagnant pond. It was a tone better suited for lullabies and nursery tales, never an occupation where recruits die on the daily, oftentimes without carcass to be spared.

For a split second, he wondered if you could be a mimic. He had seen mimics before, beautiful flesh stitched ones that could copy a human's laugh to the breath hitch. They always got the eyes wrong, though—too lifeless and wild, more reminiscent of animal than man—that was always the tell-tale sign, but those eyes of yours...

They gleamed, like maybe you were just happy to be here.

"I read the handbook," you add quickly, as if that might help. "It said not to speak to superiors unless necessary. That is necessary now, right? Since you asked?"

He stared at you.

You stared back, earnestly—but all that he could think was:

What the hell were you?

He didn’t draw his blade. Not yet. But the weight of it suddenly made itself known against his palm, as if it, too, felt the pressure shift. He didn’t trust instincts blindly, but he didn’t ignore them either—not when they hissed like that, low and certain. There was something off about you, something he couldn’t name outright.

You don't smell of danger the usual way—no sweat, no iron, no nothing. You smelled neutral, neutral in a way nothing in the wild ever was—and even if you were human(which he highly doubt), not even the most hygienic of people could ever bore a scent so... devoid.

And yet, you still smiled at him—softly, without guile. Not the grin of someone winning a game, nor the brittle stretch of a liar. None of that—only warmth, like the simple act of standing across from him in the forest had made your whole week.

"You're Kazu, aren't you? I'm assuming you are." you continue to speak, rocking slightly on your heels and ignorantly unaware of his inner turmoil. "You're way taller than I thought. I mean—not in a bad way! Just. Surprising.” there was no fear in your words, no performance, only open wonder.

He holds his breath for a moment, then lets it out in a thin stream.

"You're not what I expected, either." He says finally—his tone is even, but the statement carried an edge, and he knew it. He meant for it to land that way—a warning. A subtle flag in the earth between you.

You didn't say anything at first, only tilted your head with such an innocent precision it dragged his gut into a knot. "Is that bad?" you ask, "Should I change?"

The question should've been benign, maybe even self-deprecating. Yet the way you asked it—flatly, plainly, like you meant it—sent a subtle chill crawling up the back of his neck. His mind caught on the phrasing.

Before he could stop himself, he muttered, "...What?"

You perk up like a child caught misbehaving, "Sorry!" you say bashfully, waving your hands as though that could brush away the building tension you yourself weren't aware of, "I just thought—you know, maybe I said something wrong, so I could try again?"

You go still for a moment, brows pinching into a tight, thoughtful crease. The change was quick and exaggerated, like watching an amateur actor flick through expressions in a scripted play.

"...If you didn't like my first sentence, I can say it a different way—or in a different tone—or I could even say something else entirely. People usually like jokes first, or compliments—or for hunters—questions about their gear, don't they? Is there a… protocol for this?”

You looked so genuinely curious, face drawn into a serious, almost scholarly concentration, as though the social dynamic of monster hunters was a puzzle to pick apart instead of a living environment. Kazu didn't move. Not forward, nor backward. All he knew to do was watch.

The problem wasn't what you said.

It was how you said it.

This wasn't the oddball rookie trying to prove themselves with overcompensation, or the wide-eyed cadet chattering to fill the space fear usually occupied. It wasn’t that he sensed danger. If anything, that would’ve been easier. This—you—were something else entirely, something fundamentally flawed. You weren't wrong in the traditional sense. You smiled sweetly, your face expressive, but you were... misaligned, like a doll with it's joints screwed backwards. A creature wearing a person's corpse.

And so, without missing a beat, you stepped a little closer. Not enough to be threatening or to trigger a response, but just enough to maybe suggest you didn't quite understand the concept of boundaries.

Then—quietly, like you were admitting to a secret: "I memorized your file." you say, softer now. "..well, what little I could of it. It seems like the Guild doesn't like to share, but they always forget to wipe the backlogs in the archive building." you smile—not conspiratorial, not smug—just pleased with yourself, as if you didn't just admitted to an espionage. "I wanted to be prepared. You've been out here so long, so I thought maybe if I studied enough, you wouldn't think I was useless. Or..." your voice trails off, "..disposable."

He stared at you then, longer than before. Not because he was impressed or because he was moved—but because that word, "disposable", had fallen off your tongue too naturally, with what felt like too much practiced familiarity. It had the same weightless uncertainty, as when a child parrots a word they've heard adults say—only because no one told them not to.

It wasn't pity or concern he felt. No, what stirred in his chest was far from that. Sharper. It was instinct, again—the kind that had kept him alive this long. Something about the way you stood there, proud of the stolen information, easy to be judged, made every hair on his neck want to rise, just barely. You shouldn’t know how to get into Guild archives. You shouldn’t speak of things like that so casually. You shouldn’t be smiling at him like this was a first date of all things.

And yet, you are, eyes wide and waiting, posture open like you didn't fear what he might say. Like you were expecting approval, even.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is dull. Dry. More baffled than accusatory.

"...You're really serious, huh."

It wasn’t a question so much as a quiet, stunned declaration from his side.

For the first time since stepping into the clearing, something inside him shifted. He thought he'd seen it all before: puffed-up swaggers of overconfidence, quiet trembles of fear, the forced calm of rookies too green to realize their bravado was transparent—but you? You weren't faking it. You weren't putting on a show. There was no angle nor bluff to call. You didn't even try winning over. You were sincere, maybe even thrilled to be here.

About him.

About the job.

About being out here—in this forest—like it's some storybook adventure instead of the death sentence it really is.

"Is that a bad thing?" you ask, after a heartbeat of silence.

Kazu doesn't answer immediately. The wind rustles the trees in long, slow breaths above you both, carrying with it the kind of hush that usually warned of something watching. Only- something about you made the familiar forest suddenly feel foreign.

He'd met monsters in his time, had burned things that mimicked wailing infants, hacked apart forms that flickered between man and beast mid-scream. He knew what danger looked like—how it moved, how it breathed and spoke—but you unsettled him in a way nothing else ever had. Not because of how you looked, but rather, because of how carefully you did. Every motion, every word, every tilt of your head came with a precision that felt practiced. It wasn't wrong, exactly—just.. off-mark enough to make him feel like the one under scrutiny, and not the other way around.

You stood there, as you continue to wait for his answer like it actually mattered—your posture relaxed, hands open at your sides, chin tilted up slightly like the breeze was something to savor and not a prelude to something worse. You were smiling again, that strange gentle thing that wasn't quite strained or forced. It sat on your face like it belonged there—that's what unsettles him most.

"No," he says finally, after too long a pause. "it's not bad. It's just... rare."

You seemed to consider that, mouth parting, slightly, brows lifting like you were trying to make sense of something that didn't compute, instead of just listening. "But rare is good, right?" you ask, hopeful.

He watches you, the edges of his mouth threatening something that might've been a frown, or a grimace. In truth, he doesn't know why he's still standing here—still talking and listening to you. Usually by now, he'd cut the conversation short, laid out the bare essentials and set the pace without looking back.

Not to abandon—never that—but to keep things efficient, clean. Detached. The less rookies relied on him, the longer they might last.

But you aren't a normal rookie—it should be a question if you're human at all—and you aren't asking for help, you're just... waiting, watching, and for reasons he couldn't explain, Kazu stayed.

He should’ve left you already.

Should’ve walked away, put distance between you before anything could escalate—but instead, he asks—against his better judgment, before tension sank its claws in deep: “Why are you here?”

The question catches you mid-thought—not enough to rattle you, but enough to give you pause. Then, as if it had been waiting on your tongue all along, you say softly, ‘Because I wanted to be.’

All that did was make his jaw tighten. He almost laughed—wanted to, maybe. Like it was ever that simple. Like this job hadn’t taken better hunters for less.

"No one wants to be here," he says flatly, a little harsher than intended.

You only look at him, unblinking. "That's not true. You're here."

"That's different."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to be." he snaps, turning his back to you. "I'm needed here."

The woods swallowed his words as soon as they left him. He started walking soon after. The underbrush gave away beneath his boots with practiced quiet, and he half-hoped you wouldn't follow,

But you did.

Your footsteps were too light—too agile and exact. No rookie should move like that, unless they'd trained far longer than their records implied—or weren't a rookie at all. When he glanced back, you were still there, eyes wide, feet following in the sunken patches left by his, copying his gait like a duckling after its mother.

'Memorized his file'.

That thought stuck to the inside of his skull like rot. There were only three people still breathing who even had access to those backlogs—and none of them were rookies.

"I know I'm not what you expected," you say after a moment, your voice just behind his shoulder, "but I can learn, fast. I'm not strong or experienced yet, but I'm good at listening. I won't get in your way."

Kazu doesn't answer.

The wind picks up again, rattling through black pines in an uneven rhythm. A murder of crows shriek overhead and vanish eastward. He stops and waits, if only to observe. No movements between the trunks, no scent on the breeze—it's still too quiet, though.

And still you stood there, unbothered, still watching him with a face lacking of any fear or caution.

"I don't care about glory," you add, almost absentmindedly. "or the promotions, or the Guild. Not really. I just want to be there—live life to its fullest. What better way for that than this?"

He turns then, just slightly—enough to look at you again.

Your expression didn’t change. If anything, your eyes softened like it was a confession, not a fact. Yet there was no weight to the words, no illusion nor idealization, only... an honest admission, plain and bare.

"Live?" he repeats, in blatant disbelief.

"Yeah," you confirm, the ring of your voice barely above the rustle of leaves. "live."

You don't elaborate. You don't have to. He's a hunter—he's seen enough to know when people say things they don't mean. The way your gaze held his now—steady and sure—like the pain of it was familiar but not resented, he knew that look. Had seen it in survivors clinging to half-scorched homes, orphans clutching talismans over their late parents' cooling bodies. In inns, he'd seen it in mirrors, sometimes, in the silence that settled after grueling missions. That's the look of something that understood living hurt more than dying, yet chose it anyway.

But something about it felt wrong. Not bad, or fake, not exactly—but out of place—reminiscent of when sunlight shone through carbon smoke. There was something about your posture, something about your manner of speaking that screamed not ignorance, but absence; absence of the after-math that follows when world teaches you what it cost to survive, or worse (at least in his opinion)—like it had, but you liked the lesson.

He should've shut you down right then and there—told you living had nothing to do with this job—that survival wasn't the same thing as being alive—only, he didn't. Again, just for a breath, his hand hovered near the hilt—but for some reason, he hesitated, and whatever instinct had flared… dulled. He let it go.

The way you said it—live—like it was the greatest ambition a creature could have. Not glory, or peace, just the raw, senseless choice to keep waking up, keep walking forward, even if the road clawed at your feet.

"You picked the wrong job." he mutters, voice low—not as a warning, but a fact.

You smile anyway—a faint and soft twitch at the corner of your mouth. You agreed, and you knew.

"I know."

It has been a grand seventy-two days since Kazu first met you, and he still can't sleep right.

It's not rare for him to stay up late, near campfire while the moon rises high, sword in reach as he keeps one eye on the forest, and the other on you—sleeping far too soundly for a place like this.

He watches you often, after the fire has burned low and the woods have settled back into their nightly hum—not out of affection, or curiosity, no. He watches you the way he follows blood trails winding from villages into the foliage, the way a herding dog fixes its gaze on a wolf draped in sheepskin, waiting for the moment the disguise falls away.

Except, that moment never comes.

