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solaruru · 1 month ago

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✦ dragonsteps

cw. found family, soft angst, fluff, emotional vulnerability, past trauma, body adjustment issues (durin), established relationship (reader x wanderer)

an. aaaaa i really tried my best to make this lore accurate so sorry in advance if there are any mistakes TT i only read up on durin’s lore online since i wasn’t playing when simulanka came out :(( but i did my best !! also credits to @stoopycake for the idea — i love xia sm

you live in mondstadt — not in the city walls, but just far enough out that the breeze feels gentler and the birds aren’t afraid to nest near your windowsill.

the mornings smell like pine and the sky is always soft. sometimes you think the wind sings to you. sometimes you think it’s lonely.

it’s quiet here. still. normal. you like it that way.

wanderer doesn’t. not really. he complains every time he visits — about the wind, about the noise, about how your bed is too soft and your pillows are too fluffy and your kettle takes too long to boil. he scowls at the birds. calls the squirrels in your garden nosy little pests. grumbles about the dirt road, the lack of streetlamps, the way mondstadt’s air always smells like freedom.

but he still shows up. always unannounced. always frowning. always staying longer than he says he will.

he doesn’t knock. he doesn’t warn you. he doesn’t say goodbye when he leaves. you never ask him to stay. you never ask him to leave, either.

you’re not loud about being together. you don’t hold hands in public. you don’t say things like i love you or i missed you.

but he’ll let you fix his scarf when it slips. he lets you sit close when he’s pretending not to fall asleep. he lets you call him kuni, even though no one else is allowed to. and sometimes he looks at you like the whole world is loud except when you’re around.

it’s a quiet thing. gentle. real. you thought you were done with surprises.

and then albedo showed up.

you’re half-awake, halfway through tea, and not expecting a knock at your door — much less one from the chief alchemist of the knights of favonius, with a boy standing beside him who looks like he’s been stitched together from stardust and forgotten lore.

he’s got hot pink eyes, tousled purple hair, two huge black horns, and a pair of even larger wings trailing behind him like a shadow. barefoot. blinking. a little confused.

“this is durin,” albedo says, like this is normal. “i’ve granted him a human form. he’s still adjusting.” “…okay?” you say slowly, eyes flicking between the alchemist and the boy with wings too big for your hallway. “he remembers the wanderer. i thought he’d be most comfortable here for now.”

you glance over your shoulder, where kuni is sitting at your kitchen table, nursing tea he insists he doesn’t like. he stares back at you with a silent, horrified expression. his cup is halfway to his mouth. it never makes it there. “no,” he says immediately. “don’t even think about it.”

“he called you hat guy,” albedo adds helpfully. “he likes you.” durin beams. “hat guy!!”

wanderer looks like he’s just been sentenced to death.

you’re in the grass behind your cottage. it’s warm. the sun’s high and mondstadt’s breeze rolls gently through the trees, rustling the tall grass, brushing against your skin like a sigh.

durin is trying to walk. emphasis on trying.

he’s all limbs and feathers and flailing wings, wobbling with every step like a newborn deer. “nope—wrong foot—careful!” you lunge forward just in time to stop him from faceplanting into a patch of dandelions. his wings flap once, awkwardly, and throw him off balance again.

“this body’s weird,” he grumbles, flopping into your arms like a very large, very annoyed toddler. “i used to fly.” “you also used to be made of blocks,” kuni says flatly from a few feet away, leaning against the fence with his arms crossed and a distinct i told you this was a terrible idea look on his face. “get over it.”

durin pouts. “you’re mean.” “you’re uncoordinated.” “you’re rude.” “you’re loud.” “you’re wearing too many layers.”

wanderer’s eye twitches. “i swear to—” “okay, okay,” you cut in, holding up your hands before the dragon child and your semi-boyfriend start trading elemental attacks. “let’s focus, yeah? deep breath, durin.”

he mimics you — badly. but his chest rises and falls, and that’s enough.

