flyingbanananas

[flyingbanananas]

Accidental Courting (Izou x Reader)

Sharing food, exchanging gifts… You only want to be kind and show Izou how much you appreciate him and his willingness to share his culture while visiting Wano with you. But every gesture seems to draw stares and knowing chuckles.

Are you accidentally being rude, despite your best efforts?

If so… why does Izou look at you with such soft eyes instead of scowling?

_____

~ 8.000 words

Part One of the “It’s Never Easy” Series

The moment you set foot on Wano soil, it’s like stepping into another world.

The air smells like cedar smoke and summer rain while mist curls along distant hills and crimson torii gates stand like sentinels along the winding path that leads toward the capital. Moreover, a procession of paper lanterns sways in the breeze as you and the others disembark from your small, hidden ship.

Your jaw drops instantly. “It’s… beautiful.”

Izou glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Still want to come?”

“Are you kidding?” you breathe. “This is incredible.”

Next to you, Ace stretches his arms behind his head, already looking somewhat bored. “The trees are cool, but where’s the food? I heard they’ve got sweet buns the size of your face.”

Whack.

Thatch smacks him on the back of his head with a huff. “Stop only thinking about food. I’m pretty sure the point of this trip isn’t stuffing our faces. Right, Marco?”

Marco is already scanning the treelines. “Right, yoi… Izou wants to visit family, so we keep a low profile, stay out of trouble, and let Izou enjoy himself for once.”

You nod. “Right. We let Izou do all the talking then.”

“Why does he get to talk?” Ace instantly grumbles.

“Because if you talk,” Marco says calmly, “we’ll start a war yoi.”

You stifle a laugh while Izou doesn’t even glance at Ace as he leads the group forward, robe swaying with every step. His posture is straighter here, and his expression quieter like something in him slots back into place just by being home.

You fall into step beside him, your boots crunching the gravel path.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He nods. “Haven’t been here in a long time. Feels… strange.”

You look at him for a second longer, watching the way the breeze brushes against his dark hair and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. “Well, thanks for letting us come with you. I feel like I’m walking through a painting.”

He doesn’t smile exactly, but his eyes soften.

“Just… mind your manners,” he murmurs.

You travel for nearly thirty minutes before encountering the first locals—a small group of older people standing near a roadside shrine, their voices hushed, their movements slow. One of them, an elderly woman, spots Izou as you approach. Her expression shifts from curiosity to recognition, and she bows. Deeply.

You stop, startled, and watch.

Izou returns the bow, his spine folding forward with elegant ease, hands folded neatly at his waist. The others pick up on the gesture and follow suit, if a little awkwardly. Thatch tries to match the depth, Marco bows with precision, and even Ace gives it an honest attempt.

You’re the last one just standing there like an idiot.

Panic rises. You bow quickly, clumsily, but now your brain’s screaming: How deep? How long? Too short? Too stiff?

Then, just as you start to straighten up, a hand presses gently between your shoulder blades. Not forceful, just steady. Guiding.

Izou.

“Lower,” he murmurs, voice barely audible. “Just a bit.”

You freeze in place, heart skipping in your chest, and adjust yourself with a muttered apology.

The elderly woman says nothing, and the others don’t seem to react, but you swear one of them gives you a look. Not cruel. Not judging. Just… assessing.

You feel your cheeks heat.

When the group moves on again, Izou falls into step beside you once more. He doesn’t say anything about your awkwardness. Doesn’t tease. But his shoulder brushes yours, just barely.

You get the sense he’s watching your every move - not to scold you, but to make sure you’re okay. And somehow, that makes it worse. Or better. You're not sure yet.

“You did fine,” Izou says calmly.

“I short-circuited, Izou,” you mutter, still warm in the face from the encounter. “You all bowed and I just stood there like a statue. I might’ve actually squeaked.”

“I noticed,” he says dryly, though there’s no real judgment in it.

You groan. “Great.”

“You’re not from here,” Izou says simply, like that settles it. “No one expects you to get it right.”

You glance at him, squinting. “But you fixed it anyway.”

He lifts one elegant shoulder in a soft shrug. “Couldn’t let you keep bowing like that. It looked like you were apologizing for murdering someone.”

Marco’s voice pipes up just behind you. “To be fair, you usually are.”

You swat him without even looking back. “Not here, I’m not.”

Ace snorts. “Give it time.”

“I’m trying to respect the culture, thank you very much,” you huff, crossing your arms as the group continues up the path.

The path narrows as you wind deeper through the countryside. The scent of smoke and incense thickens, and soon the trees thin to reveal a small cluster of wooden buildings nestled at the foot of a hill.

Izou slows his pace, gaze drifting over the buildings with something like nostalgia softening his features.

Then someone bursts out of the front door.

A young woman in a pale kimono practically flies down the front steps, long dark hair streaming behind her. She looks so much like Izou, with the same dark eyes and elegant bearing, that you blink in surprise.

“Izou!” she gasps, voice high with joy.

He barely has time to react before she throws her arms around him, hugging him so tightly he actually takes a step back. His arms come up automatically, one hand cradling the back of her head as he laughs—a real, full laugh you’re not sure you’ve ever heard from him before.

“You got taller,” he murmurs into her hair.

“You got slower,” she sniffs, squeezing him tighter before finally pulling back. Her eyes are shiny, but her smile is huge. “You didn’t write, you didn’t send a message, I didn’t even know if you were really coming until I heard rumors!”

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” he says gently.

She swats his arm. “Idiot.”

“Definitely related,” Marco mutters behind you.

You grin.

Izou turns toward you, still smiling in that quiet way of his, the kind of smile that seems rare enough to feel important when it happens.

“This is my little sister,” he says, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “Kikunojo.”

"Nice to meet you," you smile and glance at Izou. "Should we bow again?"

Kikunojo lets out a soft, melodic laugh. “You don’t have to. This isn’t an audience with the shogun.” She bows to you anyway, graceful and deep, with hands folded over her stomach. “But it is a pleasure. Izou rarely brings anyone home.”

You bow quickly in return, not quite as fluid but sincere. “It’s an honor to be here.”

Kikunojo’s smile softens further. “You must all be exhausted from the journey, and hungry, I imagine. Please, come inside. You’re just in time. Dinner is nearly ready.”

The moment the word hungry leaves her lips, Ace lights up. “Finally,” he groans. “I was about to start chewing on my own arm.”

Whack.

Thatch doesn’t even look at him as he smacks the back of Ace’s head with ease. “Have a little grace, would you? We’re guests.”

Ace scowls, rubbing the spot. “I was being honest!”

“Try being quiet instead yoi,” Marco mutters, brushing past them both.

Kikunojo giggles behind her sleeve, her expression unreadable and amused all at once. “You brought quite the lively group, brother.”

Izou exhales through his nose, his tone dry. “They grow on you.”

“I believe you,” she says, stepping aside to let you all pass through the inn’s doorway.

The air inside is warm and softly lit, the floors polished to a gentle sheen, and the scent of simmering broth drifting in from the back. You slip off your shoes, following Izou’s lead, and step up onto the raised wooden floor.

The place feels lived in but not worn down instead it appears to be quiet and welcoming. Like someone took the time to make sure everything was ready for your arrival.

But you’re not the only one taking it in.

“Wow,” Thatch murmurs, glancing around. “This is… way nicer than I thought.”

Ace’s jaw drops. “They’ve got yukata ready?!”

Sure enough, a small wooden rack nearby holds a variety of neatly folded yukata—indigo, cream, deep green, patterned with delicate motifs. Without hesitation, Ace grabs the brightest one he can find: a bold red with orange wave patterns.

“This one’s mine,” he declares.

“Of course it is,” Marco says dryly, though you catch the faintest twitch of a smile as he surveys the room.

Kikunojo steps in behind you. “I’ve laid out a few things to make you comfortable. Please, feel free to choose whichever yukata you like. You’ll find washing basins and fresh towels through the hallway to the left. When you’re ready, we’ll be in the main room for dinner.”

You nod quickly, bowing your head again. “Thank you. Really. This is… amazing.”

She smiles, and something in her eyes suggests she’s glad you’re being sincere about it. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay. And don’t worry about formalities too much while you’re here. Just try not to break anything.”

Ace already has one arm in his yukata, half-spinning in the middle of the room. “No promises!”

“Ace,” Thatch groans.

You’re guided to a smaller adjoining room, divided by sliding paper doors - simple but elegant. Inside are bedding rolls tucked neatly to the side, low lacquered furniture, and enough space for each of you to rest in separate areas without feeling cramped.