Every night, you lie down without a sound. There's a distinct kind of stillness to the way you sleep—no tossing, no muttering, no restless twitch beneath the weight of slumber. You always lie there, still, breath-slow and arms tucked neatly like a corpse awaiting burial—more statue-like than human, he thinks.

You don’t sleep like normal people do, and yet, for all his suspicion and certainties—he hasn’t done anything about it.

He's had plenty of time, truly. The hunts you've been assigned to aren't easy ones by any means—terrain scorched beyond recognition, pits lined with organic shredded remains, and guideposts mangled into symbols no human hands wwould've ever carved. These past months, you've been witness to what most don't live to describe: a worm that bawled with human lungs, thumb-sized crawlers that picked through corpses for ivory, a small, child-like thing that bled with tar when struck. Despite it all, you never flinched or faltered, and Kazu... he saw everything.

How you don't breathe hard after a chase, don't get hungry at the right time. Some missions, you take wounds that should lay a hunter low, only to shake it off with nothing but a clean, thin wrap around the injured area.

And once—once, you stood with blood trickling from the side of your neck, soaked in someone else's intestines, but for all your wit—the first thing you thought to do was to look at him and ask, 'Did I do good?' like a damn dog waiting for a treat.

He should've run you through then and there—split you from collar to hip and watch to see what came out—but instead, he only nodded gruffly, and told you to clean up. He hated that he did. Why?

Because he knows what you are. He doesn't know your species. No page in the Guild bestiary matches you exactly—too neat, too clean, too weak—but he knows a monster when he sees one. You're one to respond too quickly, speak too evenly, move too smoothly. Real people stutter. Real people get nervous—and yet, here you are, two steps behind him on every trail, asking for instructions, jotting down field notes like a bootlicking tagalong.

And for seventy-two days, he allowed it.

Worse—he's grown used to it.

Somewhere along the line, he started portioning extra rations without thinking, grumbling reminders when you forgot to clean your blade or adjust your grip. He’s begun watching you not out of threat assessment, but out of habit. He knows the tilt of your head when you’re puzzled, the way your eyes squint and wrinkled when you lie. He's seen you laugh and he's seen you panic, usually whenever you trip over your own words and forget what to say next.

And damn him, but it's start to... affect him.

He's begun warning you about the environment before each job, muttering "Stay close." when the forest starts to get too quiet. He yells less when you mess up, and instead just sighs and mutters under his breath like a parent tired of repeating themselves. He watches you bandage wounds wrong and reaches over without a word, fixing it himself, grumbling “Don’t pull it so tight, you’ll lose circulation.”

You shouldn't be under his skin, but here you are—nestled in his routine, engrained in the way he moves now—his pace slower, stride shorter, all so you can match. Every time you forget a task or miss a cue, he finds himself not scolding, but explaining in that gruff, unchanging tone that tries so hard to pass as cold but is far too careful to be cruel.

You've grown on him how moss grows on stone, and just like that—slowly, without his permission—he's started making room for you in the places no one else fit.

That night, you burn the rations, said you wanted to help—so you took the skillet from his hand and waved him off like it was the simplest task in the world. In blatant horror, he watched as you fumble the firewood, watches the flame lick too high, and watches blackened strips of jerky curl into charcoal at the edge of the pan.

You look at him, sheepish. "...Oops."

His eye twitches.

“You absolute idiot.” The words come out with all the dry finality of a death sentence, but there's no real bite to them. Kazu snatches the pan out of your hand and slams it back onto the fire before the next strip of meat becomes another casualty.

You eye the scorched meat with a grimace, nudging a curled blackened strip with the edge of a stick like maybe, maybe, if you prod it enough, it'll look more edible.

"Okay, so, maybe it's a little... crisp." you offer, rubbing the back of your neck in an abashed apology. "-but crispy's a texture, right? Some people like smoky flavors—very smoky—so-"

He stops, and turns to you.

Very, very slowly.

“I like my food not announcing our position to every goddamn thing in a two-mile radius,” he growls, punctuating the sentence by stabbing a forked stick into the blackened heap. “If something with teeth shows up tonight, you’re on bait duty.”

You hold his gaze, too used to the barbs by now to flinch, just standing there with your hands still curled mid-apology, your head slightly lowered in mock defeat—but your eyes light up. You weren't sorry—not really. And worse? Kazu could tell.

“Sorry,” you offer, belatedly. “I'll do better next time."

He scoffs under his breath and turned back to the meat. It's salvageable. Barely.

You sit back across the fire, cross-legged with your chin in your hands, watching him now in the constant quietly devoted way you always did—as though everything he did mattered, as though even his smallest of gestures carried meaning, as though he was your sole anchor in an ever-changing world that kept shifting beneath your feet. You didn't even try to help again. You just kept watching, happy and content, as if this little moment—burnt food and all—was another page you'd commit to memory.

That moment, it hit Kazu in an instant.

He turns his back on you before another word could be said—ears red.

He hates this. Hates that you're worming your way into his habits. Hates that he's memorizing your tells. Hates that he's begun listening for your footsteps when you wander too far out of sight— but more than that, more than anything, he hates that he doesn't hate it.

He doesn't look at you when he sets the salvaged strips of meat on a flat rock to cool, nor when he pushes the least-burnt portion toward your side of the fire and offers a single word, firm: “Eat.” Not an offer—an order, one you obey without question, because of course you do—you always do. That’s half the problem.

You take the food with a small nod and a faint smile, like he’s handed you something like a rare delicacy—never mind that it smells faintly of burnt bark and overcooked sinew. You always look at him like that—like he’s something to be thankful for, something safe and good—that's the one thing that gets his breath stuck in his throat, over and over, because you're not supposed to think that. You’re not supposed to look at him that way, not with that quiet reverence like he’s someone worth being near. It’s not fair.

He's not good.

He's a killer, no different in theory from the very monsters he slays on the daily.

He's murdered people who died shaking, choking on their own tongues in the name of 'mercy', ended the lives of possessed children too far gone to save. He's buried comrades with trembling hands and dug up others just to bring their bones home—because not all monsters swallow whole. The Guild says “no remains recovered”—but most of the time, that just means Kazu was there first, always the quiet end to someone else's failures, cleaning up the mess no other hunter wanted to claim.

And you—whatever you are, whatever you pretend to be—you look at him like none of that matters. You still sit there with singed fingers and soot on your cheek, anyway—chewing through burnt meat with your usual quiet focus, as if eating next to him is something sacred—like he isn’t already building contingency plans in his head for the day he finally has to gut you,

because he knows it's coming.

There's no perfect version of this story where you're just some weird, overeager rookie with too-clean boots and too-perfect manners. The truth is: you aren't normal, no matter how soft your voice is, no matter how flawlessly you imitate the motion of humanity. The seams are too straight, and timings too perfect. Kazu’s spent most of his life watching monsters pretend to be people—watching people become monsters—and the line’s thinner than most would care to admit.

But you? you walk said line like a tightrope, barefoot yet unbothered. It's really only a matter of time before you slip.

Kazu thinks he’ll be ready for that moment—that when it happens, he won’t hesitate—won’t freeze the way he always feared he might if it came to it. He tells himself he’s just playing along, watching from up close to get a better angle. He tells himself that the extra rations, the shared fires, and the too-soft voice he uses with you sometimes—it’s all a tactic, part of the game. He’s humoring you. He’s baiting you.

Except—he isn’t. Not really. Not if he's being honest to himself.

He's letting you get close—has let you get close, for far too long. Somewhere between all the bloodshed and burned dinners, all the eerily silent and strangely peaceful walks through monster-thick woods, you've become his—but not in the romantic sense. He doesn't want to think so. You're not his partner nor his friend.

You're his problem. His burden.

And he can't stop looking for you in the quiet. Can’t stop listening for your steps behind him. Can’t stop the twitch of his fingers toward his sword whenever you stray out of sight. Not because he's cautious you'll strike him, but because he fears something else will.

That's worse, somehow, because it means it's already too late for him.

The thing is: he's killed monsters—beautiful ones—beings that wore the face of lovers, of children, of family. He's done the hard thing—chosen survival over sentiment. It's what he does. It's what he's good at—and yet, when he looks at you, he can't imagine pulling the blade fast enough. He imagines hesitation, a breath too long, a misstep—and he imagines you smiling through it all, asking him how well you did on your last mission together.

He should kill you. He knows that.

But you’re still here, still warm at his side, still tracing patterns into the dirt with your finger while he watches the shadows.

Maybe that's why every night he doesn’t do it—for every night he lets you sit too close, sleep too near—he trades another piece of instinct for something quieter. Heavier.

The ache of almost trust. The dull, sour fear of knowing he's slipping.

The moment lingers, quiet and heavy, only the pop and crackle of the fire filling the silence he doesn’t know how to break. Kazu stares into the embers like they might answer something for him—like the flicker of flame might burn away thoughts clawing too close to the bone. His arms are crossed, legs stretched out but rigid, still plagued by tension he refuses to name.

Then—quietly:

"Why haven't you eaten yet?"

The question breaks the silence gently. There’s no accusation in it, no challenge—just a simple, observant softness that lands somewhere deep. Kazu doesn’t flinch then, but something in him stalls, just a little.

His eyes shift, flickering to you, then away again. He hadn’t realized you were still watching him like that—chin still propped up in your hand, your legs folded close, voice quiet and steady—not teasing, not overly concerned. Just… noticing.

He doesn’t answer right away. There’s no snap, no bark—just a long, slow exhale through his nose like he’s trying to breathe out the weight pressing behind his ribs. Kazu shifts slightly, glancing at the scorched meat still cooling near the fire. His stomach doesn’t grumble. He’s long past the point where it does.

“I’m not hungry,” he murmurs eventually, his voice terse and under-breathed, almost an afterthought.

Regardless, you keep looking at him, not pushing, not prying—just, there. Present in that quiet, uncanny way of yours. “You’ve been up since before the sun, but I don't see you eat enough.” you say, and it’s not meant as a scold—just the simple truth, and spoken like so. You've been paying attention to things he doesn't even bother noticing anymore.

That only makes something in his chest stir—nothing sharp, just tired, and old—like dust being kicked up from a corner of an old antique.

He huffs softly and reaches out, slow and quiet, picking at one of the less-burnt pieces with his fingers. The movement is unhurried and mechanical, like he’s going through the motions just to take his mind off static in his head. He doesn’t look at you when he chews—doesn’t grimace either. It tastes like smoke, like ash, and if he were to be poetic; like the draining feeling of countless days blending into each other—but it's food, and he's still breathing. That alone should be enough.

"I'll eat." he says after a beat, quiet and evenly. "You don't have to worry."

You blink at him, and although your expression doesn’t change much, something in your eyes softens.

"Okay." you smile, nod, and settle back into your spot by the fire. There's no commentary nor satisfaction to follow—just the ever-present serene expression you always wear beside him.

You're not harmless and he knows that, but you're his monster now, and that—somehow—that’s worse than anything else. because not like this does he know what to do with something that belongs to him. He knows how to kill, how to end, to survive, but this—this slow unravelling of trust—this presence beside him that’s too steady, too real, too there—it unsettles him in a way nothing else ever has.

It’s not a trick, neither is it a treat. It’s just you, sitting in the firelight, asking him to eat, looking at him like he genuinely matters. He doesn't dare meet your eyes on nights like these.

Perhaps that's the worst part of it all—that he's beginning to believe you.

Kazu swallows, jaw tightening. Silence settles again, but not quite heavy and cold like before, just present, as if the forest itself is holding its breath for reasons he'll maybe never know.

But he's doomed, and he knows at least that.

He's always been doomed. This is just a new shape of it.