“left foot,” you say gently. “good. now the other one. you’ve got this.” he stumbles, wobbles, wings twitching nervously behind him — but stays upright.

his eyes light up, glowing like a sky full of comets. “look!! hat guy!! i did it!!”

wanderer grimaces like the name physically hurts him. “stop calling me that.” “but you have a hat,” durin says, very seriously. “so does half the population of mondstadt.” “but you are the hat guy. it’s different.”

wanderer mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like i’m going back to sumeru.

you smile. “no you’re not.” he doesn’t argue.

and the breeze is still gentle. and the birds still sing. and for now — just for now — the world is quiet.

the storm rolls in around midnight. soft at first. like a lullaby.

the kind of lullaby that hums through the hills, brushing gently against the trees, coaxing flowers into sleep.

then louder.

wind thrashes the branches against your cottage walls like angry fingers. thunder cracks the sky open from end to end, sudden and sharp, a divine warning. rain batters your windows in relentless, uneven patterns — too erratic to be music. too alive to be background noise.

you stir beneath your blankets. the warmth of sleep still clings to your skin like steam. for a moment you think you’re dreaming — until a weight thuds against the floorboards and the softest yelp breaks through the thunder.

you sit up with a jolt.

“...durin?” your voice is rough, half-dream. there’s a shape on the floor. soggy. awkward. unmoving.

“the sky’s mad at me,” comes the muffled reply.

your eyes adjust slowly. the moon is buried behind clouds, but the occasional flicker of lightning through the window gives you pieces — wings soaked and dragging, the tips curled in like wilted petals. horns bumped askew from colliding with your doorframe. a trembling form hunched over like it’s trying to disappear into itself.

he’s wet. and cold. and afraid.

“i… i didn’t mean to make it rain,” durin says quickly, his voice rising in panic. “i didn’t do anything. i swear i didn’t! i didn’t break anything or yell or fly or—”

“durin,” you say, gentle but firm. “storms are normal.”

his eyes glow faintly in the dark. confused. uncertain. “really?” he breathes. you nod. “really. mondstadt gets a lot of them. especially in spring. it’s just… how things are.”

he glances at the window like it might suddenly turn and glare at him. “…it’s loud,” he says. “i know.” “it wasn’t like this in simulanka. the storms there were quiet. but not in a good way.” you don’t ask.

“do you want to sleep here tonight?” you offer. he doesn't even pause. “yes please.”

you leave your room together. he follows you like a shadow made of feathers and guilt. the floor creaks beneath both your steps. you set up the couch. give him every blanket you can find. even the ugly one from albedo’s failed attempt at knitting.

durin doesn’t complain. he just piles them around himself until he’s almost entirely hidden. only his horns and a few strands of messy hair peek out.

you settle onto the couch nearby, your arm draped lazily over the edge, fingers brushing the fringe of his blanket.

there’s silence for a long while, save for the occasional rumble of thunder and the soft, erratic beat of the rain.

then: “…does the sky hate me too?”

you open your eyes slowly. look down. he’s curled tighter now, one wing tucked beneath his chin like a pillow, the other twitching with every crack of thunder.

your heart clenches.

you reach down. ruffle his hair gently. “no, durin. the sky doesn’t hate you.”

he nods once. small. unsure. but he doesn’t argue. he doesn’t cry either. he just lies there. wide-eyed. listening.

he doesn’t sleep until long after you do.

kuni finds you both like that the next morning.

you, slumped half-off the couch with your hand still hanging down — fingers barely brushing durin’s hair. durin, curled into himself in a pit of warmth and safety, his wing twitching slightly every now and then. not from fear. just dreaming.

kuni doesn’t speak. doesn’t frown.

he just sighs quietly. walks past you. comes back a minute later with an extra pillow. he slides it beneath your back without a word, tucks the blanket closer around your shoulders, and walks away again.

later, he sits beside you on the porch. the sky is still pale and grey, like it’s not quite sure whether it’s done grieving. the rain has stopped, but the wind is soft and damp, leaving the air full of silence and the smell of wet pine.

“he was scared of a thunderstorm,” kuni mutters, staring out at the field. you sip your tea. “he’s still adjusting. albedo said his emotions might be unstable until his body fully settles.” “he’s not even a week old,” kuni scoffs. “technically he’s centuries old,” you remind him.

kuni huffs. durin is in the garden again. crouched in the tall grass. having what appears to be a one-sided conversation with a squirrel who is either very brave or very stupid.