As you gather your chosen yukata and step toward the changing area, you glance back at Izou. He’s standing just off to the side, watching the group settle in with a mix of fondness and mild disbelief.

“Go on,” he says, catching your eye. “We’ll eat soon.”

You nod again, clutching the fabric in your arms.

____________

A low table is set in the center of the main room, surrounded by floor cushions, each place set with care. There are ceramic dishes arranged with seasonal vegetables, simmered fish, miso soup, and delicate pickles.

Moreover, a warm clay pot steams gently in the center, its broth bubbling as Kikunojo ladles in thin slices of meat and tofu with ease.

You sit beside Izou, mimicking his every move like it’s a test you desperately want to pass. When he folds his hands and bows slightly toward the food, you do the same. And when he uses chopsticks, you mirror him, resisting every urge to fumble.

Across the table, Ace is already digging in, slurping noodles and humming with his mouth full.

“This is amazing!” he exclaims, eyes sparkling. “Is this lotus root? What is this WHACK Hey!”

Thatch swats him again. “At least try to act like you weren’t raised in the wild.”

“I was raised in the wild!”

Marco sips his tea without comment.

You manage to hold back a laugh and return your attention to the food, trying not to seem too wide-eyed at how beautiful everything looks.

Carefully you pick up a delicate slice of fish glazed in something sweet and smoky, and when it hits your tongue, you actually pause.

Oh. Oh, that’s good.

Then, without thinking, you reach for another piece and gently place it in Izou’s bowl.

“You have to try this,” you murmur, leaning in just a little, your voice softer than before. “I swear, it’s perfect.”

You expect a quiet thank-you, maybe a nod, but what you don’t expect is the softening of his whole expression.

He pauses, just for a heartbeat. His eyes flick down to the fish, then back up to you, softer now. There’s something gentle there, almost guarded, like a secret he’s not ready to share. And then, a small smile, almost like it’s just between the two of you.

“Alright,” he says, and picks up the piece with his chopsticks like it’s nothing.

But across the table, Kikunojo has stopped mid-pour, her eyes sharp with sudden interest as she glances between the two of you.

She notices the way Izou’s shoulders relax ever so slightly, how his voice carries a different warmth when he talks to you. And when he tastes the fish, he doesn’t comment on the flavor; instead, he offers a small, satisfied nod, like he’s savoring more than just the food.

Then in the corner of your eye you catch Kikunojo watching you – just briefly – before she looks away, but not before her gaze makes you question yourself and your gestures.

“…Did I do something wrong?” you ask softly, careful not to make it obvious. Your eyes flick to Izou’s bowl. “I… was that rude?”

Izou meets your gaze, his brow lifting slightly. He studies you, as if debating whether to say more. Then, with the faintest shrug, he replies, voice steady and soft. “No. Not rude.”

“Really?” You glance at Kikunojo this time, your expression openly concerned. “Please tell me if I did something out of line. I wouldn’t want to offend anyone.”

She looks at you for a long moment. Then at Izou.

There’s a beat, where she seems ready to explain something. But the way her brother looks at you—quiet, unreadable, yet undeniably tender, makes her pause.

“No worries,” she says at last, her voice smooth and kind. “No harm done.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the tension easing from your shoulders. You smile again, lighter this time.

“And here I was thinking I accidentally called you an idiot or something,” you say to Izou, half-joking, half-trying to hide your earlier nerves.

Izou chuckles, low and easy. “No... nothing even close to that.”

His eyes flicker toward yours, linger for just a second too long, then drop back to his food like he’s trying to play it cool.

You smile, turning back to your own plate… only to be interrupted by no other than Ace.

“Hey, was that the fish you gave Izou?” he grins, leaning across the table. His eyes gleam with mischief. “Come on, share some with me too!”

You turn to him, unimpressed, and gently push his chopsticks aside. “Get your own. I’m not your personal waitress.”

Ace blinks, a little surprised by your edge, then smirks, delighted. “Oh? But it’s totally fine when it’s Izou, huh? Playing favorites.”

“I’m not.”

“You so are!”

You roll your eyes, trying to dismiss it with a scoff, but your ears burn all the same.

As you continue to eat you don’t seem to notice how Kikunojo continues to watch you closely. But eventually she shifts her gaze to Izou and raises a single, knowing eyebrow. It’s a silent question, not teasing exactly, but close.

”Why don’t you say something?”

Izou doesn’t answer with words. He only offers the faintest of shrugs, eyes still on his tea as he lifts the cup to his lips. But his smile lingers a little longer this time. And it’s different, not one meant for the table, or even for Kiku.

It’s the kind of smile you offer when something quietly matters. When you're not ready to name it out loud, but you’re already holding it close.

And Kiku sees that, too.

She hums under her breath, almost like a laugh, and finally looks away.

_____________

Later that evening, when you return to your room well fed and tired, you find a small hand-painted charm in the gift basket left in the corner of your room. It’s a delicate little thing – red, gold, and black, strung with a paper tag that reads “for protection and sincerity”.

You think of Izou, how gently he’d touched your back, how he hadn’t laughed when you messed up. How he looked like someone caught between two worlds and carried himself like he belonged in both.

So, you pluck the charm from the basket and tuck it into your pocket. He needs this more than you do right now… so maybe you’ll give it to him tomorrow.

_____________

The next morning, you find Izou standing alone beneath a flowering tree behind the inn. Soft petals drift around him, caught in the breeze, and scatter across the surface of the koi pond below. He’s watching the water, arms folded neatly, his face unreadable.

You shift the little paper-wrapped charm in your hands and step closer, careful not to crunch the gravel beneath your feet.

“Hey,” you say gently.

He glances over. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you admit. “Too many crickets. Loud little things.”

You come to stand beside him, the silence stretching out in the way it only can with someone you trust. A comfortable quiet, filled with birdsong and the ripple of fish in the water. And after a few beats, you hold out the small bundle.

“I found this in the gift basket in my room. Thought you might like it.”

He raises a brow, but takes it from your hands without question. His fingers are warm against yours, and as he peels back the paper, his expression stills. Inside is a deep red omamori charm, threaded with gold and marked with two careful ink strokes: protection and sincerity.

He studies it for a long moment.

“…You’re giving this to me?” he asks, voice lower than before.

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly unsure. “I figured, with us being here and… probably messing up a bunch of stuff culturally without realizing, you might need it. I mean… not need it, but maybe it’s, like, a nice buffer? I don’t know. Is that not okay?”

His eyes flick up to meet yours.

“No,” he says firmly, and closes his fingers around the charm. “It’s not rude. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

You blink. “Really?”

Izou nods once. He doesn’t smile, not quite, but the edges of his gaze soften. Then, to your surprise, he tucks the charm into the inside fold of his kimono close to his chest, pressed over his heart.

“I’m planning to go to the temple today,” he says after a pause. “If you want to come.”

You blink. “Oh.” Then you smile, bright and open. “I’d like that very much.”

Izou returns your smile, though his is more reserved. Softer. “Me too… If it’s not too much to ask we could go now… You know… before it gets crowded. It’ll be quieter.

You blink again, then nod quickly. “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. I’m gonna get dressed then!” you say quickly, practically bouncing. “Give me ten minutes!”

You rush back inside before the excitement can bubble over. Your room is still dim with morning light, and the scent of tatami mats and sakura hangs in the air. You go straight to your luggage and pull out two kimonos you’d set aside the night before.

One is pale lavender with delicate silver cranes stitched along the hem, airy and graceful. The other is a deeper shade of indigo with subtle plum blossoms curling around the fabric.

You hold them up in front of the mirror, shifting your weight back and forth.

“They both look nice,” you murmur to your reflection, but the mirror is no help at all.

So, you purse your lips, glancing toward the door. Izou’s room is only a few steps away, and you know him well enough to know he wouldn’t mind.

Probably.

You pad quietly down the hall, barefoot, the fabric of your robe rustling softly as you go. You knock lightly, but don’t wait long before sliding the door open.

“Izou?” you call gently, poking your head in.

He’s already dressed, standing beside a low table adjusting the sash at his waist. His kimono is dark with soft floral patterns stitched in faded silver and violet. It fits him perfectly, of course.

He looks up the moment he hears your voice. His gaze drops to the two kimonos in your arms, then back to your face.

“I can’t decide,” you confess with a sheepish grin, stepping inside. “Do you think the lavender or the plum one suits the temple visit more?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just steps forward and gently lifts the plum kimono from your arm. His fingers brush yours briefly, a warm touch that lingers longer than it needs to.

“This one,” he says softly.

“Yeah?” You tilt your head, looking between the one he’s holding and the one still in your arms. “I thought you might say that actually… It’s a bit more traditional-looking, huh?”