Nearly an hour has passed since the Guild representative signed off your latest report, wax seal pressed crooked against the parchment. Since then, you still haven't let go of it. The paper's folded clean and careful, tucked between your palm like a precious keepsake rather than the bureaucratic obligation it really is. Kazu hasn't asked to see it—but then again, he never does. The confirmation of another slain woodland creature had barely left your lips before he was already shouldering his pack, muttering something about supplies and the road ahead.

But then—just as the trees thinned and a few dozen rooftops began to peek through the dusk, you heard it.

Music.

Soft at first, just beneath the blacksmith's clangor and the chatter of open-air market, so faint it could've easily been mistaken for wind blowing through chimes—but no, the melody held shape. You could hardly make out the sounds of flute and drum blending into each other, and the faint rhythmic call of strings coaxed to laughter. It was coming from town square—weaving its way through footfalls and merchant haggling, calling out to you before you even realized you’d turned your head to follow.

..a festival, or so you assume.

Noisy, bright, colorful lanterns crowding the streets where kids ran wild along stalls packed to the brim with sweets you've never seen before. For a moment, you're stunned, just standing there to watch.

Kazu doesn't stop walking until your footsteps don't follow.

When he turns, he's already a few paces ahead on the trail, boots scuffed against the worn earth and stray pine needles. You're not looking at him. Your gaze is fixed beyond the forest's mouth, where the muddy path slopes down towards the town below. Lanterns flicker and dance in the air like firefly between houses, while the faint echo of people's laughter rises with the breeze. The town is alive, breathtakingly so: music that drifts through the air in uneven bursts, the warm scent of roasted grain and smoke curling up from obscured stalls.

You stand there quietly, as if caught in a trance.

"There's a... celebration." you breathe.

His exhale is already heavy.

"We're not staying."

But you're already turning toward it, drawn to the distant flicker of lanterns like moth to a flame. Your face contorts to something like a mix of curiosity and excitement.

You turn back to him, "Just for a while?" you plea.

"No." he cuts in, dry and decisive.

"Not even just to look?"

The silence you receive isn't disapproval, but it doesn't feel like agreement either. Recently, you've begun to recognize the way he hesitates—how he tends to let silence answer for him, as though he's giving you space to reconsider on your own—but he doesn't ever say no.

So you decide to press, softer this time: "We don't have to go in if you don't want to, just.. closer, if only for some time."

His eyes narrow, words that you don't catch tumbling out in a barely audible mutter meant more for himself than you, before his voice finally sharpens with resolve.

"Ten minutes," he scowls, not quite looking at you anymore. "no more."

Your eyes widen—not with triumph or glee, but a quiet, grateful kind of wonder. You hadn't expected him to give you anything at all. "Ten minutes," you echo, the words barely louder than a whisper. You nod firmly, like memorizing the moment. "Okay," you smile, "ten minutes."

Kazu grunts, the sound lacking its usual weight. He adjusts his pack, shrugs his shoulders as if the leather strap suddenly itched, and begins walking again—not looking back to see if you're following.

Of course you are.

You catch up to him in seconds.

The two of you walk side by side, though not quite together. There’s a few inches of space between your shoulders that neither of you tries to close, but it’s not uncomfortable—only existing. As the forest thins behind you, giving way to the stir of town life, Kazu remains quiet. The scent of fried oil and sweet batter hangs heavy, slowly drowning out the damp, piney breath of the forest behind your backs.

The town sprawls before you both, vibrant garlands hung in uneven lines between posts and wooden ledges, while lanterns flutter in the wind like little captured suns, flickering warm hues of gold and red. Music spills like water from every corner—laughter, rhythm, the clap of drums over the murmur of voices calling out greetings and bartering with stall-keepers.

It's... a lot. Noise, movement, light—too much to co-exist.

Kazu keeps you in his periphery as the crowd thickens. Part of it's instinct—he always watches, always prepares for the worst—but another part of him, the part he doesn't like naming, is watching for your sake; for the twitch of your fingers, the quickening of breath, the signs of overstimulation in a place far too overwhelming for your liking. He knows what this kind of environment does to people like you, or—he thinks he should.

But you don't stiffen. You don't even show a flicker of discomfort.

No, your eyes go wide—yes, but not in alarm. It's wonder. Your steps start to slow, and you're stopping to enjoy the moment instead of shrinking away. Your gaze skims over paper lanterns bobbing in the breeze, catches briefly on a vendor tossing sugar over skewered fruit, lingers longer on a pair of children darting between legs with streamers in tow. You stand at the edge of it all, breathing slow, your face unreadable—until it isn't.

There's an awe to your expression that hadn't been there moments ago.

Kazu's brows twitch subconsciously, and he... falters.

He'd been half-ready to drag you out himself if your hands started to shake, or if your voice suddenly dropped below a whisper—but instead, you're here, breathing even. Not just holding steady, but enjoying it.

Your reaction isn't dramatic. You're not rushing to join the crowd and tumbling over yourself in excitement, but there's a subtle ease in your movements. You're letting down your guard without even realizing. He catches it, and for a second—he too, forgot what he was watching for.

Once, you glance back at him, not sheepishly or questioningly, it felt more to him like you were just checking for his presence—to see if he's still with you.

He is. Why wouldn't he be?

And like countless times before, he doesn't speak. Neither does he reach for you. He keeps close though, pace purposely matching yours like that's always been how it's meant to be.

This.. isn't what he expected when he chose to keep you around, but it doesn't matter. Not like he'll ever stop watching you, anyway.

"..It's loud." you comment, but it's not a complaint—more-so a factual observation, like how the sky is blue or blood is red. There's a quiet kind of awe in your voice, almost innocent—the type of fascination you'd expect from a child's first time at a candy store.

"I think I like it."

Kazu doesn't respond as he moves to stand just slightly ahead of you, blocking the crowd's spills from touching you too directly. He doesn't mean to hover, but it's somewhat become second-nature by now. Old instincts, conditioned by numerous prior ambushes.

Places like these breed carelessness, only fools would assume a crowd means safety. You're not even fully in the square, just somewhere past the outskirts, standing where trees thin into cobblestone—but the air's already too different. Charged, restless joy of people who aren't watching for danger—ironically, it only makes him more cautious.

You're still holding the report in one hand, but it's become an after-thought. You've forgotten it was ever there in the first place.

“Kazu,” you say, after a moment. “does it ever feel like… like you’re only watching people live? I think I get it—the purpose, the patterns—but joining in… I don’t think I’d know how.”

He doesn't answer right away. Your words feel too honest for his usual brand of snide dismissal, too vulnerable for him to ignore; honesty that didn't expect anything in turn.

He huffs eventually, low. "Then don't."

You glance over, and he doesn't meet your gaze.

"Just look. That's enough, isn't it?"

"Yeah," you murmur, surprised by the warmth curling in your chest. "It is."

And somehow, it really is. You stand together in the narrow space between torchlight and shadow, far enough away that no one notices either of you, close enough that you can hear the music rise and fall like waves against stone. He says nothing else, and you don’t offer anything in return. Something about the stillness between you feels fragile, like a thread pulled taut but not yet frayed. You don’t move, neither does he. The world carries on around you and you let it.

Maybe that’s what makes his throat tighten when he glances sideways and sees the firelight catch in your eyes, even here, far from any hearth. For all that you aren't, there's a flicker in your gaze that makes him forget it—makes him wish, dangerously, that you were.

So when a child bolts from the crowd—skewer in hand, feet pounding past without aim—

Kazu doesn't think. His arm shoots out on instinct, hand closing over your shoulder, pulling you in close—too close. As if he could keep that flicker. As if holding you could make the wish real.

Startled, you look at him in surprise.

"Watch where you're standing." he grunts. It comes off more gritty than it needs to—short, clipped, like he's scolding you, though it doesn't land the way he expects. In the end, that's not really what he meant to say.

You blink. Then, without flinching or shifting away, you nod. "Sorry."

You stand there for a breath—no more—just long enough to feel the weight of Kazu’s hand on your shoulder before it slips away, fingers hesitating for a fraction too long before they release. The pressure leaves behind a ghost of warmth, as if some part of him hadn’t meant to let go so quickly, or had only just realized he’d grabbed you at all.

The child’s long gone, vanished into the crowd like a leaf carried by wind, and Kazu doesn't speak again, adjusting the strap of his pack with a sharp tug, like the motion might ground him—something solid and familiar to occupy hands that had moved before he’d thought.

Your gaze flicks back to the festival.

"They're wearing masks." you observe aloud, head tilted just slightly. Sure enough, dancers in painted crane-faces twirl between booths, steps timed with the playful trill of flutes. Their garments are mismatched but vivid—fluttering robes, strings of beads, paper charms trailing from sleeves like falling petals.

He shifts beside you, clears his throat. “...We should go.”

You glance up quickly. “Already?”

His eyes narrow again—not in anger, just a tic. He doesn’t like repeating himself, but when he exhales, it’s softer than before.

“We still have six minutes,” Kazu mutters.

You gape, dumbfounded. "You're counting."

He shrugs, just enough for the strap of his pack to shift. "Someone has to. I said ten, didn't I?"

You breathe out a quiet laugh and take a few steps forward. This time, he doesn’t follow right away, only watches as you approach the edge of the crowd, where a vendor offers candied plums on polished sticks. The smell makes your stomach twitch with unfamiliar interest.

You don't notice when he appears at your side again. He doesn't look at the plums, neither does he comment on the way you squint on the pricing and freeze when you realize you have no money.

He just pulls a coin from his own pouch, tosses it the vendor's way, and walks away.

You accept the sticks automatically, syrup already tacky on your fingers. "Kazu!" you call, hurrying after him before the moment slips away. You're unsure whether to thank him or question what just passed.

...maybe a little bit of both.

He briefly lifts one hand in the air behind him, but you catch the slight stiffness in his movement and the flush creeping up the side of his neck. It's unclear to you if the gesture is meant as a wave or dismissal, and you don't think he knows either.

"...Are you blushing?" you ask, not teasing—just saying it like you're trying to confirm something you didn’t expect to see. Your words hang there, honest and unembellished, and for a moment, the only answer you get is the stiff set of his shoulders as he keeps walking. His pace doesn’t change, but you notice the way his hand drops a little faster than it should, like he's trying to cut off the motion before it gives too much away.

You glance down at the candied plums in your hand, then back at him, lips parting before the words come without much thought. “You didn’t have to buy them, you know.” Again, it’s not an accusation. Not gratitude either—just fact, like you’re still sorting out what to make of it yourself.

“You wanted it,” he replies, brusque as ever, though his tone lacks bite. His eyes flick sideways, almost too fast to catch, as if he’s trying to gauge whether you actually like it, or whether this, somehow, was the wrong call. But you’re already licking a bit of syrup from the corner of your mouth, head tilting in mild surprise.

 “It tastes like plums,” you manage between chews, the stick still at your lips, “but… better?”

 The second plum stick is still in your hand, warm and sticky. without thinking, you extend it towards him. "Want one?" you hum.

But Kazu only casts it a dubious glance, then snorts. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

"You paid for it."

"I paid for you."

Your head tilts, eyes flicking to him with a sudden kind of confusion.

"..What?"

He scowls. "I meant the plums."

You don’t push—just let the smallest smile curl onto your lips, amused in a way that doesn’t need teasing. Silently, you extend the stick again, patient and insistent. He hesitates, scowls deeper, then mutters something under his breath in what you now consider typical Kazu fashion—before ducking forward slightly and taking a bite straight of the skewer. His mouth pull into a sharp line the moment he chews.