“do you remember what he was like in simulanka?” you ask.

kuni shifts beside you. “…yeah. a lot bigger. a lot louder.” “he just wanted friends.” “he nearly crushed five people trying to hug them.” “he’s better now.” “he’s different.” kuni pauses. then softer, “but he’s still loud.”

you look out at durin. now waving goodbye to the squirrel. “…he’s trying.”

kuni doesn’t say anything. but when you pass him a cup of warm tea, he doesn’t roll his eyes or call it too sweet. he just drinks.

you hear the crash from the kitchen.

“i was reading!” durin insists. “it’s not my fault your shelves are too narrow and my wings are too graceful!”

“graceful?” kuni repeats flatly, standing over the wreckage. durin puffs up. “yes. like a majestic storm-bird.” “you knocked over an entire shelf.” “a majestic shelf.”

you kneel beside him. pages scattered everywhere. diagrams torn open like secrets spilling out. albedo’s personal collection of handwritten notes on the internal structure of abyssal anomalies is now confetti on your rug.

“sorry,” durin says again, softer this time. “i didn’t mean—i just thought… if i knew more about my body, maybe i’d understand why i feel so weird in it.”

you look at him. at his oversized limbs. his unsure hands. the feathers he keeps pulling from his sleeves like they don’t belong there.

he’s trying to hold himself smaller. like if he curls in enough, he won’t knock anything else over.

“…i know i scared people in simulanka,” he mumbles. “and mondstadt too.” you don’t interrupt. he fiddles with a loose feather.

“albedo says i’m not dangerous anymore. but i still feel big. even when i’m small. like… something might break if i move wrong. or laugh too hard. or exist too loudly.”

he hugs his knees. “what if they were right? what if i am a monster?”

you don’t get a chance to respond.

a shadow falls over you both.

kuni.

he’s standing in the doorway. scarf half-on, expression unreadable, eyes dark and narrowed in that way that always means he’s listening even if he doesn’t want to be.

“…you’re not,” kuni says quietly. durin jerks his head up, startled.

“you’re annoying,” kuni says, stepping closer. “and clumsy. and loud. and kind of stupid.” durin frowns. “is that a compliment?” “take it or leave it.” “…i’ll take it.”

you smile.

kuni sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “…you scared me too, you know. in simulanka.”

durin blinks.

“but you stopped,” kuni mutters. “you changed. you chose to change. even though no one asked you to. even though everyone was scared of you. that counts for something.” he kneels beside him, eye-level.

“you’re not a monster, durin. just a dumb dragon with bad aim and a weird sense of humor.” durin stares.

then he throws himself into a hug.

“WHAT ARE YOU—GET OFF—” “YOU DON’T HATE ME!!” “I NEVER SAID THAT!!” “HAT GUY LOVES ME!!!” “SHUT UP!!”

you laugh. despite everything — the mess, the broken shelves, the tea that now has feathers in it again — you laugh.

the sky is still grey, but softer now.

and maybe this isn’t just a house full of misfits. maybe this is something healing. maybe this is something like home.

credits to @cafekitsune for the animated border lines!

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solaruru · 1 month ago

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He Knows the Way In

ft. scaramouche

SYNOPSIS: you shouldn't leave your window open before bed, who knows what could happen.

wc 800~, gn reader, tiny bit suggestive but sfw a little bit yandereish i guess?? scaramouche himself is a massive red flag 😞 MIGHT be a little bit ooc im not too sure? please read this while listening to angel by massive attack plspls that song is like my main inspiration for writing this in the first place. idk if there are other warnings. i dont really have a backstory for this idrk whats going on either (listen i posted this once already but for some reason tumblr isnt showing it on any pages so it better work this time)

It starts with the sound of rain tapping against your window. A soft, staccato rhythm, like fingers drumming with impatience.

You don’t remember opening it, just like how you don’t remember falling asleep in your bed, curled beneath blankets that now feel too warm. The room is dim, lit only by the amber glow of your bedside lamp. It's quiet. Still. The kind of stillness that doesn’t feel empty… but watched.

You blink.

The window is open. The curtain stirs. The rain was being blown inside by the wind, and for a moment you consider getting up to close it.

Then you feel something — not hear, nor see — but feel.