Izou’s lips quirk, but he doesn’t explain further. His gaze flickers over your face, then down to the fabric again.

“We’ll match if you wear it,” he says softly.

“Match?” You blink, then look at his kimono. Sure enough, plum blossoms. “Oh! That’s adorable. We’ll look like a set.”

He chuckles, low and smooth, but there’s something else behind it. Something softer. Fonder. “Yes… a set.”

You beam without catching the subtle shift in his expression. To you, it’s just a cute coincidence. But to him…. To Izou it means something more… because matching outfits are a sign of commitment.

A subtle declaration, but of course you don’t know that.

“Thanks, Izou!” You tell him and rush off to change with a smile.

_____________

Even though it is rather early the road through the village is busier than you expected.

Many stalls line both sides of the path, vibrant and loud, filled with vendors shouting over one another to sell fresh peaches, steamed buns, trinkets, and charms. Moreover, children run between adults, chasing kites and each other.

You walk beside Izou, your sleeves brushing now and then. The road is just crowded enough to press you closer than usual.

Every so often you glance to the side, eyes catching on something you think might make a good souvenir — a little frog-shaped coin purse, or a painted wind chime that jingles softly in the breeze. You're in the middle of admiring a delicate porcelain tea set when movement at a nearby pottery stall catches your eye.

To your left, an older woman glances up from arranging her wares. Her gaze sweeps over you Izou briefly, then lingers a little longer than necessary. She takes in your matching colors, the slight closeness, and the ease in your movements beside each other.

Then she offers you a small, knowing smile.

“Oh,” she says softly, to no one in particular, but clearly aimed in your direction. “How lovely! Plum blossoms for both. A sign of harmony, you know.”

You blink. “Huh?”

The woman doesn’t explain further just tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear and returns to adjusting a small clay vase like she hadn’t said anything at all.

You glance at Izou, puzzled. “What did she mean by that?”

He’s quiet for a beat longer than expected. Then his lips quirk faintly, and he says far too casually, “Just an old saying.”

“If you say so…” You push the rising feeling of unease down and keep walking.

But it happens again.

A man selling persimmons catches your eye. He gives you a knowing smile - small, but unmistakably amused, and nods politely as you pass. You blink, confused, and glance behind you to check if he is looking at someone else.

Unlikely, there is no one, but Izou beside you, close as ever, with his arms tucked neatly into his sleeves.

“Odd,” you think, and try not to think about it too much. After all, Izou doesn’t seem to be concerned, so why should you be?

But then a few steps later, a mother walking with her child suddenly slows as you approach. Next, she leans down and says something in a soft voice, too fast for you to catch, but the child giggles and stares right at you. Then at Izou. Then back again.

“What was that about?” you murmur, trying to smile politely as they pass.

Izou shrugs, face neutral, but his eyes are almost too calm. Like he’s holding something back.

”Why do I get that feeling that everybody knows something I don’t?”

Luckily, you’re finally nearing the far end of the village, the crowds thinning out, the temple just visible beyond a row of trees. Only a handful of stalls remain between you and the quiet ahead.

But then one of the stalls catches your attention immediately. The air around it smells of something grilled and sweet, a smoky, nutty aroma that makes your stomach twist in a pleasant way.

You pause without thinking.

“Smells amazing,” you murmur, already stepping closer.

The vendor beams at your reaction and begins wrapping one of the rice cakes before you even ask. And before you can pull out your coins, Izou’s hand moves quietly between you and the vendor.

“I’ve got it,” he says simply.

You blink, surprised, but say nothing as he pays.

The vendor chuckles softly as he hands the rice cake to you, not unkind by any means, but with the kind of knowing smile that makes your stomach flutter for a different reason. His eyes flick from you to Izou, and there’s a warmth there.

“Enjoy,” the vendor says. Then, with a subtle smile, “She’ll love it.”

You feel your ears go warm.

Izou only offers a polite nod and turns to continue walking, his expression unreadable save for the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

You scramble to follow him, clutching the warm bundle in your hands. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

His tone is casual, but your heart skips anyway.

And behind you, the vendor chuckles again low, amused, and just loud enough to feel like the punchline of a joke you weren’t meant to hear.

But then finally the road leads you to the edge of the village, and the noise of the stalls fades behind you. Ahead, a stone stairway leads up the hill, flanked by carved lanterns and shaded by tall pines. The temple you two plan to visit sits above, overlooking everything.

You slow at the base of the steps, still holding the rice cake. The warmth has soaked through the paper by now, soft and steady in your hands. A harsh comparison to the chaos inside of you that you can no longer ignore.

“…Are people staring at us?” you ask quietly.

Izou doesn’t look away from the path ahead. “Mm.”

“…Why?”

This time he glances at you, brief but deliberate. “Why do you think?”

You frown, uncertainty knotting in your chest. “I don’t know,” you mumble, heat blooming across your face. “I must’ve messed something up again. Maybe I did my hair wrong, or it’s the kimono’s color, or I wore the wrong sash, or…” Your heart suddenly drops. “Should I go back? I can change!”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “I picked the kimono, remember?”

You blink up at him, that spiraling panic softening just a touch. “I know, but—”

“Why don’t you take a bite,” he says gently, nodding to the rice cake in your hand. “Might help settle your nerves.”

You glance down at it, the scent drifting up—sweet and warm and toasty. You take a slow bite. The crisp edge gives way to soft chew and sweet red bean paste, and despite everything, a tiny noise of approval escapes you.

“…You’re right,” you murmur, chewing. “That actually helps.”

Izou hums, watching you with the faintest smile ghosting the corner of his lips. The breeze lifts a lock of his hair and carries with it the distant sound of wind chimes.

You take another bite, then hold the rice cake up to him, offering it wordlessly.

He raises a brow. “You’re sharing?”

“Of course,” you smile up at him, trying to cover the quiet flutter in your chest.

“I bought that for you,” he says quietly and you would have assumed that he truly doesn’t want to take a bite if it weren’t for that lingering look in his eyes.

“I’m offering a bite,” you chuckle softly, “not the entire thing. Come on. It’s really good.”

Izou hesitates for a moment but then leans in slightly and takes a small bite close enough that you feel his breath brushing your fingers, warm and brief. Then he pulls back, chewing thoughtfully.

“…You’re right,” he says. “It is good.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out too breathless.

Luckily Izou doesn’t tease. He just watches you for a moment longer, then reaches out with two fingers and adjusts the edge of your sleeve where it slipped slightly off your wrist.

He doesn’t say why. He doesn’t need to.

You look at him, heart suddenly full of something you don’t have words for, and in that moment, the noise of the market fades completely. The laughter, the whispers, the tension from before, it all disappears into the quiet space between you and him.

Izou’s voice breaks the silence, soft and almost hesitant: “Do you still want to go to the temple?”

You blink, surprised by the question, by how careful he sounds. Do you?

“I can take you back to the inn,” he offers gently. “If it’s too much… if you’d rather.”

Your eyes drop to the small, warm remnant of the rice cake in your hands, then up to the stone steps ahead, the temple looming just beyond. You take a slow breath, then shake your head.

“No,” you say quietly, but with certainty. “I still want to go.”

Izou studies you for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as if weighing your words.

You offer a small, shy smile. “You wanted to go. And I don’t want to ruin this for you.”

Izou’s brow furrows, and he steps closer. “You’re not ruining anything,” he insists firmly. “Whether you stay or go back, it doesn’t change anything. You don’t have to worry about that.”

You bite your lip, uncertain.

He softens, voice dropping to a gentle rumble. “If you want to go, then we'll go. If you need a break, we can turn around. Either way, it’s fine.”

You smile again and shake your head, pushing down the soft giggle that dares to escape your tight lips.

You move on.

_____________

The temple sits quiet at the top of a stone path, surrounded by wind-chimes and willow trees. It isn’t grand or towering. It feels lived-in, loved. Worn wooden beams curve softly under carved tiles, and paper lanterns sway between weathered posts.

You climb the last steps slowly, trying not to let your thoughts race ahead of your feet. Izou walks beside you, hands folded neatly in front of him, expression unreadable but unmistakably calm. Always calm.

Naturally, you fall into step just half a pace behind, unsure where you should be.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. Every step he takes seems sure, quietly measured, and respectful. You watch the way he holds his hands, how he walks without rushing. It feels like there’s a rhythm to it, one you weren’t taught.

So you copy him.

Or try to.

Hands folded the same way. Stride small and even. You don’t want to risk doing something wrong, not in a place like this not when it clearly matters to him.

At the main hall, Izou slows, then stops just before the offering box. He bows once—deep and respectful, and steps forward silently. You mimic the bow a beat after, not quite as fluid, but earnest.