"Tastes like medicine," he mutters with a grimace.

"..really?"

You peer at him, skeptical. “I don’t think it tastes like medicine.”

He gives you a look, flicking a crumb from his glove. “Then you’ve clearly never had medicine.” he jests—you think, and for a split moment, there's the faintest upwards curl on his lips.

You feel the urge to laugh, but manage to hold it in.

"Want the rest of mine?" you gesture, still holding out the second stick.

He rolls his eyes, "No." but he doesn't tell you to stop offering, either—so you just keep walking beside him, still holding the extra skewer in your hand like maybe he’ll change his mind.

The festival continues to bloom around you, loud and alive, music rising from every direction. Drums beat low in the chest, a steady pulse beneath the swirl of flutes and what you think are performative strings that leap with gusts of wind. The same group of dancers from before twirl past with ribboned sleeves and bells wrapped around their ankles, casting ripples of colors across town-square.

Amidst the chaos, someone tosses a fistful of paper petals into the air and children chase them like butterflies. The scent of fire-roasted corn lingers in the space between stalls, mingling with something floral and sticky-sweet—incense, you guess, or maybe sugared rice cakes steaming in their baskets.

You slow down a little, taking it in—not wide-eyed anymore, but still quiet with a kind of awe you don’t really know how to name. There's nothing else you’re supposed to be doing right now. No Guild forms to fill, no other monsters to hunt, no next destination hounding your heels. Just this—music, people, color, your hand sticky with sugar, and Kazu… not exactly smiling, but he seems content.

You glance over again and catch him watching you—he doesn’t even pretend to look away this time.

“What?” you find yourself asking.

He frowns, which is his usual default, but this one... feels different. "...Nothing." he huffs.

You don't push, you've learned not to when it comes to Kazu. Instead, you find yourselves pausing near a game stall—small clay pots lined up in rows, a basket of bean bags beside them and a sign boasting some local dialect variation of three down, prize won. The prizes aren’t anything special, just a mix of wooden charms, glass beads, and poorly-stitched dolls, but something about the way they’re all piled together draws your eye.

Kazu notices your interest and scoffs. "That's a scam."

You squint, looking at him questioningly. "It's a festival game?"

“Same thing.”

Still, you step forward. There’s something oddly charming about the way the clay jars are all different shapes and sizes, and you’re curious if the game’s rigged or just genuinely difficult. The middle-aged man running the booth smiles toothily and offers you a bean bag with fingers bent at odd angles.

When your gaze returns to your trusty travelling companion, he's already fishing coins from his pouch.

You stiffen, brows twitching in uncertainty. "I didn't say I wanted to play."

"You were looking." he says, as if that explains everything.

You accept the bean bag, a little stunned, then weigh it in your hand thoughtfully. It’s lighter than it looks. Your throw isn’t particularly strong—but on the second try, a jar wobbles and tips off the plank, shattering on impact.

Kazu lets out a short breath. “…Huh.”

You look back at him, smug. “Guess it’s not rigged.”

He doesn't reply, but there's the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth,again, almost like he's fighting a smile and losing. You miss your third throw, but the man counts the shattered pot with a nod and lets you pick a prize anyway.

You hover for a moment before reaching toward the back of the pile—picking out a tiny carved animal figure. It's some sort of bird, maybe a falcon, its wings out-stretched mid-flight. The carving isn’t masterful, but the way it fits in your palm makes you like it even more. You turn it over once in your hand, then extend it out to Kazu without thinking.

He blinks at you.

You hold it steady. “For you.”

He stares at the bird, visible confusion on his face. “Why?”

You hum, "You paid."

"That's... that's not—"

“Maybe not. Still.” You nudge the figure toward him a little more insistently, and he takes it eventually—slowly, like it burns. His fingers close around it like he's afraid it'll crumble at first contact.

You walk again, weaving between lantern strings and children in animal masks. The candy’s half gone now. You’ve stopped offering him bites, but you keep the second stick in hand anyway. Kazu still keeps the bird, the little wooden carving finding its home within the crevice of his pocket.

Soon enough, your attention is grabbed once more by a fire dance that's about to begin—spinning performers with flares in each hand, breath soaked in oil and exhaled in long, steady ribbons of flame. The crowd gasps in delight. You flinch at the first roar of fire, and Kazu shifts, just barely brushing against you, a subtle check for any tremble in your shoulders.

But you don't pull away. There's no need to.

“…You’ve got syrup on your face,” he mutters.

You reach up to wipe it away, missing by a few centimeters.

“No—left. More left.” He lets out a soft, barely audible huff, then reaches forward and smudges it off himself with the corner of his sleeve. You stare for a second, thrown off, as he draws back.

“There.”

“...Thanks.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his hand lingers in the air for a second before falling to his side.

Somewhere, another chime rings, delicate and high. You tilt your head toward the sound and spot a charm stall—little paper fortunes hanging from strings, inked prayers written down with careful brush strokes. One of the attendants offers you a reed pen and a scrap of parchment without a word. You glance back at Kazu.

“You write one too?”

He gives you a look. “What would I even write?”

You consider, “Something you want?”

“Don’t want anything.”

You raise a brow.

He sighs. “Nothing they can give.”

You nod, and don't ask again

Either way, you still get to write something. You don't think too hard about it, just let the words come as they are, no frills or poetry—just transparent honesty. A wish small enough to feel like your own, but meaningful enough not to lose its shape if ever spoken aloud.

You hang it on the charm line with the others, a flutter of parchment caught in a passing breeze.

Kazu watches.

When you turn back, he still waits for you, hands in his pockets, one still curled faintly around the carved bird, eyes half-lidded beneath the firelight—but present.

You're more than sure ten minutes have passed by now. You're more than certain he knows too.

"Can we look around a bit more?" you ask, careful, watching his face for any flicker of hesitation, already bracing yourself in case he says no—but still hoping he won’t.

He remains silent for a moment, gaze dragging over the lanterns, over the path ahead, over the swell of people beginning to thicken near another bend in the street. His brows furrow—not in refusal, you think—but in a kind of reluctant resignation.

"..If we must."

You brighten, but you keep it mild. No need to spook him now.

Your pace quickens slightly as you lead him toward the narrower part of the plaza, where booths line both sides of the stone path in loose, irregular rows. The heat from the fire dancers still lingers in your skin with each step. It's only been a handful of minutes since you arrived, but something in the air makes time feel weightless—like it’s suspended between heartbeats and flickering lanterns.

You walk without any real aim, letting the sounds and smells guide you. Kazu doesn’t stop you, just lets you lead, his steps always keeping pace. The bird in his pocket taps gently against his leg.

Eventually, you find yourselves drifting near the eastern end of the square, where the lanterns hang lower and the music grows fainter—replaced instead by the soft ringing of chimes and bells. The crowd here is thinner, older. Couples linger longer at stalls, their fingers entwined as they examine trinkets and charms meant to bestow anything from safe travels to good fortune in love.

The mixed smell of incense and pressed herbs is thicker here, but you don't mind. It's a soothing counterpart to the sugary stickiness still clinging to your fingers.

You stop in front of one such stall—its surface cluttered with bundles of dried sage, lacquered charms shaped like hearts and cranes, and little clay animals painted with looping red strokes that immediately remind you of the wooden carvings from the festival game prior.

The vendor is an older woman with curly hair wrapped into a red scarf, leaning over the counter as you approach.

“Ah,” she beams. “Looking for luck, are we?”

You glance down at the display. The hand-painted sign above it reads Fortunes for Love, Fortune, and Friendship! in charmingly uneven script, flanked by a doodle of two rabbits holding hands.

“Not really,” you tell her, but you’re already leaning in a little closer. The trinkets are small, almost forgettable, but oddly compelling—soft-wrapped bundles and little painted stones, one shaped like a fox head with golden eyes.

“You should try the couple charms,” the woman says suddenly, with a conspiratorial twinkle in her voice. “Always been lucky, those ones.”

You pause, “Couples?”

“Aye.” She nods toward a section near the back of the table, where two miniature tokens are bound together with thread. One red, one black. “To bring closeness and good fortune. Bind them together at midnight, and your paths won’t stray.”

You hesitate. "We're not—"

But the vendor only smiles wider, nodding toward the space between you and Kazu, where your elbows nearly brush and neither of you have noticed.

“Ah, don’t mind me,” she muses. “I’ve got an eye for these things. From what I can tell, you’ve got that look about you.” She titters, tapping a finger to her temple. “That quiet kind of closeness. You kids don’t need to say much, do you? You just are.”

The vendor lady gestures to Kazu with a knowing little nod. “He’s got the face for it, too. All grump on the outside, sweetheart on the inside. I’ve known plenty of men like that. My late husband was just the same!”

You turn instinctively, gaze drawn to Kazu’s face.

He’s frozen.

Utterly, unmistakably frozen—stillness that speaks louder than words. His mouth is pulled taut, his eyes narrowed in that flat, impassive expression you’ve seen several times before—but this time, it feels more defensive than annoyed.

“We’re not a couple,” he says flatly, teeth barely unclenched.

The vendor waves a hand. “Ah, not yet, then. My mistake.”

For a moment, you half-expect him to storm off, but surprisingly—he just.. stands there. Bristling, maybe, but not leaving. His shoulder is still angled toward you, his hand tight in his pocket around that little wooden bird. You can’t read his expression anymore, but you think you know him well enough by now to guess he's probably regretting ever letting you lead him into this part of the square.

Nonetheless, you can't help but smile a little, a bit crooked this time.

“Guess we fooled her,” you lean over and whisper, barely more than a breath.

"She's wrong." Kazu argues back, as if your little encounter with the old lady is something that needs clarifying. For a moment, it almost felt to you like he's trying to shake off the weight of that single word: couple.

"I know," you hum. "does it bother you?"

Kazu doesn’t respond right away. He glances off to the side, jaw flexing slightly.

Then: “…No. Just stupid.”

You nod once, and turn your attention back to the charms. Your finger rests lightly atop one of the braided cords again, this time letting it catch against the pad of your thumb.

The vendor watches you both, smile never fully fading, but she doesn’t push. Just leans back and pretends to busy herself with reorganizing her wares.

Kazu exhales slowly, almost a sigh, and after a long moment, he hands you his pouch and murmurs, “Get it if you want.”

You glance over, "The charm?"

His face twitches. "Yeah. Or don't."

You study him for a second longer, then quietly pay for the set. The vendor ties one around your wrist, fingers light and practiced. You thank her with a slight bow, then take the second cord, holding it out to him like an offering.

Kazu stares at it, then at you. His eyes narrow again, hesitant.

“I don’t—”

“It’s just a charm,” you say, voice soft, not teasing. “You don’t have to wear it.”

You mean what you say, but he takes it anyway.

He doesn’t tie it on right away—rather, he takes a moment to hold it between gloved fingers, examining the threads. You don’t press. He can do what he wants with it.

..But, as the two of you walk away again, returning to the quieter paths threading the festival’s edge, you catch the flicker of motion at his wrist. The cord is there—clumsily tied, looped twice, the knot imperfect but secure.

He notices you looking.

"..Did it wrong." he mumbles.

You don’t laugh. “It’s on,” you say simply, as the corners of your mouth twitch for what felt like the hundredth time tonight.

He grunts under his breath—you don't know if it's in agreement, or just to fill the air between you. Regardless, he keeps walking. The path is narrower here, veering off from the main lantern-lit square, paved with uneven stone and canopied overhead by willow branches that sway like heavy curtains. With the festival’s noise muffled behind you, the hush that settles feels deeper, more natural.