There's a shift in pressure. You sense the air change, heavy now. Charged. And then you hear it — the sound of breathing, of fabric rustling in the silence of your bedroom.

You sit up too quickly, heart in your throat. He's already there.

Leaning against the wall across from your bed, arms folded, rain on the shoulders of his coat — he looks like he’s been standing there longer than you’ve been awake. Like he’s been letting you come to, watching you regain your senses.

"Scara—" your voice catches.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head slightly. He's curious, maybe amused. That same maddening, unreadable mirth he always carries like armor. The look in his eyes says he's waiting to see if you'd call for him. And you did.

"You left your window open," he says at last, his voice low and calm. Lazy, even.

You want to say something sharp. Something clever. But your mouth is dry from the shock.

He crosses the room in four strides, and the next thing you know, the mattress shifts beneath his weight. He doesn’t reach for you — not yet. Just watches, like he’s reading something off your skin.

"You always do this," he murmurs, brushing his hand along the comforter. "You say you don't want company, but then you leave the light on… or the window open. You always give me a way in."

His cold fingers find the edge of your sleeve, curling lightly around your wrist — a tether, not a grip. “You knew I’d come.”

And the worst part? You did. Because there’s something unspoken between you. A pattern. A game. You bait him with distance, and he answers with presence. Uninvited, yet inevitable.

You nod, barely.

"Then stop pretending to be so surprised. You wanted me here."

“... I didn't mean to leave the window open. I wasn’t planning to fall asleep,” you say. It’s not quite a lie.

He hums, low and unreadable. Then, slowly, he leans forward until his face is hovering over yours. Cold skin. Damp hair. A breath that smells faintly of green tea and something sharper — medicinal, bitter, unmistakably him.

“Too warm?” he asks.

You nod again. He peels the blankets back. You expect him to move — to give you space.

He doesn’t.

Instead, his palm finds its way beneath your jaw, gentle but firm — lifting your face toward his. Holding your gaze.

Scaramouche studies you for a long moment, like he’s searching for something just beneath your skin. Then, without breaking eye contact, he presses a kiss to your temple, although it was barely a kiss — more a presence. A mark. The shape of something claimed.

“You make it so easy,” he murmurs, brushing a lock of hair from your face.

"What?"

"Getting inside. I could’ve come in hours ago,” he says softly. “Watched you sleep. Felt your warmth. You wouldn’t have known until I wanted you to.”

You shiver — not from the cold creeping in through the open window, but from the unshakable truth in his voice. He says it like it's a certainty. Like both a threat and a fact.

You should be scared.

But all you feel is warmth — a slow, pulsing fever that starts deep and spreads outward, impossible to contain.

His fingers trail lightly along your side, cold against your skin. Not demanding. Not rushed. Almost reverent. He was getting close to your heart.

"Tell me to stop." he commands, giving you a final chance to back out.

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you were already aching with tension.

"You really should be more careful," Scaramouche rasps, cold digits creeping up to your nape. "Leaving your window open like that."

A pause.

"After all… who knows what could happen to you in the dead of night?”

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solaruru · 2 months ago

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Random art dump just because

#project sekai #akito shinonome #ena shinonome #shinonome siblings #mizuki akiyama #an shiraishi #kohane azusawa #toya aoyagi #vivid bad squad #vbs #nightcord at 25:00 #mafuyu asahina #kanade yoisaki #colorful stage #pjsk fanart #pjsk

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solaruru · 2 months ago

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i lob the shinonomes

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solaruru · 2 months ago

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PJSK and PJO fixations finally mixed so here’s my big 3 !!

(I know Kohane looks like An just bare with me)

#project sekai #pjsk #pjo #pjsk fanart #kohane azusawa #mafuyu asahina #nene kusanagi #vivid bad squad #vbs #niigo mafuyu #nightcord at 25:00 #wxs #wxs nene #wonderland x showtime #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa

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solaruru · 2 months ago

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𝙊𝙣𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙈𝙮 𝙋𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙨

: ̗̀➛ Type: One-shot [2.5 k words - Fluff] : ̗̀➛ Note: just so you know, I still don't get his character yet still do at the same time...? Idk tbh, but yeah I don't really know if he can cook, so in this he doesn't know:D. : ̗̀➛ Warning: none.