He pulls a small coin from his sleeve and drops it gently into the box, the sound barely a whisper against the wood. You fumble for your own coin, offering it the same way.

Izou brings his hands together in front of his chest, fingers lightly touching, and bows his head in prayer. His eyes close. Shoulders still. He doesn’t rush.

And of course, you follow every movement. Match the shape of his hands. Lower your head. Try to still your breath the way he does.

Eventually, he opens his eyes, and for a moment his gaze flickers toward you. Feeling his stare you look up, half-expecting him to look surprised or annoyed. But his gaze softens… just slightly… just for you… and a small smile flickers across his face, brief but real.

You blink at him. “What?” you whisper, uncertain. “Did I mess it up?”

He shakes his head slowly, that tiny smile still curling at the edge of his mouth. “No,” he murmurs, “you’re doing it… perfectly.”

And then he turns to light incense, stepping quietly to the side.

Of course, you follow. Just close enough to match his pace. Just close enough not to lose your place beside him. And together, you place the incense upright in the ash bed. Side by side. Your hands nearly brush.

You keep your gaze lowered, but movement catches at the edge of your vision.

Two older shrine-goers, praying near the incense trays, glance up. One smiles. The other leans toward her and whispers something beneath her breath. You catch the phrase “still so traditional” before it’s lost to the wind.

You blink. Traditional?

You’re just trying not to embarrass yourself further.

Still, your steps stay cautious. You keep your hands folded the way Izou does. You walk in silence.

You want to do it right.

Then, when the offering is done you two turn to leave. Still, you can’t help but look over to the older women again and notice how one bows her head while the other smiles as she watches you both pass, like she knows something you don’t.

So, you glance at Izou and lean toward him, keeping your voice low. “Are you sure I didn’t mess anything up?”

He hums lightly, almost amused. “You didn’t.”

“Because…” You glance back again. “They keep looking at us like we just announced something. Or agreed to something. And I… I don’t know what I’m missing.”

Izou doesn’t answer right away. But his pace slows just enough that you notice.

When he does speak, it’s quiet, thoughtful. “They probably saw something familiar.”

You blink. “Familiar?”

“Something they remember,” he says. “From when tradition wasn’t just formality. When it meant something.”

You glance sideways at him, brows still slightly knit. “Is that a good thing?” you ask, still not completely understanding.

Izou doesn’t look at you right away. His gaze stays ahead, fixed gently on the path winding back down through the trees. But the corner of his mouth lifts, not a smirk, not teasing. Something softer.

“Yes,” he says, and this time, he does look at you. “One might say that.”

His voice is steady, but there’s a glimmer of something behind the words something you can’t name yet, but it feels warm. Quietly proud. Maybe even fond.

But you don’t press. You just walk the rest of the way beside him, wondering what, exactly, they all saw that you didn’t.

_____________

What a day… You enjoyed experiencing the culture and interacting with the locals, but once evening comes around, you’re truly happy to be back in the inn.

The inn’s common room glows with golden light, lanterns swaying gently as night folds over the village outside. The table is already full with ceramic dishes piled high with leftovers, cups clinking softly as another round of sake is poured.

Thatch leans back, laughing at something Ace just said, something loud and ridiculous, at Marco’s expense, judging by the exasperated look on his face.

You smile faintly, letting their voices fade to a low buzz and not really listening, thoughts bouncing from memory to memory, replaying the day’s moments over and over.

Eventually, you glance to Izou, who’s sitting next to you. He hasn’t said much all evening.

But to be fair, you haven’t either.

“Izou,” you murmur, low enough that only he hears. “Can we talk?”

He looks at you then, eyes steady. “Is something wrong?”

“I just… Please…” You nod toward the hallway, and he follows without a word.

You end up near the edge of the garden, where the paper walls let in the soft sound of wind chimes and the distant laughter of your friends. It’s dimmer here, quieter. And when you turn to him, your hands are folded tightly in front of you.

“I’m not stupid,” you begin, voice soft but firm. “I know something’s been going on.”

Izou doesn’t respond, he just watches you, unreadable.

“People stared,” you go on. “They whispered. They laughed. At us. And you…” your voice catches, “…you won’t tell me why. I’ve asked. I’m asking again now. Just once more.”

Still nothing.

You exhale, starting to turn away, but then Izou reaches into his sleeve and pulls something out. A small, rectangular parcel, neatly wrapped in deep red cloth.

He holds it out to you.

You blink, confused, but take it carefully. Your fingers unwrap the cloth slowly, revealing a slim wooden box. You open it.

Inside is a hairpin.

Delicate and exquisite—silver inlaid with lacquered flowers, with a tiny crane poised in flight at the end. It glimmers faintly in the light, too beautiful to be anything casual.

Your breath hitches. “Izou, this is…”

He cuts in, voice low but clear. “In Wano… when someone wants to court another person, they don’t use words at first.”

You look up sharply.

“They offer gestures,” he says. “Meals. Walks. Small touches. Gifts. And eventually… a hairpin. It’s the final step before the proposal.”

The silence that follows is thick. Dizzying.

You stare down at the hairpin, its delicate craftsmanship glinting in your palm. The crane’s wings are outstretched mid-flight, caught in a moment of motion, and yet your whole world feels like it’s holding its breath.

When you speak, your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Izou’s gaze lifts to meet yours, but he doesn’t answer right away. You push, just a little more, because you need to understand.

“All those times I asked if I did something wrong,” you murmur. “If I offended anyone. You could’ve told me what it meant. That I was…” Your words falter. “That I was doing all that by accident.”

Still, he says nothing.

Your voice sharpens, not with anger but with hurt. “Why didn’t you explain it to me?”

Izou finally exhales, slow and quiet, like he’s setting something down inside himself.

“Because it wasn’t wrong,” he says simply. “It never felt wrong.”

You blink, startled.

“I liked it,” he continues. “Being looked at that way. Being given food, and walked beside, and…” He hesitates for a moment, then finishes softer, “It felt like I was being chosen. And I… I wanted to pretend. Just for a while.”

Your breath catches in your chest. He’s looking at the floor now, his voice low, unsure. Like he’s afraid to look up and find regret on your face.

And maybe you should be angry, or embarrassed, or feel tricked. But you don’t. You’re just quiet for a long moment.

Then, with slow, careful fingers, you lift the hairpin from the box and hold it out to him.

Izou freezes.

His eyes drop to the pin, to the crane resting in your open palm, then to your expression. Whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten. He doesn’t reach for it at first.

You give it a little nudge toward him.

And finally, he takes it.

His hands are shaking.

You see it, the tremble in his fingers as he wraps them around the gift he gave you. The way he holds it like it’s something fragile, something breaking.

Like he thinks you’re handing it back.

“I just…” You start, then pause. You turn away, looking down toward the wooden floorboards, suddenly very interested in the weave of your sleeve. “I don’t know how to put it in.”

You don’t see his face, but you hear the breath he lets out. A sound caught somewhere between disbelief and relief.

“Could you…?” You swallow, still not facing him. “Would you… put it in for me?”

Silence stretches just long enough that you wonder if you misread something until you feel him move.

He steps behind you, slow and steady. And when his hands rise to gently brush your hair aside, your whole body goes still.

His touch is feather-light, reverent. He gathers your hair with more care than you thought possible, pulling it back just enough to find the right place near your ear. You feel the cool brush of metal as he slides the pin in.

And he sees it, then—your ears flushed bright red, the blush creeping all the way to the tips. Your shoulders tense under his touch like you’re trying to hold yourself perfectly still, even though you’re clearly on the edge of bursting into flames.

Izou smiles.

It’s soft. Private. A little stunned.

“Adorable,” he can’t help himself from saying it out loud.

He lingers just a moment longer, smoothing one last stray piece of hair away from your cheek, his fingertips ghosting across your skin.

And when you finally turn to look at him again, your blush hasn’t faded, but there’s something proud in your eyes now, too. Like you’ve chosen this. Like you’re not afraid of being seen anymore.

The crane glints in your hair between you.

And Izou… he just stares at you, utterly undone.

Then, like his body moves before his mind can catch up, his thumb brushes softly across your cheeks, tracing skin like he’s memorizing it.

You stay still, heart fluttering like the crane resting just above your ear.

Your breath catches when his hand tilts ever so slightly, his fingers cradling your jaw now. You open your eyes to find him already looking at you—closely, deeply—like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Izou,” you whisper, though you’re not sure what you meant to say. Maybe just his name. Maybe just to breathe it into the space between you because you need him to know how you feel without saying anything else.