Crickets chirp softly in the grass, and from somewhere out of sight, wind chimes sound with a fragile clarity, barely there at all.

Neither of you say much for a while after that, footsteps continuing to fall in uneven rhythm. There's no conversation to spark when your shoulders brush once when the path narrows again. You don't fail to notice how the charm at your wrist glints just slightly upon being touched by the low light of a passing firefly.

You guess the same can be said for Kazu, because you catch him staring at it, before looking forward again.

"It's dumb," he mutters after another moment of silence, "the whole binding thing—midnight and all that."

You hum, half to show you’re listening, half because you’re not sure what to say yet.

"Superstition," he adds, a firmer now, like saying it with more conviction would make it sound less like a choice he made.

You glance down at his wrist, anyway. The cord's still there.

"Maybe," you say in reply. "but I think it's a nice kind of dumb."

Although Kazu doesn’t answer that, his pace slows a little. Not a full stop, just enough that you fall into step beside him again, his shoulder no longer ahead of yours but level. He draws in a breath like he’s about to say something else—but whatever it is, he lets it go and resumes walking.

You listen to the crunch of gravel beneath your boots, the whisper of wind through distant banners, and something else—his hand brushing near yours again, not quite a touch, but he's close enough for the heat of your hands to overlap.

It stays like that for a while.

Later, you tilt your head toward him, voice quiet and low. “Still want to head back soon?”

His silence stretches, staying quiet for a beat too long. His jaw shifts—like he’s chewing over what to say. Then, without lifting his gaze: "..Let's walk a bit more."

You nod wordlessly. The quiet has settled too comfortably between you to bother breaking it. the world has dimmed here, quieter. Even the festival seems far off, muffled by trees and distance.

Your fingers drift a little closer. The gap between your hands narrows until your pinkies nearly touch, neither side closing the distance. He doesn’t tense, but there's a thin layer of tension in the way he moves.

Contact never comes between you. What hangs is only thinner than thread, but it holds just fine. It just so happens that lantern light glints briefly off the charm at his wrist, tied haphazardly, a loop barely secured.

No one moves to fix the knot.

Hours later, by the time you finally settle for an inn—the cord remains tied, frayed ends brushing his wrist like it never came close to coming undone.

Kazu's hands are soaked in someone else's blood.

It clings to the lines of his palms, thick and half-dried where it’s seeped into his skin and dark as rust beneath his fingernails. It’s splattered across the folds of his jacket, caked on the blade that remains clenched within his palm, smeared across the earth where your body had fallen.

Your head lies in the dirt, just a few feet from where he’s kneeling. Your eyes are closed. Peaceful, almost. Too peaceful for his liking.

He can’t move.

The air is heavy, weighed not only by the scent of copper and soil but by silence as well. It's the kind to ring hauntingly in one's skull, only ever following after a scream.

Your scream.

His breath comes in short, uneven bursts, everything else the cause rather than physical strain, the weight of what had just happened settling in like stone in his gut. The fight with Tarin had been brief, hardly even a fight in the end.

It lasted only a few seconds.

There had been no real contest, no struggle for dominance or skill. Kazu’s blade had pierced through the other man's skull as easily as if it were soft bark, too quick and too clean for what he truly deserved. A single motion, brutal and efficient, born more from instinct than rage, and it had all been over.

He should feel vindicated. Furious. Something.

Yet all he could do was sit there, knees dug into the dirt, staring at the limp body that refuses to die. He watches the faint twitch of your fingers, the barely-there shudder of your chest. It should be impossible. It is impossible. He'd saw the wound, the severing.

But your body doesn't go still.

He stares at it, unmoving, as the blood dries sticky between his fingers. A bitter taste creeps up in his throat, foul in its essence. It's then that without meaning to, his mind flickers—not to the moment of the fight, but to the one that started it all.

It began with a voice.

"Well, I’ll be—didn’t think you’d show up again, Kazu. Haven't seen 'ya 'round these parts for some years now."

A man stood beneath the dappled shade of pine, leaning against a sloped tree trunk. His stance was relaxed, one thumb hooked in the strap of his gearbag, the other hand loosely holding a waterskin. His clothes bore the practical wear of fieldwork—dusty hems, scraped leather, streaks of what looked like dried blood clinging to his inner tunic. His hair was longer than Kazu remembered, sun-burnt at the tips, and messily half-tied.

His voice came from behind, breaking the hush of dusk like a twig underfoot—too easy in its humor to be entirely casual. Kazu stopped dead in his tracks, bootheel pressing into old pine needles as he turned just slightly to confirm the voice. He didn’t need to. He already knew.

There was an easy grin tugging at his mouth, but his eyes—they didn’t match it, steel-colored and sharp. Those eyes were shaped too alert to be relaxed. He wasn't looking at Kazu.

He was looking at you.

"Tarin," Kazu said after a beat, his voice flat with recognition. He didn’t offer a greeting so much as confirm the man's name like he was clocking a piece of intel. Whether that was how he usually greeted old colleagues or just the ones he had reason to be cautious around—it wasn’t always easy to tell, even for him.

The other hunter didn't seem the slightest bit offended in response. If anything, the lack of warmth only made him smile wider. “Still a man of many words, I see.”

Kazu grunted but said nothing.

Tarin pushed himself off the tree and approaches without hesitation, gait easy but measured. Automatically, Kazu stepped half a pace to the side, angling himself in front of you.

“I didn’t expect you this far north,” Tarin remarked nonchalantly, “last I heard, you were working eastern routes—contract cleaner for the old southern garrison. Rumor was, you went solo.”

Kazu finally spoke, low. “I did.”

“Hah,” Tarin exhaled a short laugh, “figures. Coordinating never seemed like your scene."

There was amusement in his voice, but something colder pulsed beneath. His gaze slid past Kazu and landed on you, sharp and deliberate. It lingered too long to be casual, eyes flicking over the guild seal tucked at your hip, the way you shifted your weight, the subtle closeness you kept to Kazu’s side—

"You his new side-kick?" he asked, not unkindly—but the way he phrases it makes his intention clear. This wasn't a genuine question, but a probe.

You hesitated.

There was something in his eyes—not quite humor, nor hostility… yet. It felt more like a weighing—a quiet, deliberate measurement, masked by a lazy smile. He’s not looking at you, but through you—toward whatever connection you might have to Kazu.

Kazu didn’t give the silence time to stretch.

"They're with me."

Three words. Flat. Final.

Tarin raised a brow, not at what’s said, but at what’s not. He held up both palms, mock-apologetic. “Didn’t mean anything by it, just saying. I'm surprised you’re letting someone stick that close. You used to bite the heads off our quartermasters just for trailing behind you.”

Kazu didn’t rise to it. His stance didn’t change, but there was a faint shift—just enough that someone like Tarin would catch it. And he did. His smile dimmed by a fraction. He looked down at the waterskin in his hand, turning it once by the neck, almost absently.

“You headed for the old ridge route?” he prodded, voice turning casual again. “Heard a few things about movement up there, not just the usual strays.” another look your way, then back to Kazu. “You might want a second map.”

“We’ve got it covered,” Kazu replies.

Tarin held his gaze for a long moment, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.” His hands dropped from his belt, the weight of his stare lingering a beat longer than necessary. Then, like it had cost him nothing, he added, “Mind if I stay with you for the road?”

The question hung there, like it wasn't already assumed. Kazu saw the shift of his pack strap, the way he was already moving like he expected to join. He almost said no. It was right there on the tip of his tongue.

“We’re two days out from Western HQ,” he says instead, voice clipped but level. “Keep up, and don’t get in the way.”

The memory loses its grip, lacking in closure. The air has changed. The silence isn’t the same anymore; not quite lighter, but disturbed, as if the forest itself had shifted position while he was locked in thought. His eyes return, slowly, to the ground in front of him.

You lie there, unmoving. The space between your head and your body still hasn't changed. Nothing has moved, yet, something is wrong.

Kazu pushes himself to his feet. The stiffness in his joints doesn’t come from exertion, but tension. The blood has begun to dry at the edges of his gloves, flaking where his knuckles flex. He ignores it.

He steps carefully, almost piously, toward your body.

It's then that he sees it.

A thin strand—no, not quite a strand; something organic, wet, and pale, like a vine or a root—has stretched from the exposed flesh of your severed neck. It snakes out in a cautious, almost tentative motion, glistening faintly in the dappled light that breaks through the treetops. A matching branch extends from your neck stump, twitching once before stilling, as if sensing its counterpart nearby.

His breath stills.

More follow. Fine, translucent threads, branching out like veins or mycelium, begin weaving their way through the dirt. They move slowly, with purpose, like limbs remembering what they used to be. The distance between your head and body isn’t much—barely a few feet—but the quiet persistence with which your biology reaches out to reconnect it is enough to make his stomach turn.

Not out of fear, nor revulsion like he'd expected.

It’s awe—a twisted, reverent kind of awe. Awe that burrows itself in his chest and leaves no room for fear.

He swallows hard.

Your body doesn’t convulse. There’s no violent jerk or grotesque movement. The regeneration is quiet, solemn. A biological process, he supposes. Already, the strands are reaching one another, brushing together with cautious, delicate touches, then winding tighter, almost tenderly. They pulse faintly, like breath, and begin pulling.

Kazu feels his heart hammer once, painfully.

"You know what they are, right?" Tarin’s voice had cracked, caught somewhere between incredulity and desperation, his heel scraping backward in the dirt. He’d raised his bloodied hands, as if it could stall what was already coming. “I’m doing you a favor, Kazu! Why are you looking at me like that?!”

He tried to justify it, even then. As if mere words could scrub clean the horror written into the scene. What was already done is irreversible. Kazu knew what you were—what the Guild would call you if words got out: abomination, liability, target. Tarin had only acted accordingly. Kazu understood that. But he didn’t care.

Not anymore.

Not since meeting you. He's been defying his duties as a monster hunter for a while now.

The moment he turned a blind eye to the odd cadence in your steps. The moment he started making sure you slept first during rotation shifts. The moment he adjusted your cloak in the rain— even to the moment he stitched your arm himself after a raid and muttered about how “lucky” you were to heal so well. Each choice he's since made was a quiet defection to everything he's ever known.

In the past, he used to tell himself it was only tactical patience—that he was only waiting for you to slip—but deep down, he knew the truth: he had already chosen you over the Guild a long time ago.

Kazu drops to one knee again, carefully, the ground still warm from spilled blood. His breath clouds faintly in the cooling air, though sweat dampens his collar. One leather gloved hand hovers above the rejoining strands for a moment, uncertain, then slowly lowers until his fingertips graze the dirt beside them. He doesn't dare touch the threads themselves—not out of fear, but some distorted version of worship.

You’re not screaming. You’re not writhing. Fortunately, there is no pain he can see; just a peaceful stillness still etched into your face, made grotesque only by context. Your head lies inches from reattachment, and already your body has accepted the command. Your flesh has begun to knit, slow and subtle, with a movement that feels less like tissue repairing than instinct falling into place.

A new silence has fallen. No longer one thick with death's undertones following your decapitation—a different kind; silence that watches. That waits.

Kazu briefly glances back at what remains of Tarin’s corpse. It lies a little ways off, face-down in the underbrush, half-concealed by ferns. Blood still seeps slowly from the base of his skull, forming a dark pool that soaks gradually into grass and soil. He remains motionless. Dead. No magic nor crawling resurrection to follow his current state.

It's a morbid little reminder that only confirms what Kazu already knows: some things stay dead. Other's don't.