The late afternoon sun painted long, slanted shadows across the quiet street, casting everything in that sleepy gold that only really appeared right before dusk.

Akito walked beside you, hands shoved into his pockets, orange hair catching the light like flame.

"That English test was actual torture," he grumbled, not even trying to hide the scowl tugging at his face. "Like, what the hell is a gerund? Is it a noun? A verb? I don't even know anymore."

You snorted, the sound soft but unmistakably smug. "It's a verb acting as a noun," you replied, your voice light. "Seriously, it's not that hard."

Akito groaned, dramatic as ever. "There you go again. You and your English brain."

You just smiled. Teasing him came naturally — like breathing. You'd always been good with words, and Akito... had other strengths. It was easy to fall into this rhythm, where your conversations moved in tandem with your steps.

But even as you laughed, there was a weird tightness curling in your chest. A distant warmth that shouldn't have been there — not the comforting kind, but the kind that left you slightly dizzy.

You'd felt it since lunch. A slow build of heat behind your eyes, a buzzing under your skin. But you hadn't said anything. Not to him. Not when his band practice was later. Not when he was already tired from school.

You're just a few blocks from home, so you could take care of it alone.

You pressed your hand to your temple casually, hoping it looked like you were just brushing your hair out of your face. But your legs felt unsteady — too light and too heavy at once — and your balance faltered.

Akito's voice trailed off. He turned just in time to see your hand go slack at your side.

"...Hey—?"

You didn't hear the rest. The sidewalk tilted sideways. Your knees gave out.

Akito was faster than he should've been — instincts sharper than he let on. He caught you before you could hit the ground, his arms looping under yours as your weight slumped into him. Your eyes were already fluttering shut.

"(Name)?" His voice spiked, alarm slicing through the usual flatness. "Hey. Oi—come on, don't—!"

"Shit," he muttered, under his breath now. His jaw clenched as he adjusted his grip, pulling you up more securely against his chest. You were warm — too warm. Damp with sweat despite the chill in the air.

He shifted you carefully, looping your arm over his shoulders and bracing his arm around your waist — then, with a grunt, lifted you fully. Just practical. Steady.

The fireman's carry wasn't elegant, but it worked — and your house wasn't far. His heart pounded louder than his footsteps as he walked, one hand gripping your wrist, the other steady at your back.

"Why didn't you say anything..." he muttered. Not angry. Just… scared.

He could see your front porch now, and he didn't slow down. His throat was tight, the weight of you solid and worrying in his arms.

"Hang in there," he said, almost to himself.

He'd already made up his mind. Practice could wait — no way he was leaving you like this. Not when you'd clearly been pushing yourself all day.

Not that he had any clue how to take care of someone sick seriously, what was he supposed to do? Get you tea? A cold towel? Was that even right?

Didn't matter. He'd figure it out.

Akito reached your front door, his arms were aching, but he didn't stop. He shouldered the door open with some effort, his grip steady despite the quickened pace of his heartbeat.

He didn't bother with lights or his shoes.

Just beeline straight to your room.

He set you down carefully, his movements slower now — like if he moved too fast, he might make it worse. You didn't stir when your head hit the pillow. That worried him more than anything.

With a low exhale, he eased you back onto the bed, pulling the duvet up over your body. His hands hovered for a second — then he brought the back of one to your forehead.

And what he felt confirmed the gnawing suspicion that had been growing in his gut since the moment your knees gave out.

"Damn it…" he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Yeah. That was a fever.

A real one. High. Lingering. Obvious — if he'd just bothered to look closer. You'd been quieter today. Slower. You lagged a little behind when you walked — and he'd just talked over it. Complained about his test like an idiot while you were burning up next to him.

'Why didn't I see it?' Akito swallowed thickly, brushing some hair away from your face with shaking fingers. You didn't look peaceful. You looked drained.

He turned, standing abruptly. Kicked your shoes off to the side. Loosened your scarf — all awkward hands and sharp motions — then stormed into the kitchen.

His mind was a mess. Everything felt too loud. Too tight.

'What do I even do now? I don't know how to take care of someone sick. What if it gets worse? Should I call someone? Their mom?'