“I know,” he murmurs, just as quietly.

But he still doesn’t move.

Not yet.

There’s a reverence in the way he waits, giving you time… always giving you time. And it’s that patience, that gentleness, that makes your chest ache with wanting.

So you tilt your chin up. Barely. Just enough.

His eyes flick to your lips. Just once.

And then he leans in.

The kiss is slow, almost tentative at first. A brush of lips, soft and searching, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to have this… if you’ll stay or pull away.

But you don’t.

You lean into him, one hand rising instinctively to grip the front of his kimono, grounding yourself in the warmth of him. And that’s all the answer he needs.

His other arm curls around your waist, drawing you closer, holding you steady as his lips press more firmly into yours—still tender, but now with more weight. More intent.

It’s not a kiss meant to steal your breath.

It’s a kiss that gives it back to you.

When you part, neither of you speaks right away. Your foreheads rest together, the hush between you humming with something alive.

But then a sudden gust of wind chills your skin, making you shiver beneath the soft night air and Izou feels it instantly.

His hand presses to the small of your back.

“Come on,” he murmurs, already shrugging off his haori. “Let’s head back. It’s getting cold.”

The walk back is slow and quiet, your steps unhurried, your heart still fluttering from the kiss and everything it meant. The hairpin glints gently in your hair as you lean a little into him, warmed more by his presence than the borrowed fabric.

When you return to the inn, laughter and voices are already spilling out of the common room. Inside, Ace, Thatch, and Marco are sitting cross-legged around low trays stacked with sake cups and half-eaten snacks, joined now by Kikunojo.

The moment you and Izou step into the light, Kiku looks up. Her gaze sweeps over you both—your flushed cheeks, the borrowed haori still wrapped around your shoulders, and then... the crane hairpin gleaming in your hair.

Her expression shifts immediately, all amusement and recognition. “Well,” she says, eyes dancing. “Congratulations.”

You blink, not expecting anyone to figure out what just happened by looking at you for less than three seconds.

Ace immediately pauses mid-sip and whips his head toward her. “Congrats for what?!”

Thatch nearly chokes on a rice cracker. “Hold on, hold on, what did we miss?! You two were gone for, like, five minutes!”

Kiku smiles behind her cup, absolutely enjoying herself. “Look closely.”

Thatch squints. “What am I looking for…? Oh. OH.” He points dramatically at your head. “The hairpin. It must have something to do with the hairpin!”

“Exchanging gifts, especially hairpins and other accessories are a sign of commitment, yoi.” Marco sips calmly. “It’s the final step in a Wano courtship ritual.”

Ace screams. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN FINAL STEP?! WHEN WERE THERE OTHER STEPS?!”

You burst into laughter just as Izou casually sits down and pours himself a drink like nothing is happening. You slide down beside him, flushed but smiling, and reach for his hand your fingers linking without hesitation.

“Oh my god, it’s real,” Thatch whispers. “It’s actually happening. I thought you two hated each other.”

“We bickered like once,” you say, amused.

“Which is flirting, apparently!” Ace gestures wildly between you. “Since when? No one tells me anything! Was this happening under our noses the whole time?!”

You’re laughing into your sleeve, but Izou’s hand is still in yours, steady and warm. He watches the chaos unfold with a faint smirk, as though this is exactly what he expected from his loud brothers.

“Okay but LISTEN,” Ace says, suddenly pointing between you and Izou. “We need a timeline. When did this start? When did you fall in love? WHO confessed? Was it dramatic? Did someone cry?”

Thatch slaps the table. “Did you hold hands before this? Kiss behind the inn? Is there a secret love letter somewhere? I need to know everything.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Ace cuts in again.

“Oh my god… NO… did you accidentally court him? Was it one of those ‘oops we’re married now’ situations?!”

“Well…” you begin and than look towards Izou for help, but he doesn’t answer, just raises his sake cup to his lips and takes a slow sip.

“Oh no,” Thatch groans, smacking the table again. “That’s what happened.”

Ace gasps. “And he knew the whole time! Maybe even planned it!”

“I didn’t plan anything,” Izou says smoothly.

“I don’t believe a single word that’s coming out of your mouth !!” Ace howls, flailing dramatically. “I swear, if one more surprise drops on me tonight, I’m throwing myself into the koi pond.”

You’re laughing so hard your sides hurt, but there’s a fluttering warmth in your chest you don’t want to let go of. You look at Izou - his eyes, his steady presence, the way his thumb gently brushes your knuckles beneath the table.

And maybe he feels it too, because he leans in and murmurs, just for you: “You’re glowing.”

“Blame the sake,” you tease.

“No,” he says softly, his smile deepening. “It’s not the sake.”

“STOP WHISPERING SWEET THINGS WE CAN’T HEAR,” Ace yells.

“WE’RE YOUR FAMILY, DAMN IT,” Thatch adds. “WE DEMAND TRANSPARENCY.”

“You two are the worst,” you say, still smiling.

“No, YOU TWO are the worst,” they shout in unison.

_____________

The docks are bustling as you prepare to leave, the sails of your ship tugging gently in the wind, and the early morning light painting everything gold.

You hug Kikunojo tightly, your voice soft. “Thank you. For everything.”

She squeezes you back just as firmly, a warm smile on her face. “Take care of him,” she whispers into your ear, then pulls back with a glimmer in her eyes. “And keep wearing the pin. It suits you.”

Your hand instinctively touches the ornament tucked neatly into your hair, and you nod, throat tightening a little.

Izou stands nearby, exchanging quiet farewells with a few other locals, and when your eyes meet, his expression softens in that way that makes your heart flip all over again.

But the moment is short-lived, because as soon as you both step aboard the ship, you can feel that chaos is about to start.

“Alright, listen up!” Ace announces, sliding down the mast with exaggerated flair. He plants himself firmly in front of you, arms crossed. “New rule: no sneaky late-night strolls, no romantic moonlit talks, and absolutely no eloping behind our backs!”

You blink at him. “We’re not… Ace, seriously?”

“I mean it!” he insists, pointing between you and Izou. “If we give you two even an inch of privacy, next thing we know, you’re getting married in the middle of the night by candlelight with no witnesses and we’ll all find out from a note taped to the mast!”

You can’t help laughing, lifting your hands to try and calm him. “Ace, come on, it’s not like that. We’re not planning anything. I swear.”

Thatch strolls up behind him, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the drama. “That’s what they want us to think. But we’ve seen the signs. The blushes. The stolen looks. You’re one quiet dinner away from exchanging vows.”

“Exactly. Therefore, I will sleep outside your door,” Ace threatens dramatically. “I will do it. Just try me.”

You open your mouth to protest again, but you feel Izou shift beside you, entirely too calm. In fact… smug.

“Well,” he says smoothly, folding his arms, “technically… I could marry her right here. In my cabin. Doesn’t even need to be formal. Quiet. Private. No interruptions.”

You turn to look at him, eyes wide. “Izou!”

But he’s smirking now, and there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes. He’s enjoying this.

Ace gasps loudly enough to echo off the sails. “OH HELL NO. You are NOT sharing a room! Not unless I’m sleeping between you two from now on!”

You sigh through your laughter, watching as Ace frantically starts drawing diagrams in the air with wild gestures while Marco walks away in the opposite direction, pretending not to hear a word.

Through it all, Izou’s hand remains firmly in yours.

You glance up at him, smiling despite the ridiculousness of it all. “You really like riling him up, don’t you?”

His smile softens. “Only a little.”

And even with Ace shouting about curfews and Thatch declaring himself your “maid of honor just in case,” it’s quiet between the two of you in that one perfect moment, like the chaos only makes it sweeter.

You glance up at Izou with a snicker you can’t hold back, eyes still bright from laughter. “Just wait until the others hear about this.”

He lifts a brow, returning your grin with a gleam of mischief in his gaze. “And Pops.”

Your expression shifts into a mixture of amusement and mock horror. “Oh, Pops is going to love this.”

Your laughter softens as Izou turns toward you, the teasing fading into something quieter, gentler. The breeze tousles his hair, and the warmth in his eyes isn’t playful anymore… It’s something deeper.

You don’t need words.

His hand rises, fingertips brushing against your cheek before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, lingering there as if afraid the moment might slip away. You tilt your face up instinctively, breath caught between heartbeats.

And then he kisses you.

It’s slow, tender, full of the kind of affection that’s been building in quiet glances and stolen moments. The world around you fades away… the sway of the ship, the distant shouting from below deck, even the sound of the sea. It’s just the two of you, wrapped in that single, perfect kiss.

Until…

“OH MY GOD IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN!!”