He turns back to you. The strands have grown thicker now, winding together in wet coils, anchoring your spine to itself. There’s no tearing or tension, only seamless reconnection. A seam being steadily stitched close. The process itself is as meticulous as it is surreal—terrifying only in its elegance.

Kazu breathes in, slow. The iron stink of blood hangs sharp in his nose, but beneath it—faint and earthy, something else has begun to rise: a fungal note, rich and wet. Mycelial. That’s what it reminds him of. He wonders if this is the smell of the forest reclaiming its own.

Had he half a mind, he would be preparing to put you down properly. He would be finishing it—ending this with the same mechanical efficiency he'd shown Tarin. That would be the clean answer. The right one.

But at this point? He's far from sane.

So he lowers himself until he’s sitting cross-legged beside you, if only just to keep watch—not protectively, not yet. Curiously. He's decided to be a witness of what comes next. You’ll wake soon. He knows this the same way he knows how to draw a blade—instinctively. Maybe, somewhere along the way, your rhythms had long since wounded themselves into his own.

He waits only a moment longer, watching the fleshy threads draw closed like the last pull of a careful stitch. It’s not done—not fully, not yet—but it’s enough. The connection has been made. The rest, he knows, is just time. Time and care.

Kazu breathes out, steadies himself, then moves.

The act of gathering you is delicate and measured, you deserve that much. He starts with your head, fingers careful as they cradle it. He lifts it slowly, keeping it level, letting the organic threads still connecting you stretch rather than break. The strands are wet and pale and flex like tendon, but they don’t resist him. They yield, slackening just enough to accommodate his movement. He cups your cheek with one thumb, brushing away a smear of dried blood with the edge of a knuckle, and carefully presses your head against his chest—one arm wrapped beneath it, supporting the base.

Your body comes next.

He shifts to crouch beside it, lifting your shoulders first and then your torso, careful to keep you aligned. Your limbs dangle limply, like a doll’s. Too limp. He doesn’t like that. So he adjusts your arms—folds one across your abdomen, the other beneath it. There you go. That’s better.

You’re not heavy. That's not it. If anything, you feel too light—too insubstantial for something that had the chance to end him—for someone who’s become the axis around which everything else revolves. It unsettles him, this frailty. The soft quietness of your breathing, the looming sense that your body is only borrowing time. That, he thinks, has always been what terrifies him most.

Still, he keeps you close. Closer than necessary, really. He doesn’t realize how tight his arms have wound around you until a twig cracks beneath his foot, snapping him forward, and instinct tightens his grip without thinking.

“…Tch.” He exhales through his teeth, readjusts, and moves.

You don’t stir then.

..Good. He doesn’t want you to see him like this.

The place he takes you isn’t far—just a small cave set into the hillside, shallow but sheltered, obscured by a veil of hanging roots and vine. He's camped there before, some years prior to meeting you. It's a fallback spot for poor weather or retreat—dry, cool, defensible.

He moves quietly, despite the burden in his arms. The weight of you—your blood-soaked cloak, your slack limbs, the faint warmth of your head resting against his shoulder—ought to unnerve him, truthfully. Would've for any other person. Instead, it calms him in a way he can’t fully explain, something about it steadying. Grounding.

Once inside, he lays you down as though you are a relic he dare not mar. Which, of course you are.

The coat goes first—spread out neatly across the stone floor like a makeshift bedroll. He carefully lowers you onto it, adjusting the angle of your head so it rests aligned with your spine, his fingers subtly tucking the cords that have begun to fuse along your neck. He doesn’t rush nor fumble. Each motion is deliberate. Intimate, in a way.

A small fire follows, meant only to sterilize. He sets water to boil, sprinkling in dried herbs from his pouch. Pinebark and feverleaf rise on the steam, filling the cave. When he comes back to you, he’s stripped his gloves, sleeves cuffed past his elbows. None of the marks matter. He’d earn a thousand more to ensure this never repeats.

Barehanded now, he works quickly: he unclasps his satchel, retrieves the sterilizing tincture, and the few supplies he’s hoarded over months—not Guild issue, but things he stole from clinics, traded for in hushed corners of waystations.

Not for himself.

He dips the cloth into the cold, astringent-smelling brew, then presses it to your skin, wiping along the raw edges of your neck where the muscle jerks in shallow pulses.

His hand trembles once before he steadies it. “No sign of infection,” he mutters, almost trying to convince himself, “Tissue’s holding... good.”

He doesn’t look at your face right away. His focus stays on the mechanics—cleansing the blood, wiping away the dirt that clings in the creases of your skin like soot.

It isn’t until he’s halfway through cleaning your chest—until the worst of the blood has been cleared and your breathing, though shallow, has steadied—that his gaze finally rises. He looks at you then—really looks.

Something in him pulls taut.

Your face is still slack with unconsciousness, and although you're still alive—still breathing, that peaceful, calm expression you wear only reminds him of the dead. He stares for a long moment, fingers stilled, cloth limp in one hand. A breath catches in his throat and shaky upon its release. He leans back on his heels.

“You idiot,” he breathes, barely audible. "reckless, stupid thing…”

The senseless accusation lingers for only a moment before it turns back on him like a blade flipped in reverse. He exhales a bitter, humorless laugh, and his fingers slip through your hair, combing gently through the blood-matted strands.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “That’s not fair, is it?” his hand stills. “You didn’t let him. I did.”

The truth of it hits like a punch to the chest. His other hand drops to the ground beside you, palm flat against the blood that stains the moss in dark, drying patches. His hand finds the ground there, steadying himself from the slow press of something he doesn’t want to name.

What really gnaws at him—was that he had known. A part of him had, from the very moment he noticed Tarin eyeing you with that predatory gaze barely hidden beneath all his easy charm.

Just like Kazu had, Tarin saw right through your disguise.

It wasn't hard to tell he knew; the tilt of his stance, the angle of his questions—how his eyes had lingered when they shouldn't. He'd notice it all, every single fraction of a second he laid his eyes on the other hunter.

And yet, he let it slide.

He’d told himself it wasn’t worth drawing blood over, that keeping things civil was smarter, that he could control the space between you, that Tarin wasn’t foolish enough to try anything while Kazu was watching.

Ultimately, he just hadn't been watching close enough.

Look where that got him now.

This wasn't a slip, the same way it isn't an accident of timing or tactics, or a failure borne of his oversight.

He made a conscious choice that let someone close enough to hurt you.

Worse than that—he had stood there, thinking he could afford to wait, as if mere caution and observation on his part would be enough. He'd seen the warning signs, knew something was wrong—but didn't act.

He gave Tarin the chance to strike.

He nearly let you die.

For a moment, Kazu is no different from a statue. When he moves again, it's to pull his blanket free, gently spread it over you to keep your limbs from cooling, then sit behind you, cross-legged once more, your head resting just inches from his thigh.

He says nothing when he reaches out, brushing a thread from your cheek. It sticks faintly to his skin—warm, damp, fragile. It reminds him of the way veins are fragile. The way hearts are.

His eyes linger for a moment, and it occurs to him, distantly: he has never seen you look so peaceful.

A flicker of something wicked twists behind his ribs.

“Whatever you are,” he murmurs, eyes tracing the lines of your skin, to the rise and fall of your chest.

“Abomination. Anomaly. Miracle.” his voice sinks, “It doesn’t change anything." he murmurs, barely any louder than a whisper. “You’re still mine.”

He doesn’t realize his hand is still resting against your cheek until the heat of your skin begins to seep through his callused palm, a fragile pulse beneath the thin layer of tissue that has only just begun to re-knit. The contact is absurdly intimate, out of place with the sterile logic he ought to be clinging to—yet he makes no move to withdraw. His thumb drags a slow path across the arch of your cheekbone, feeling the slick tack of drying blood in its wake, and something within him twists so sharply it feels like it might split him down the center.

Minutes drag by. He busies himself with small, necessary things—tending the fire, re-wetting the cloth to dab again at the edges of your wound, checking the pulse in your throat. Each motion is clinical, precise, but beneath the practiced detachment there is a relentless, gnawing preoccupation: the certainty that nothing he does will ever be enough.

He cannot clean you of what you are any more than he can scrub his own hands free of everything he’s done.

The threads at your neck have begun to thicken, taking on a denser, more opaque color, darkening where they knit themselves deeper into muscle. If he listens closely, he can hear the tiny, wet sounds of regeneration: soft clicks and damp little pops, like raw wood splitting under slow pressure. When he glances at your face, your lashes have begun to twitch, small spasms that hint at returning consciousness. He doesn’t know if he hopes you will wake soon or if he dreads it.

With a quiet exhale, he presses the back of his wrist to your cheek—testing for fever, but also reassuring himself that you’re still warm. Still here. Your skin is cool, but not dangerously so, the faint heat of life still pulsing beneath it. He lets his hand linger, thumb brushing the fine edge of your jaw. The sensation grounds him, a tactile proof that you are no phantom.

His mouth is dry. The fire flickers, sending restless shadows crawling up the cave walls—sharp and wavering and alive in a way he feels he no longer is. He wonders, distantly, what this will mean when you wake. Whether you’ll remember what happened, whether you’ll understand that even now he can’t make himself finish it—can’t do the thing he’s been trained to do all his life.

That thought alone leaves him feeling raw, skinless, like every inch of him has been scraped open to the air. He shifts, letting his palm fall away to rest on the edge of the blanket, careful not to disturb the delicate strands still knitting your throat together. The mycelial cords flex with each subtle movement of your pulse—faint but steady, an undeniable proof of life. It feels profane to look at it so closely, yet he can’t look away.

He can’t help but think how grotesquely beautiful it is—this process by which you refuse to stay dead. There’s a gentleness to it that’s worse than any horror, a quiet certainty in the way your body repairs itself. He finds himself pondering if you even need him here, or if you’d have reassembled yourself just the same whether or not he’d laid a hand on you.

Kazu draws in a slow breath, feeling the way it catches on something heavy in his chest. He rubs the heel of his hand against his sternum, as though he could physically dislodge the ache lodged deep in his chest.

Outside, night is falling properly now, blue darkness pooling between the trees like ink poured over the land. The fire offers only a small radius of light, and beyond it, the forest waits, unknowable. He tries to tell himself that’s what he’s listening for—any sign of pursuit, any consequence to what he’s done—but it’s a lie.

The only thing he’s listening to is you.

Your breathing is shallow but even, and every time your chest rises, it loosens something tight in his throat. It is an absurd thing to feel relief over. You were decapitated, he thinks, almost distantly. You should be dead.

But you aren’t.

He wonders if you’ll hate him when you wake. If you’ll look at the corpse cooling somewhere out in the ferns and see only the hunter he used to be—see that, in some ways, he still is. He wonders if you’ll know that, if Tarin hadn’t made the first move, it might have been Kazu himself someday, blade in hand, duty outweighing anything else.

The thought makes him sick.

...He'll remember to properly dispose of that man's body later.

Slowly, he shifts to brace one arm along his bent knee, lowering himself just enough to study your face at closer range. You still carry a strange kind of innocence, even with the dried gore painting at your hairline. The pulse at your throat has steadied to something approaching normal, and he watches it a moment longer than is necessary, almost hypnotized by the fragile proof that you are here, still by his side.

He thinks of all the things he has never said aloud. The long, silent hours spent letting you move ahead on the trail, cloak dragging in the underbrush, the strange pang he felt every time you glanced back to check that he was still behind you. The first time you’d laughed, soft and startled, at something he’d muttered under his breath.

He has spent too long pretending he does not care.