He put his phone onto the counter. Stared at it.

Then, a flicker of light — a soft hum — and MEIKO's hologram shimmered into existence above the screen. Calm. Composed. Everything he wasn't.

"Akito," she greeted, warm but firm. "You're late for practice. Is everything alright?"

His jaw tightened.

"MEIKO… yeah, uh—something came up. It's (Name). They collapsed earlier. I got them home but… they've got a fever."

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes darting back toward the hallway. "I got them to bed. That's it. I didn't know what else to do."

MEIKO's expression softened. "A fever, I see. Alright. Let's start with getting their temperature down. You'll need a cool cloth and a bowl of water. Check near the sink or a drawer with linens."

Akito nodded immediately. He needed something to do. Some way to feel useful.

He moved to the drawers — yanked open the wrong one. Cutlery. Useless. Next — towels. Better. He grabbed one, turned the sink on, filled a bowl with cool water.

"Got it."

"Good," MEIKO said, steady as ever. "Now food. Okayu. Do they have rice, dashi, eggs?"

Akito opened it. His eyes scanned labels he barely recognized.

'This is so stupid. I'm not a cook. I'm not even in my own kitchen.' He thought, gritting his teeth. "Walk me through it, MEIKO. Slowly."

And she did. Patiently. Like a guide walking someone through a storm. Wash the rice. More water than usual. Boil. Stir. Lower the heat. Let it simmer.

He followed every instruction, hands steady but fast, eyes flicking between ingredients and the small screen hovering beside him.

'This isn't like performing,' he thought. 'There's no one to pick up after me if I mess this up. No do-overs.'

But the smell that began to rise from the pot was… comforting. Gentle. Familiar.

When the okayu finished, MEIKO gave her final reminders — hydration, quiet, rest. She began to flicker, the connection fading.

"If anything changes, you can reach out to me." She said kindly.

Then she was gone.

Akito stared at the spot where she'd been.

Then at the bowl in front of him, he let out a sigh.

It still didn't feel like enough.

He carried the tray back into your room, moving more slowly now. Balancing the okayu and water, careful not to spill.

The room was dim. Quiet.

You were still asleep — cheeks flushed, sweat dampening your hairline despite the cold air that slipped through the slightly cracked window. Akito paused by your side, setting the tray down on your desk before crouching beside your bed again.

He reached for the bowl of cool water he'd prepared earlier and soaked the towel once more. This time, slower — gentler — wringing it out with hands steadier than he felt. He folded the cloth neatly, then leaned in and placed it across your forehead with quiet precision, letting it rest there with a sigh. It wasn't much, but it was something from what MEIKO said.

He watched your face for a second longer — the way your lashes barely twitched, the faint crease between your brows. Even asleep, you looked like you were fighting it.

His chest ached.

Then, just for a moment, his fingers brushed through your hair, sweeping a few strands out of the way so the cloth stayed in place.

"Hey," he said quietly. "(Name)."

No response. Just the soft sound of your breathing.

"Wake up for a bit," he coaxed, voice low. "I made you food."

He gave your shoulder a gentle shake. "C'mon. You've gotta eat."

His hand lingered against your temple again. Still too warm.

'I should've seen this sooner.'

You stirred slightly, a soft sound escaping your lips — the first sign of life in what felt like hours.

Akito let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

You blinked slowly, your lashes heavy, the dim light of your room blurring around the edges. It took a moment for everything to come into focus — the quiet hum of the room, the soft pressure against your back, the scent of something warm and starchy nearby.

And then his face.

Leaning over you, brow furrowed in quiet concern. His hand was warm on your forehead, then slipped gently to cradle your cheek.

"Hey," Akito said again, softer this time. Like the word had been sitting in his throat for too long. "You're awake. Come on. Sit up a little. You need to eat."

His voice was careful — gentle in a way it rarely was.

He adjusted the pillows behind you, one hand bracing your back as he helped you lean up. You moved slowly, dizziness clinging to your limbs like fog, but you made it upright. Mostly.

Beside you, the tray sat waiting. Okayu. Steam still curling upward.