[flyingbanananas]

Not Like That (Izou x Reader)

The crew’s always making comments.

You’re not surprised anymore, just half-annoyed, half-used to it. Marco smirks when he passes by you and Izou sitting shoulder to shoulder on the deck. Thatch makes little heart gestures behind your back. Even Ace, not the most observant when it comes to love, raises a brow now and then.

You laugh it all off. So does Izou.

“Not like that,” you always say, even though lately, it doesn’t come out as easily.

_____

~ 5.000 words

The sun’s sinking on the horizon, painting everything in warm colors, when you find Izou in your usual spot, the quiet corner of the upper deck tucked behind a row of crates. He must have been waiting for you for quite some time, legs folded beneath him, with a book in one hand.

He doesn’t look up when he speaks.

“You’re late,” he says, voice smooth as ever. “I nearly finished the chapter without you.”

You roll your eyes and drop down beside him, your shoulder knocking lightly into his. “You could’ve waited.”

“I could have,” he agrees, flipping to the next page. “But you’re always ten minutes late when you say you’ll be here shortly.”

You don’t bother denying it. You just lean sideways, peering over his arm. “What page are we on?”

He taps the line with one finger, and you nod. The spine of the book creaks as he shifts to make more room for you, and without a word, you settle in, thigh pressed lightly to his. The two of you read like this often, cramped in the same space, sharing a single copy, breathing in sync without realizing it.

You’ve been doing it for so long it barely feels unusual.

You read for another half hour like that, heads bent close together, voices brushing against the dusk. He lets you rest your head on his shoulder. At some point, he starts reading every line aloud, and you don’t stop him.

Then someone shouts across the deck.

“Oi, you two! Still pretending you’re just friends?”

You sit up. Groan. “God, Thatch, we’re reading.”

“So that’s what they’re calling it now,” he calls back, winking.

Izou sighs, not even lifting his head. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Oh, sure,” Thatch says, dramatically dragging out the words. “Completely innocent shoulder resting. Just textbook literature appreciation under the stars.”

You roll your eyes, and Izou mutters, “You’re impossible.”

Thatch just laughs and waves it all off. “Yeah, yeah. Come on, lovebirds. Drinks are flowing and we’re losing daylight. Get over here!”

Izou closes the book slowly, marking the page with a sliver of ribbon. “Sounds like chaos is about to start any moment.”

Thatch just grins. “Nah, sounds like a great way to spend the night. You two are always hiding in corners like some dramatic lovers from a romance novel.”

You throw a pebble at him, which you find right next to you. He ducks it easily.

“Come on,” he says again, stepping back. “Ace already started trying to outdrink himself, so we could use the adult supervision.”

Izou rises first, dusting off the back of his kimono. He offers you a hand—familiar, casual. He’s done it a hundred times before, and you’ve always taken it without thinking.

But this time your fingers tingle when they curl around his. His grip lingers a beat too long.

He lets go when you’re steady, and neither of you says a word about it.

_____________

The corner of the deck where the others have gathered is warm with lantern light and low laughter. Someone’s even lit a fire in a metal barrel, and of course, there’s sake and rum passed around in mismatched mugs.

Thatch has already claimed the best seat, a crate turned sideways, and is pouring drinks with clearly too much alcohol in them. One of those concoctions might be enough to make you blackout drunk.

Marco leans against a post, half-lidded gaze flicking to the two of you as you arrive, and Ace sits cross-legged on the deck, already pink-cheeked, grinning for no reason.

“Look who finally decided to grace us with their presence,” Marco says lazily.

Izou drops down beside you, elbow brushing yours as he tucks his legs under himself. “You act like we missed something.”

“You did,” Ace says. “Thatch tried to convince Marco to dance. It almost happened.”

“It absolutely did not,” Marco mutters, and Thatch winks.

“He was tempted.”

You snort as you accept a drink from Thatch, fingers brushing Izou’s briefly when you pass him his. You barely notice it, but they do.

Marco arches a brow at the exchange and Ace nudges Thatch and stage-whispers, “They do this all the time.”

“Do what?” you ask truly not knowing what they mean, but already guessing that it’ll be another comment on your and Izou’s friendship.

“The little touches. The looks. The looonging,” Ace says, drawing it out like it’s something scandalous.

“We’re friends,” Izou says smoothly, taking a sip of his drink.

“Yeah,” Thatch adds, grinning. “And I’m a virgin.”

You nearly choke on your drink. Even Izou coughs beside you and then smiles into his cup like he’s trying not to laugh.

“I don’t know what you’re all imagining,” you say after a beat. “We just read together.”

Marco hums. “It’s the just that’s doing a lot of work in that sentence.”

Ace leans back, tilting his head dramatically. “Honestly, if they don’t kiss by the end of the week, I’m filing an official complaint.”

“Do it,” Thatch says. “Make it formal.”

Izou raises a hand. “Do I get to review this complaint?”

“Denied in advance,” Marco mutters, then takes another sip.

You look over at Izou. He looks back, that same unreadable softness in his expression again—calm on the surface, like always, but there’s something else flickering behind his eyes. Something you can’t quite name.

Your legs are touching. Your hands brush again when you both reach for the same snack. Neither of you moves away and that’s okay. Friends are supposed to be comfortable around each other.

So, you try not to think about it too much, enjoying the evening drinking and laughing with your brothers instead.

And eventually, the night deepens as more and more stars are beginning to peek through and the buzz of Thatch’s drinks settles in your bones. You’re on your second cup of whatever Thatch poured, your skin already flush and your head pleasantly light.

Izou notices before you can say anything. He always does.

He shifts just slightly, his shoulder brushing yours more firmly, the motion steadying. His fingers graze your wrist, just once, and then again more deliberately.

“You alright?” he murmurs, low enough that the others won’t catch it.

You smile, just for him. “M’fine.”

He watches you a second longer, then pushes the small bowl of roasted chestnuts toward you. “Eat a little.”

“I already did.”

“You picked out the peanuts and left the rest.”

You laugh and nudge him with your knee. “And you know this how?”

He lifts a brow. “Because I know you.”

You go quiet for a second, not because you don’t have something to say, but because of how easy that sounded. Like a truth. Like something he didn’t mean to say out loud.

So, you take one of the chestnuts just to appease him, unaware of the fact that Ace’s watching you both from across the fire with his chin in his palm, grin pulling wide. “You know, I’m starting to get why you fell in love with Izou.”

“It’s the little things,” Thatch adds, grinning just as wide as Ace.

Marco sips his drink, and without looking up says, “I think they’re actually worse than any couple I’ve ever seen.”

“We’re not—” you start, but Izou calmly cuts in at the same time:

“—together,” he finishes, smooth as ever. But his eyes flick toward you with a softness that makes your stomach flip.

You open your mouth, maybe to echo it, maybe to say something else, but then Izou gently tugs your cup away from you.

“You’ve had enough,” he says, not unkindly, already pouring you a bit of water from a clay jug.

You wrinkle your nose. “I’m fine.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “But I’m still taking care of you.”

Ace makes an exaggerated gagging noise. “Can you not be sweet for one damn second?”

“Let them,” Marco mutters, hiding his smile behind the rim of his cup. “I think they’ll eventually admit it to each other.”

You snort, cheeks warm. Whether from the alcohol or Izou or both, you’re not sure anymore. Izou hands you the water without another word, the pads of his fingers brushing yours like always. Thoughtful, careful. Second nature.

And just like that, the night grows louder as the drinks keep flowing. Laughter comes easier, shoulders loosen, and Thatch breaks out into awful attempts at a sea shanty that has Ace howling with laughter and Marco visibly debating whether to walk overboard into the sea.

But you just lean against Izou’s side now without really thinking about it. He hasn’t moved away, hasn’t commented on it, just adjusted slightly to make it more comfortable, like he always does.

You don’t even notice that Ace’s attention has moved back toward you two until he speaks again, louder this time. “Seriously, how long are you two going to pretend?”

You blink. “Pretend what?”

“That you’re not in love.”

You laugh, too fast, too loud. “We’re not.”

“Right,” Thatch chimes in, pointing between you and Izou. “So if we dared you to kiss right now, it wouldn’t mean anything, huh?”

You sit up straighter. “It’d mean nothing.”

Izou doesn’t flinch. He just exhales a quiet breath, smooth as silk. “We kiss if it’ll shut you all up.”

Suddenly, everybody around you quiets. Then Marco snorts. “Don’t do it because we told you to yoi.”

“No. Actually, let’s do it,” you nod agreeing to the whole plan. “This might finally end the conversation.”

So, next Izou turns toward you slightly. His expression is unreadable again—gentle, careful. His hand rises, not to pull you close, but to steady your chin with a featherlight touch.