His hand lifts again without conscious thought, fingertips hovering just above the place where the strands of your spine have begun to fuse. He doesn't touch them. Instead, he drags his knuckles lightly along the curve of your jaw, tracing the line where skin and hair meet.

“You’re still mine,” he repeats, softer now—as if by saying it, he can bind the words into the space between you—make it something solid and undeniable. His breath trembles as he draws it in, releases it again.

He wants to tell you he’s sorry. He wants to promise he’ll never let this happen again. He wants to ask you what you truly are, to hear you answer in that low, careful voice that has always felt like a secret kept just for him.

But none of it comes out.

And as if in surrender, he leans forward until his forehead brushes lightly against yours. The contact is brief, the barest graze of skin, but it leaves him feeling stripped to the bone. His eyes close. For a moment, he lets himself imagine that this is something he deserves—that whatever you are, there is still something between you worth holding onto.

When he pulls back, your breathing hasn’t changed. You don’t stir. The cords at your throat flex faintly, still working to mend the last of the damage. Kazu watches them, feeling a strange kind of astonishment hollow him out.

His hand drifts to the blanket covering your chest, smoothing it once before falling away. He doesn’t move to clean himself—doesn’t bother with the blood drying in cracked lines across his skin. It feels almost appropriate that he should wear it, like a mark of what he’s chosen.

He settles in behind you again, one knee drawn up so he can rest his elbow across it, keeping his weight low. His gaze never leaves your face. If anything comes for you now—guild enforcers, scavengers, the rot of his own conscience—he’ll be there to look out for you.

His thoughts continue to circle, uncapable of settling. He thinks of Tarin’s final expression—shock, confusion, that flicker of something almost plaintive. The moment the blade went in, all that pretense had dropped away, leaving only the raw human panic of a person who realized too late that he’d overplayed his hand. Kazu wonders if, in that last instant, Tarin understood how inevitable it had been.

He almost hopes he did.

But then his gaze returns to you, and all that grim satisfaction curdles back into a softer feeling, sick with regret. He can’t pretend this was only vengeance—that it was only Tarin’s death he’d chosen, because in that split second, Kazu had decided to kill for you, to do whatever it took to keep you breathing—even if the price was the last of whatever loyalty he still owed to his old life.

He sighs, dragging a hand over his mouth. His throat feels dry, scraped raw from the inside.

Your breathing hitches.

The first sign is so slight he nearly misses it: a faint flex of your fingers, the slow curl of one hand against your chest. Your eyelids flutter again—this time not a spasm.

Kazu’s heart lurches. His hand drops back to your shoulder, steadying himself more than steadying you. For the first time since he laid you in this cave, he feels an honest surge of relief—hot and almost painful in its intensity.

Your head shifts against the folded edge of the blanket. The damp strands bridging your neck flex wetly as you move. A thin sound escapes your throat—an unformed, husky exhalation—and then your eyes crack open, unfocused and glassy.

He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until it shakily rushes out of him.

You blink, once, slowly. Your pupils contract against the dim firelight, tracking with a sluggish, dreamlike quality. He waits, afraid to speak, afraid that if he breaks the silence you’ll reveal yourself as simply some illusion conjured by the exhaustion and grief of his mind.

But you don’t vanish.

Your gaze drags over the cave, then over yourself—taking in the state of your body, the stitched line of tissue at your neck. Your brows knit faintly, as if puzzled, though there is no immediate panic. He wonders if you’re even fully aware yet of what happened.

Your eyes finally find his.

It feels, absurdly, like impact—like being struck square in the chest. Even half-lucid, you still look at him with earnestness in your gaze—death, blood, the sheer monstrous fact of your survival somehow only sharpening the terrible softness within your eyes.

Kazu wets his lips. His voice feels terribly rusted when he tries to speak.

“You’re awake,” he says. It sounds too small and inadequate for what this moment should be.

Your mouth moves as though you mean to answer. No words come, only a rasping breath. You try again, throat working. He can see your confusion sharpening, awareness creeping back in, and with it, the knowledge of how close you came to ending.

Guilt coils through his gut like a python, twisting until he has to drop his gaze to your chest, to the quiet lift and fall of your breathing. He can’t look at your eyes any longer—he can’t bear to see recognition bloom into fear or accusation.

He feels your hand shift, clumsily reaching out. It lands against the fold of his coat draped over you, your fingers twitching weakly. You don’t try to push yourself upright and a part of him is unspeakably grateful for that. He doesn’t think he could stand to watch you strain right now.

Your fingers curl into the cloth, like you need something—an anchor.

He understands. He feels it, too.

Kazu exhales, long and low. Slowly, he slides his hand back to yours, covering it with his palm. He doesn’t dare squeeze, afraid of jarring your freshly-mended body, but he holds you there, offering what he can.

“You’re alright,” he whispers, some pathetic bastard of a promise and confession. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

Safe, he thinks, but the word tastes like a lie. Nothing is safe anymore. Not you. Not him. Not whatever life might await you on the other side of this cave, if word ever get out of your true nature.

Still, looking down at your hand in his, he knows there’s no part of him that regrets it.

He would do it again, a thousand times.

He shifts and lowers himself further until he’s leaning over you, so you don’t have to strain to see his face. He doesn’t bother to hide the weariness there, nor the raw, inexplicable tenderness that tightens his throat when he meets your eyes.

“Rest,” he murmurs, softer than before, his thumb brushing across the line of your knuckles. “I’ll keep watch.”

Kazu doesn’t say the rest—that he’ll keep watch as long as it takes—that he'll be here, whether you wake in ten minutes or ten hours. After all, he's already surrendered something of himself to you, something that can never be reclaimed, and he is too exhausted to pretend otherwise. In the quiet ruin of this night, he's found something steadier than loyalty or duty—a need so profound it no longer has the shape of desire but of inevitability.

You are his now, the same way he is yours—whichever way the claim runs doesn’t matter. Oath or confession, no words he can dredge up will ever be large enough to encompass the gravity of what he feels.

That is why he sits here, beside you in the dim light. His thumb strokes the back of your hand in an unthinking rhythm, memorizing the minute twitches of your fingers as sensation returns. The world has shrunk to this single point of contact, the slight give of your knuckles beneath his touch, the fragile heat that reassures him you are still real.

He wonders, distantly, whether this is what it feels like to be damned—if damnation is nothing more than the recognition that you will choose the same person, over and over, no matter how much it costs you.

He lets the thought settle, heavy as wet earth in his chest, and feels something give way beneath it—quiet and inexorable. Your breathing evens out by degrees, the shallow hitch smoothing into a steadier rhythm, and he watches each rise and fall of your chest as if it alone could anchor him to what remains of his purpose. The fire has burned low, shadows lapping at the edges of the cave like dark water, but he makes no move to feed it yet. He can’t bear to break the quiet that has settled between you.

In this thin margin of time—after violence, before consequence—he allows himself to believe that nothing else matters—that if you open your eyes again and call him by name, it will be enough to absolve every sin trailing behind him like a long, bloody wake.

His hand tightens fractionally over yours, thumb sweeping a final, trembling arc across your knuckles.

If it is damnation, so be it. If this is the price—this ruinous devotion, this soft annihilation of everything he once thought he was—he will pay it gladly.

When the fire gutters low and the dark presses in, when the guild’s retribution finally comes to collect what he has stolen, he will not run. He will not yield you up to them, or to any other power that dares claim the right to unmake you.

He will be the last line between you and every blade that would see you undone.

#pearl dividers by uzmacchiato #☆ — suri writes #oc: kazu #male yandere #male yandere x reader #male yandere x you #yandere male #yandere x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #x gn reader #yandere oc #yandere drabble #yandere writing #male yandere x y/n #yandere headcanons #soft yandere #yandere imagines #reader insert #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #shoutout to my friend who beta read this for me from beginning to end(my man if ur reading this ily <3)#rewatching frieren for the 7477353th time gave me the idea to write this btw #i think i began drafting around a week ago?? so you can kinda see a slight difference in writing style and stuff #again im not a very consistent writer #but like i need to stop abandoning my projects halfway bruh 💔💔#also also TYSM TO ANYONE WHO READ TO THE END!!! i owe u my liver fr („ಡωಡ„)

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ilium-ilia · 5 months ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-One: hyacinth; purple

tw: none

Simon’s knuckles split on the first punch, but he can’t stop now that he’s started.

Shockwaves ripple through his arms until he feels the dull, thrumming ache in his shoulderblades, and even then he persists. Right hook. Then left. A wide swing with his elbow. Each time his body makes contact, he wishes his target was something tangible. Something that would scream and groan and choke on its own spit and blood as they fought—as Simon sought penance. Instead, the sand-filled cloth does nothing but sigh as the chain connecting it to the ceiling creaks beneath the weight.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been at it. Time seems to warp differently in Terminus’ basement. Price always keeps a fair amount of workout equipment for anyone to use as they wish, yet it’s not properly kept—the walls are full of chipped paint and the ceiling dips as if it holds the weight of the world. As soon as Simon got off work, he hunkered down to lift weights with subpar rock music blasting through the ancient speakers, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough.

The anger doesn’t quell. The yearning for ichor refuses to quiet. Each time Simon’s fist meets the punching bag before him, all he can think about is how he’d much rather put it through the cinderblock walls, or through a pair of sickly green eyes. Green like an infection. Green like radiation.

Green like rot.

He thinks that if he can punch a hole through the universe, he can distort time. He can walk into Tsar Trading before you had ever sat in that wretched chair—before Marco ever laid a finger on you—and water the earth with one more unmourned degenerate. But he can’t. Now, he’s stuck with the mental image of your fear; of you looking up at a man who smiles with unabashed perversion as he does what he wants with you. If he closes his eyes he can still feel you trembling against him. He can still feel the hot tears on his chest. He can still hear your voice cracking.

I was worried that if you ever knew what Marco did to me t-that you wouldn’t like me anymore because you’d think I’m gross…

Something peels. It shrivels like the eye-patterned bark of an aspen tree, withered and crumbling. Simon pauses, chest heaving with each panting breath that he sucks in as he looks at the state of his fists. Briney sweat dribbles into his eyes, burning the scleras. Squinting through the sting, he sees the way the skin of his knuckles parts like dried riverbeds at the sweltering apex of summer. Blood weeps from the wounds. His skin puckers as it slides along his wrist.

He craved ichor so terribly and yet the only taste he’s gotten has been his own.

Huffing, Simon finally forces himself away from the punching bag. Stiff knees give out as he sits in a chair that creaks beneath his weight and he allows the stillness of the weight room to wash over him as he stares at the floor. Florid liquid seeps into the navy of his jeans, darkening the fabric, but he can’t get himself to care about the stain.

Simon has never felt so useless in his entire life. Looking after you was supposed to be simple. Keeping you safe was supposed to be easy. It’s all he knows how to do—fight. Protect. Yet, his job was ruined years before it was ever bequeathed to him—how can he kill a ghost? How can he kill a memory that lingers like nicotine in the fine strands of hair?

Quick feet tap down the wooden stairs, and the dull thumps cut through the music loud enough for Simon to quirk his ears. Rubbing at his nose, he wipes his knuckles off on his jeans, smearing the blood along his thighs until there’s nothing put a pink stain on the back of his hand. Staring at the door, he awaits for it to swing open.

Expecting Johnny, Simon’s rather surprised to catch sight of Kyle.

He enters the room with his phone in hand. The screen illuminates his face as he scrolls with pinched brows and tight lips. He’s come prepared—donning a light cotton t-shirt and joggers, the bag slung over his shoulder makes him appear as if he’s been plucked out of a men’s sportswear magazine. The growling rock music eventually snags his attention, and Kyle’s eyes break away from his phone with a hum.