You blinked at it. Then back at him. "Wow, Akito," you rasped, your voice scratchy with sleep but laced with something amused. You took a slow, tentative spoonful — and your brows lifted slightly in surprise. It was… good. Genuinely good. Gentle on your tongue. Warm in your throat.

It almost similar to your mother's, but of course hers was still way more superior.

You turned toward him, a hint of mischief returning despite the heaviness still in your body. "Did you actually make this? I'm impressed. Maybe you've got hidden chef potential. Who knew?"

His face twisted — half pride, half irritation. "I had help," he muttered, ears faintly pink. "And don't get cocky."

But then the irritation faded — fast.

Because now that you were upright, now that you were talking, the weight of what almost happened settled into his stomach all over again.

He watched you swallow another spoonful. Quietly. Then—

"…Why didn’t you say anything?"

You blinked. His voice wasn't angry — it was low. Tense. Raw.

"I mean—earlier. On the way home. You were weird. You were quiet. I should've seen it. I did see it, I just—" He exhaled hard, dragging a hand through his hair. "I should’ve pushed more."

You looked down at the bowl, suddenly smaller beneath the weight of his words. "…I’m sorry," you murmured, fingers curling slightly around the edge of the tray. "I didn't want to worry you. Or distract you. You've been working so hard lately. The show's coming up and I just… I didn't want to be the reason you missed practice."

His jaw tensed.

And then — he reached across the tray, took your hand in his, and held it. Tight.

"Bullshit."

The word hit the air like a spark — but it wasn't sharp. It was steady. Honest.

"My practice can wait. The music can wait. You can't." His grip didn't loosen. "You're also one of my priorities, (Name). Always. Don't try to decide that for me."

There was nothing dramatic in his voice. Just conviction. Like the words had been sitting there for a while, waiting for the right moment to break out.

And for once, you didn't argue. You just nodded — barely — and kept eating.

Eventually, the okayu was gone. Every bite had helped settle the ache in your limbs, even if your body still felt sluggish.

You drank the water without protest this time, and when you were finished, Akito took the tray and set it aside, then helped guide you gently back down.

The duvet came up over your shoulders. His hand lingered there for a second — just resting. Grounding. Warm.

"Get some rest," he murmured, brushing a bit of hair away from your forehead, fingers almost featherlight.

You let your eyes flutter closed.

And then you felt it — his presence shifting. Not leaving.

He settled down in the chair beside your bed, exhaling quietly as the tension finally left his body. One of his hands found yours again, folding over it.

A long moment passed.

And then, just barely, he muttered — not for your ears, but for his own heart to hear:

"…You're an idiot." His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles. "For not telling me sooner."

But there was no bite to it. Only relief. And something soft. Something steady.

He'd stay until you woke again. No question.

..┊𝖳𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝖲𝗄𝗂𝗉┊..

The front door clicked shut with a gentle thud as your mother stepped into the house, the weight of the day hanging off her shoulders. She kicked off her shoes and set down her bag, her routine movements automatic after hours of work.

As she headed down the hallway, she noticed your door was slightly ajar — unusual. You always kept it shut, especially when resting. A faint line of warm light spilled into the corridor.

Her brow furrowed slightly.

She stepped closer, nudging the door open just enough to look inside.

There you were, asleep under the covers, your face still faintly flushed but finally peaceful. And beside you, head tilted in sleep and hand still gently holding yours, was Akito. Slumped in a chair too small to be comfortable, his brow slightly furrowed even in rest, as if still halfway caught in concern.

She exhaled softly — not out of worry, but relief.

Her eyes lingered on your joined hands, then softened even more.

Earlier that afternoon, during her lunch break, she'd gotten a text from you. You'd said something like "Think I might be running a fever but probably not. Just tired lol." She'd frowned at the message, debating whether to leave work early, but you'd assured her you were fine — that you'd rest. Still, it had stayed in the back of her mind.

And now, seeing you like this — cared for, safe, warm — it settled something in her. She didn't need to worry anymore. Someone had stepped in where she couldn't.

'You really picked a good one,' she thought, smiling faintly at the boy asleep beside you. 'Looks like he took care of it for me.'

Quietly, she pulled the door almost shut, leaving a sliver of soft hallway light to frame the stillness inside. Then, with a tired but content sigh, she turned and headed to her own room.

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