“They’re like children sometimes,” he murmurs, so low only you hear it.

“Absolutely,” you nod, chuckling, happy that he somehow managed to ease the tension with just one comment.

So, suddenly feeling more at ease, you lean in. Easy. Like breathing. And Izou meets you halfway, calm and certain.

The kiss is soft... softer than you expected. His lips press to yours, sharing its warmth in a slow and deliberate manner, not rushing anything or demanding more than you’re already giving.

It’s rather tender.

His lips move gently against yours like he’s memorizing the feel of your mouth in that one brief touch. And then it ends, just as simply as it began.

You both pull back slowly. Barely. Your noses are still close, breath mingling and neither of you speaks for a long time.

Until Ace breaks the silence with a whistle. “Holy shit!”

“That was not a ‘we’re just friends’ kiss,” Thatch points out, delighted.

You blink, still feeling dazed. “It was just to prove a point.”

Izou, voice barely audible and eyes not moving from yours, adds. “We told you that before we kissed…”

Then, finally, you sit back, suddenly very aware of the way your body is still leaning into his. You try to steady your hands and your thoughts. Everything inside you feels like it’s glowing.

Marco’s watching with narrowed eyes like he sees something neither of you are ready to admit.

“You two are exhausting yoi,” he says, tipping his drink toward you.

And finally, no one says anything else. They let it go – for now, even though Izou leans in slightly again, just enough that his shoulder touches yours again, grounding and familiar.

You don’t move away. You never do, so why should you now?

You’re still just friends.

And eventually, one by one, the crew retires to their beds until you and Izou are the only ones left. He hasn’t moved much since the kiss. And neither have you because the warmth between you feels comfortable still.

But somehow heavy in a way it wasn’t before.

Izou breaks the silence first, voice low. “They’ll be talking about that for weeks.”

You let out a soft huff. “They never needed a reason before.”

He hums, almost a laugh. “True.”

Another pause. But you don’t fill it with anything this time. Neither does he.

You glance at him. He’s watching the fire, jaw relaxed, eyes soft. But there’s tension in his hands, subtle, but you know him well enough to see it. He’s thinking too much. So are you.

You shift, just a little, brushing your shoulder against his again. Not enough to make a statement. Just enough to remind him you’re still there.

His voice is quieter this time when he says, “You didn’t have to go through with it.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve said no.”

“I know,” you say again, softer now.

Izou finally looks at you. There’s something hesitant in his expression like he’s waiting for you to take it back. Waiting for you to laugh it off. Waiting for you to tell him it meant nothing.

“It was just to prove a point,” you say.

His mouth lifts at one corner. “Right.”

“Just to shut them up.”

“Of course.”

Another long stretch of quiet passes. You should move. Stand up. Head below deck. But you don’t want to and neither does he. So, you two continue to sit by the fire, the taste of the kiss still lingering on your lips.

______________

The next morning you find yourself in the galley, claiming that the sunlight’s far too bright as you walk in, seeing that breakfast’s already laid out on the wooden tables. In front of everybody are bowls of rice, grilled fish, and something Thatch insists is soup but smells suspiciously like hangover remedy.

You shuffle past a few tables, hair a mess, eyelids heavy. Izou’s already there, seated at the end of your table. His cup of tea steams quietly in front of him. He doesn’t look tired. Of course, he doesn’t.

He glances up as you enter and offers you a small smile. Warm. Familiar. Safe.

Your stomach does something it has no business doing, so you push it down as you slide into the spot beside him like always.

And that’s when Thatch pounces. “Well, well, well. Look who decided to wake up late after her scandalous little kiss.”

You groan and drop your head to the table.

Marco, across from you, doesn’t even look up from his breakfast. “I was wondering how long it would take yoi.”

Ace grins around a mouthful of rice. “I give it three days before one of you breaks and confesses.”

You lift your head just enough to glare. “There’s nothing to confess.”

“That’s what makes it sadder,” Thatch says, mock-wounded. “You're already acting like a couple but too emotionally constipated to admit it.”

Izou calmly sips his tea. “She and I are friends.”

“Right,” Marco says, flicking his eyes between the two of you. “Friends who kiss.”

“Once,” you mutter. “To make you all shut up.”

“Didn’t work,” Ace points out cheerfully.

You grab a rice ball from the center plate and chuck it at him. He catches it with his mouth and nearly chokes from laughing.

Thatch leans forward on his elbows, his voice dropping like he’s about to start narrating a romance novel. “They were just two friends… sipping tea… sitting shoulder to shoulder in the quiet glow of firelight…”

“Thatch.”

He ignores the warning in Izou’s tone.

“…their lips met in a passionate attempt to end all speculation…”

“Thatch.” That one’s from you.

He’s grinning like a cat at you. “… but little did they know, that single kiss would awaken something forbidden. Something deep. Something—”

You whip a spoon at him. It clatters off his shoulder. “Finish that sentence and I’ll dump soup over your head.”

“Feisty,” Ace chuckles, while Marco’s chuckling into his coffee.

And just as the teasing has finally started to die down and you think you might finish the rest of your breakfast in peace (mostly because you’ve stopped reacting and Izou’s gone quiet in that way that makes people nervous), does Ace speak up again.

His voice is perfectly innocent. Too innocent. And his expression doesn’t match, because there’s a glint in his eyes, a smug little twist to his mouth that sets off alarm bells before he even finishes his thought.

“Well, I was thinking…” he begins, drawing the words out slowly like he’s savoring them. “If kissing friends is just something we do now…”

You pause, fork halfway to your mouth. “Don’t.”

“… and Izou and I have known each other longer than you two have…”

Izou doesn’t look up from his plate. “I’m warning you.”

“… then shouldn’t I get a turn too?”

The table goes silent for a second. Then Thatch immediately chokes on a mouthful of food, coughing into his fist, while Marco leans back with a faintly amused smirk like he’s settling in for the show.

“Don’t encourage him,” you mutter, though you can already feel a laugh building in your throat.

Ace, of course, only grins wider and starts sliding around the table, slow and exaggerated, like a cartoon villain with both hands raised in mock innocence. “C’mon, Izou. Just a little kiss between bros. For science.”

Izou doesn’t even flinch. He just sets his utensils down. “I will shoot you.”

There’s a beat.

Ace falters mid-step. “Wouldn’t be the first time a gun was involved in one of my dates,” he quips, though he’s definitely reconsidering his choices.

“You’re not helping yourself,” Izou says flatly, pushing his chair back with sudden purpose.

“Okay, okay, just a peck—!” Ace doesn’t get the chance to finish.

With a smooth, practiced motion, Izou draws his flintlock from his belt and levels it right at Ace’s head. The click of the hammer being pulled back is sharp and deadly in the morning air.

“Fuck!” Ace yelps and quickly dives behind Marco like a coward, knocking into the bench in the process.

Thatch loses it completely, doubling over, face red, laughing so hard he’s crying. “Oh my god! He was deadass serious!”

Even you can’t hold it in anymore. A laugh bubbles up and escapes, and you have to cover your mouth with one hand to stop yourself from completely losing composure.

Marco doesn’t even flinch as Ace huddles behind him. “You brought that one on yourself,” he says simply, sipping his coffee like this is all a routine part of breakfast.

From beneath the table, Ace’s voice pipes up again, wounded but still amused. “Hey! At least now we know Izou wouldn’t kiss any of his friends!”

Izou, ever the picture of calm, lowers his gun and sets it neatly back on the table. His face is unreadable, but the faintest pink stains the tips of his ears.

“Try it again,” he says, tone icy, “and I will make it count next time.”

Naturally, the laughter around the table doesn’t die down right away. Thatch is still wiping tears from his eyes, and Ace stays crouched behind Marco like a man in hiding, though even he’s grinning now. Moreover, someone makes a joke about how easily Izou’s gun comes out these days, and someone else starts taking bets on who’ll be the next target.

But then the noise finally begins to fade, the teasing shifting to other things.

And when you glance over at Izou, he’s sitting next to you again, cradling a fresh cup of tea that someone – probably Marco – slid in front of him while the commotion was still going. However, he hasn’t taken a sip yet.

You catch the tight line of his shoulders. The set of his mouth. The way he stares into the steam curling from his cup like it’s something he has to brace himself for.

Then you reach out quietly, slipping your hand over Izou’s, your fingers brushing against the side of his palm. He startles, just slightly, but doesn’t pull away. So, you lean in, your voice low. “I’ve got watch duty in ten. If you’re done threatening your brothers, you can come with me.”

His eyes finally meet yours.

You give his hand a gentle tug and add, “I’d like the company.”