“Oh. Morning, Riley,” he greets stiffly.

Not having looked at his phone or a clock in hours, Simon decides to take his word for it. “Morning.”

Pausing, Kyle allows his eyes to sweep over Simon. He does it cordially. Someone who didn’t know any better would have missed it, but not him. Blood on jeans, dark circles beneath even darker eyes, sweat soaked shirt—Kyle sees it all.

“Late night?” he inquires carefully as he treads further into the room.

“Can’t sleep,” Simon shrugs.

“Yeah, me neither.”

As Kyle dumps his bag onto the floor, Simon sneaks his phone from out of his pocket. There are no new messages from you, which is something he expects. You stopped replying to his texts around one in the morning, hopefully having fallen asleep, and it’s still too early for you to be up yet. Your last correspondence had led him to believe you were feeling better than you were this morning, yet that seed of doubt still roots too deep in his mind for him to pluck it out.

“Wanna talk about it?” Kyle then asks. He’s sitting on the bench press cushioning with his elbows on his knees—relaxed, and in no rush.

Simon nearly scoffs, but he holds himself back in fear of coming off too crass. Canines digging into the insides of his cheeks, he flexes his fingers and tries not to hiss at the sting of raw, stretching skin.

“Reckon this might be above your paygrade, Garrick,” he says with dull humor.

“Yeah,” Kyle replies, eyes flickering to Simon’s hands. “Might be.”

A sepulchral cloud hangs heavy in the air, and Simon finds himself wanting to bark at the dull atmosphere. Though he’s been a good boy for a long time, something within him aches and writhes. It yearns to hear a scream. It revels in its virulent desire—one that he has to shove back in his ribcage to keep himself sane.

“How’re things with Lucy?” Simon asks instead.

He nearly laughs at the way Kyle’s lips quirk into a smile at the mere mention of the name. “Good. Yeah, things are really good. She’s a bit excited about getting Valentine’s day off work this year. Don’t think she’s had it off the last two, three years or so. We’ve got a big date night planned.”

“Yeah?” Simon teases. “Gonna be makin’ grandbabies for your dad, then?”

Kyle’s laugh is pitiful. Airy—half-hearted. Still he nods as his head falls, and he raises it just in time to answer. “Yeah, he’d like that.”

“You’ve got plenty of time,” Simon excuses.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t.”

Though most of the bleeding from Simon’s knuckles is stunted, there’s still drops that slip through the cracks. Nodding, he rubs his hands on his jeans once more to get rid of the evidence of his fury. “How’s he doing?”

“About as well as usual,” Kyle says with a shrug. His smile fades like snow in the wind. “He’s back in the ICU.”

“Is it his liver again?” Simon asks with furrowed brows.

“Nah, pneumonia,” he replies flippantly. “He gets it every winter, which is why it’s infuriating that the doctors ignored him for so long, especially given his health has been shit for the last twenty years. Spent most of the night with him, actually. Until Lucy kicked me out, anyway.”

All that frustration that once festered in his chest slowly fades as Simon watches Kyle’s shoulders slump. “She’ll take good care of him.”

“Yeah… yeah, she always does.”

Caught in a caprice, Kyle’s somber attitude switches to something lighter as he leans his hands back against the bench press. His eyes warm as he stares at the floor as if watching a film ticking in the back of his skull.

“She keeps… getting me things. Little gifts. I keep telling her not to, y’know with mum sending me all that hush money and all, I’ve got more than enough disposable income than most. She still does it anyway, and tells me that she loves me too much not to.” Pausing, Kyle shakes his head. “She does so much for me. For my dad, too. I’d give the whole world for her, man.”

Simon’s chuckle comes soft. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Suddenly, Kyle’s eyes dart across the dilapidating room as he grins. “Yeah, reckon you do. Heard you’ve been getting comfy with Chip now, that right?”

“Johnny needs to keep his mouth shut.”

“Nah, I heard that from Mrs. Price, actually.”

Always getting caught in your gravity, Simon’s thoughts wander back to you. He tries to stave off the acrimonious memories of your trembling skin against his in favor of something softer. The skin of your forehead against his lips. Your form curled and burrowed beneath blankets in bed—in his bed. The idea of it has him feeling silly. He’s been here locked up in some basement punching a bag when he could have been holding you all along.

“Yeah,” Simon finally admits. “She’s been stayin’ with me for a couple weeks now.”

“That’s what she mentioned. Said Chip’s apartment had water damage or something of the sort,” Kyle nods. “Reckon the two of you will be married by spring at this rate.”

Scoffing, Simon taps his phone against his thigh before shoving it back into his pocket. “Forgot you’re a comedian.”

Kyle innocently shrugs his shoulders. “All I’m saying is that Lucy and I will be expecting an invite. Summer at the latest.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

Simon spends only a little while longer in the basement with Kyle before he’s cleaning his hands upstairs in the bathroom. The bleeding has stopped, leaving nothing but oval shaped wounds along his first two knuckles. Fluorescent pink paints the peaks with irritated, peeling skin that cries whenever he clenches his fist, but he ignores the pain as he grips his steering wheel and drives through London’s morning rush.

Fatigued muscles begin to contract in his upper back and in the deep tissues of his thighs while he drives, but he ignores the way his body attempts to call him home. (To you. To where you rest curled among his mattress and pillows).

There’s something he needs to do.

The florist is picking at her nails when Simon enters the store. Wiry hair pokes out in haphazard spikes among the bun on her head, and she attempts to use a headband to keep her grey hairs from cowlicking upwards, though its endeavor proves to be futile. The bell ringing on the door catches her attention, and her crows feet deepen when she catches sight of Simon sauntering into the store.

“Good morning. Can I help you find anything?”

Her Brummie accent washes over Simon, and somehow he feels his guard let down just a little. “Just looking.”

And he does—look. His thick fingers brush over silky daisy petals and he prods at tangy scented stems and greenery. Multi-colored cellophane glints in the morning sun with prismatic fractals that paint his fingers every color of the rainbow, though he finds his eyes wandering over to the tan floral paper on his right. It smells like the fresh newspaper his mother would always read with her mid-morning tea every Sunday when he was a child.

“What’s the occasion?” The florist, having nothing better to do, has been tailing behind the large beast that is Simon Riley as he weaves around displays like a thorn in a field of wildflowers. “Valentine’s Day?”

Simon shakes his head. “No. Just… wanna get ‘er flowers.”

“Do you know what kind she likes?” she asks as she fixes her oversized spectacles on her nose.

Again, he shakes his head. “Dunno. She’s never mentioned it before. But she likes foxes, got any of those critters in the back?” he deadpans.

Grinning, the florist holds her finger up as she takes a step back. “I think I’ve got just the thing.”

Simon drives home slower than he ever has before, worried about damaging the precious plants seated in his passenger’s seat. He’s half tempted to buckle them up after he has to slam on the brakes when a student driver merges without bothering to engage their indicator, but he holds himself back and curses beneath his breath instead. The sweet sillage of garden roses and mums fills the interior of his car as if he’s being held hostage by some department store worker begging him to buy an overpriced bottle of perfume. His eyes feel heavy, and somehow his knuckles seem to throb worse now than they did before, but he ignores the feeling as he parks in the garage and heads into the house with his gift.

The only thing harder than picking out the perfect floral arrangement for you is figuring out how to prop the damn thing up when he didn’t buy a vase to go with it. Wrapped in floral paper and ribbon, it won’t stand on its own, but he feels odd just letting it sit on the kitchen counter. Does it look better propped up? No, no that looks worse. Why does it look so pathetic lying down? Should he wake you up and give it to you?

“Si?”

Your groggy voice pulls him out of his thoughts, and Simon finds himself spinning on his heels to face you. Still dressed in your nightclothes, his heart softens at the sight of you. He wants to scoop you up. Drag you to bed and keep you close. Drown in your scent as he lets the thud of your heart against his own lull him to sleep.

“Did you just get home?” you ask as you trot across the kitchen.

“Late night at work,” he excuses. Still clutching the bouquet in his hands, he stiffly holds it out for you. “I got you something.”

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you allow a soft gasp to escape your lips as you’re fully able to comprehend the item he presents. Gently cupping it in your palms, you breathe in the scent of fresh flowers while you study the floral paper it’s wrapped in—foxes. Tiny foxes sitting proudly with fluffy tails and pointy noses, leaning against one another for support. The pattern dots the paper in a mosaic. Your heart swells—you can’t recall a time when you were gifted flowers for a reason other than bereavement.

Your bottom lip juts out in a pout, eyes beginning to well with tears before you can even make sense of the overwhelming ardor that drowns your heart. “Simon, I… you’re so sweet. Oh, I love them.”

Temporarily placing the bouquet on the counter, you wrap your arms around Simon with a strength that nearly knocks the wind out of him. He smells strongly of tobacco and sweat, and a thick warmth radiates from his body like summertime humidity. Chuckling, he holds you as he rubs his fingers along your spine.

“They’ve got little foxes and everything!” you continue.

“I thought you might like that,” he says while pressing a kiss to your forehead.

After you feel you’ve sufficiently crushed Simon’s ribcage to the best of your ability, you pull away and cup his cheeks in your palms. They’re cold to the touch, still bitter and angry from the algid February weather. Still, you pull him to you, tilting your head so that your noses don’t knock together when you kiss. Hands wandering down to your hips, his fingers press into your skin as he hums, more than content.

When you pull away, you look at him and feel yourself begin to melt in his arms. “Thank you.”

“Anythin’ for you, baby,” he says before placing one more chaste kiss against your lips.

Grinning, you turn your attention back to the flowers. Your fingertips are drawn to the petals. You squeeze them, but not hard enough to bruise—only enough to feel every fiber that attempts to pulse beneath your skin.

It’s in this moment that you realize the full capacity in which your life has changed since Simon snuck his way into your heart. When the world used to end for you—when it would quake beneath your feet, awaking a chasm meant to swallow you whole—it took so long to rebuild. You’d have to slap up every wall of every home you ever lived in just to put yourself back together again. Worst of all, you did it alone.

Yet when the world ended yesterday—when you cut yourself open and allowed Simon to look at all the noisome wounds that have haunted you for ages—it’s now as if it had never happened. You’re still in his arms. You can still kiss his lips. He saw that rot and now it’s as if it hasn’t existed in a long, long time.

“Gettin’ a little tired, sweetheart. Gonna go lay down for a bit,” Simon says, wrapping his arms around you with his chest pressed against your back.

Humming, your lips part to respond to him, but you cut yourself off when you notice the marks on his knuckles. “Simon, your hand,” you gasp.

“It’s nothing,” he assures. “Was boxing at the gym.”

Comforted by his words—and the fact that there is a lack of bruises anywhere else on his body—you let your guard down as the two of you begin to sway. His lassitude seeps into you. Warmth bleeds like the transfer of fond memories, and though you roused yourself from bed not too long ago, you feel your eyes begin to grow heavy.

“Gonna come to bed with me, sweetheart?” Simon hums.

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds nice.”

You giggle as he begins to drag you back away from the counter, and your heart quivers with effusive desire. Before you turn around to follow Simon to the bedroom, your eyes catch sight of something that forces your chest to tighten. There, on the counter next to your bouquet, lies a long rectangular box. Glistening in red foil, you recognize it to be newly bought toothpaste with the words great cinnamon flavor! stamped across it.

Smiling, you snatch Simon’s hand into your own before following him to bed.

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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