Izou doesn’t answer, but he rises immediately, silent, composed, tea cup abandoned.

The moment you step away from the table, however…

“Oh no!” Thatch wails, dramatically clutching his chest. “They’re walking away together. What does it mean?”

“Ten-to-one they make out behind the cannon stacks,” Ace calls, peeking out from Marco’s side like a raccoon.

Marco barely glances up. “Put me down for five. They’ll just stare at the ocean and suffer in silence.”

You keep walking, tugging Izou along by the hand, pretending not to hear the rising laughter behind you.

But you do hear Izou mutter under his breath, “Next time I’m not hesitating. I’ll shoot them all.”

You glance sideways as you walk, your fingers still laced lightly with his. His grip isn’t tight, but it’s steady. Measured. Like everything with Izou. But there’s tension running up his arm, shoulders drawn a little too straight, jaw set just a little too firmly.

“They really do act like children,” you say, voice calm and dry. “Honestly, it’s impressive they haven’t all been court-martialed for emotional damage.”

That earns a faint huff beside you, almost a laugh. Almost.

You bump your shoulder gently into his. “You know they only tease because they’re jealous, right?”

“Jealous?” he echoes, glancing at you with a raised brow.

You nod, trying to keep a straight face. “Absolutely. You have it all: The looks, the aim, and the best friend on the ship, which is me, of course.”

Izou snorts under his breath, a sound you rarely get to hear, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.

“You forgot humility,” he murmurs.

“Oh, I left that out on purpose. We can’t both be perfect.”

“Right,” he says, and now the smile breaks through, faint but real. “That would be unfair to the others.”

You grin. “Exactly. We’re doing them a favor by keeping our brilliance to just the two of us.”

Finally, his steps feel lighter and his shoulders have eased out of their rigid set. Moreover, the air between you softens again, returning to the familiar, comfortable rhythm that always seems to settle in when you’re alone together.

And maybe it’s your imagination—but his thumb brushes once, slow and deliberate, across your knuckles. Just once. Like a thank-you he doesn’t say out loud.

You don’t mention it. Just squeeze his hand in return and keep walking.

On deck, you settle into your usual spot by the railing, where the sea stretches endlessly in every direction. Izou stands beside you, arms folded neatly across his chest, one hip leaning against the balustrade.

You glance up at him. “Thanks for coming.”

His gaze stays on the horizon for a beat longer before he replies, voice quiet. “Didn’t need much convincing.”

That makes you smile, though you try to hide it by looking back out at the sea. The wind shifts, brushing a loose strand of hair across your cheek, and before you can move, Izou’s hand lifts gently, and tucks it behind your ear.

You turn to him slowly, your breath catching just a little.

He doesn’t pull his hand away immediately. His fingers linger at your temple, warm and steady, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I really thought the kiss might shut them up, you know,” you eventually sigh, feeling the sudden need to fill the silence.

“Looks like it did more damage,” Izou adds, voice dry but softer now.

“They act like it meant something even though we tell them it didn’t,” you groan, putting your face in your hands. “We could kiss thousands of times and they wouldn’t stop teasing.”

There’s a pause, just long enough to notice it.

Then Izou says, low and careful, “Maybe we could try?”

You freeze. Your hands lower slowly from your face, and when you look at him, he’s watching the sea again, but there’s a tension in his jaw, in the line of his shoulders, like he’s bracing for something. Like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Or maybe he did and just wasn’t sure what you’d do with it.

“Try,” you echo, quietly. “You mean…”

“To kiss again,” he says, still not facing you. “No audience. No reason. Just to see.”

Just to see.

The wind picks up again, cool and salt-sweet, tugging at your sleeves, your hair, the fragile quiet stretched between you. And you realize you could make a joke. Shrug it off. Pretend the butterflies in your stomach are from the sea breeze and not from him.

But you don’t want to… Not this time.

So, you shift, turning to face him fully and nudge his arm with your own. “Okay.”

Izou finally looks at you. There’s surprise there, but it softens quickly—gives way to something steadier. Like relief. Like hope.

You don’t speak again. You just lean in, slow and certain, similar to how you did it last night. But like Izou already pointed out, there’s no audience. No pressure. No need to pretend anymore.

Izou meets you halfway, just as calm, just as deliberate. The kiss begins soft, barely there. A quiet question. A breath shared between mouths. His lips are warm against yours, steady and patient like he’s afraid to rush something that might shatter if handled too roughly.

But when you don’t pull away after some while… when you lean into it instead, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of his coat something shifts.

You feel it in the way his hand rises, finds your jaw, his thumb resting at the corner of your mouth. On the way, he draws in a slow breath through his nose like he’s trying to stay grounded like he didn’t expect this to happen, and now he’s afraid it might end too soon.

And so the kiss deepens. Bit by bit, like a tide coming in.

Your lips move together with growing confidence, not rushed, but more certain. There’s no hesitation in the way he tilts his head slightly, pulling you in just a little closer like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the sound of your breath, the warmth of your body against his.

Like he’s pouring every unsaid feeling into this one moment, quiet longing, quiet wanting, all the things he hasn't dared to name.

And when the kiss finally breaks, it does so slowly… reluctantly. A few short parting touches. A final brush like he doesn’t quite want to let go. So, you stay close, foreheads nearly touching, hearts knocking a little too fast beneath the surface.

“Izou…” you whisper, not really sure what you mean to say.

He opens his eyes, gaze sweeping over your face like he’s trying to commit every inch of it to memory. His thumb strokes just once along your cheekbone, the faintest, reverent touch.

“You’re okay?” He whispers.

“Yeah,” you admit, unable to not smile softly at him. “I wouldn’t mind kissing you again.”

His breath catches, just faintly, but you feel it. Moreover, for a moment, Izou doesn’t speak. He just watches you, something softer and unguarded growing behind his eyes. And then, slowly, his lips curl into the barest smile.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I was thinking the same thing.”

His hand slides from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, fingers slipping into your hair like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams he’d never admit to having. And when he kisses you again, it’s deeper from the start. No lingering uncertainty.

Just want.

Just the kind of aching sweetness that makes the world fall away.

You tilt into him, your hands finding his chest, his shoulder—anything to keep you close. His other arm slips around your waist, steadying you, grounding you, but not pulling you too close. He still handles you like something precious.

“Well, well, well,” Marco drawls, looking far too satisfied. “Looked like a pretty meaningful watch shift from up here.”

You jolt, just barely, and Izou sighs deep and from the soul, his forehead dropping to rest against yours for one last second before he straightens.

Up on the upper deck, Marco leans lazily over the railing, arms folded, a slow grin spreading across his face like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact moment.

“I swear to god,” Izou mutters under his breath.

But it’s too late. Because now Thatch pops up behind Marco, practically vibrating with excitement. “Did they kiss again?! Did I miss it?! Marco, you said you’d signal me!”

“I did signal you,” Marco replies blandly. “You just didn’t react yoi.”

“I thought the hand wave meant someone fell overboard!” Thatch wails. “You need a better system!”

“You two are disasters,” you hiss, face burning hot as you try to duck behind Izou’s shoulder… not that it helps.

“Oh, c’mon,” Thatch grins, leaning over the rail so far it looks unsafe. “We knew there was tension. We just didn’t know it was gonna burst into flames!”

Then comes Ace, swinging in from a rope like he’s auditioning for a different genre entirely. “Congrats! I give it three days before they start sneaking into each other’s rooms!”

“I’m literally going to kill all three of you,” Izou growls, voice low and dark.

“Oh no, he’s doing the voice,” Ace stage-whispers, already crab-walking backward toward the nearest rope. “He’s gonna get the gun. He’s gonna get the gun!”

“Izou…” you warn, but he exhales like a man preparing for battle.

Then he lets go of your hand slowly, carefully, almost reverently, and pulls his flintlock from his belt in one smooth motion, like he’s rehearsed it.

Instantly, Ace bolts up the rigging with alarming speed, practically leaping two steps at a time. Even Thatch lets out a shriek and dives behind Marco similar to how Ace did it today morning.

“Thatch, you said he wouldn't actually pull it!” Ace yells from halfway up the mast.

“I thought he’d hesitate!” Thatch howls from the floor. “He usually hesitates!”

“He didn’t hesitate this morning!”

You’re laughing now, absolutely breathless, wheezing as you grab Izou’s arm with both hands. “Don’t shoot them!”

“I’m just scaring them,” Izou replies calmly, flintlock raised with unnerving precision.

You eye the gun and the glitter of the hammer cocked back. “You cocked it.”

He sighs like you’re asking the impossible. “Fine. Scaring them a lot.”