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tojisun · 3 years

Note

I saw that the requests are open :) how about toji who can't move on from his wife dying and then he gets a relationship with the reader (like a year or two) but like i said Toji can't move on so he sometimes cries in his sleep begging for his wife and he still wears his wedding ring, then the reader left and toji regrets it (change everything you want, it is an angst to fluff 'cause for the life of me I can't handle sad endings :)) thank youuu

HI! okay so i finally finished this request, im sorry it took so long. and now im sorry it turned out super long. i enjoyed writing this piece, thank you so much! i tweaked your request a bit so that it feels more comfortable writing it, i hope u like this <3

working title: between the pages

toji x fem reader

content warning: mamaguro had to be named and she is going by kaori in this fic, there is an oc who would appear quite often, book references, au - no curses, legal age gap, character death references. // word count: 7.1k

There is a saying stored somewhere in Kaori's books (those that Toji never really bothered to read until now) about misery.

He doesn’t quite recall how it goes so he spends his free time, and he has a lot of those these days, browsing the worn pages of each book that amass dust in her shelves to see if he could find it. Toji doesn’t know what it is that drives him to search for a measly quote or why he even wishes to know what it says. He wonders if this is all an empty motion—an attempt to drown out the pain and to forget about her absence. A routine that dulls the sorrow and mutes his senses.

Some days, he forgets that she is gone.

Most days, it is all that he could think about.

Then, Saturday morning, a minute before four a.m., Toji finds what he had been looking for.

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.”

What a cruel thing to read.

───────────────

After Kaori’s funeral, the Fushiguros took most of her possessions with them, leaving only a select few that Toji had fought for.

They never really did like him for her, after all. Only Kaori’s mother, now an old weeping woman who is rendered ill after her daughter’s death, had been warm to Toji. Maybe because he was Kaori’s husband and she was her only daughter, the youngest of her eight children, which made her love Toji despite the sourness from her husband and her seven boys. Or maybe because she had seen the lovelessness that Toji had grown up in and wanted to be a mother for him too. Whatever the reason may have been, it had long sizzled out because Toji knows he’s failed her.

So when she sat him down, quiet and aching and mourning in a way Toji had never seen before, especially not from his own blood, Toji knew what she would ask from him. And he knew what was the right thing to say.

“Son, we’d like to bring the boy home with us.” Her voice was broken, exhausted, small and weak. She rubbed her aged hands together, refusing to meet Toji’s eyes. She smelt of anguish and guilt. Just like me, Toji thought.

“We’d love to raise him as our own. And I think that, well—Toji-kun, I think it’s what she would’ve wanted for him too.”

Toji’s breath hitched and his eyes began watering almost immediately. It was playing dirty; to bring Kaori’s name and her wishes as if a weapon that was forged against him.

But even if she was wrong and that Kaori would have never liked this, Toji knew that the boy would truly fare better with them, instead.

What could Toji give him other than heartache and his own shortcomings? How could he love their son when he could barely love himself? What—

What is there to live for without her?

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Okay,” she repeated. “Did she get to name him?”

No, Kaori had not. She died too quickly, too soon, leaving Toji when their family was just completed. She had only glanced at the boy, tickling his thin hair and pressing a light kiss on his chubby cheek, and then she was gone.

No. Kaori was not given the privilege to.

So instead, Toji thought of the time in their living room, his wife sat by the open balcony doors to feel the brush of the wind as she rubbed her belly, humming a song to fill in the silence. Toji remembered how she had looked at him upon his entrance, beckoning him close to gently take his hands, shaky as they were, and press them flat onto her belly. Toji remembered the little kick that he felt through her skin, just a little nudge, and her giggles at Toji’s wide eyes.

“Our blessing,” she told him before smiling so full and bright and filled with so much life.

And Toji knew that was enough. For him, for her, and for their little baby. It was enough for a sentimental name, one that would allow Kaori’s memory to live on.

“Megumi. Kaori wanted to name him Megumi.”

His mother-in-law was quiet after that, and Toji wondered if she realized that she was taking the last of Kaori’s remnants from Toji’s life. Then, he wondered if that was truly the right call.

───────────────

Toji reads Kaori’s books religiously, chasing after the ghost she left in between the worn pages of her favourite books. He gets to know her again, relearning who she is through poems and prose, and putting together these new pieces—these glimpses of Kaori’s soul that she had left—in hopes of having more of her.

It is madness, some might say, but Toji thinks it is just his grieving.

The months crawl by, but they do move. There is a quote somewhere in her books about these slow hours, and Toji pretends that he does not have it memorized in spades.

“That’s what the world is, after all: an endless battle of contrasting memories.”

The words come to Toji like the wind; plain and unseeing, but irrevocably heart-wrenching. Is this what she wanted to happen when she left those books? To have Toji be haunted by words that should not have made sense, as if they are lifelines that he is desperately clutching onto because what else of her is left for him if not those?

“You left me,” he says, tracing her name chiselled amongst the others in the Fushiguro family grave. “You said,” his voice hitches, “you said that we’d raise Megu—the boy together. Then you went back on your word and left us both.”

The wind blows and the leaves rustle, and Toji has never felt more alone in this world.

“How do I live without you?”

There is no reply. There hasn’t been one for a year now.

Toji waits, straining his ears because maybe some superstitions are right. Maybe the wind does carry her voice and maybe then she will finally answer him. Maybe there is something to be heard in the cemetery. Maybe her ghost is beside him, after all.

But there is nothing. Toji stands up and leaves.

───────────────

He finds their picture tucked in one of her older books. The pages of this one are frayed and bent, as though it had been drenched in water and despite the careful fixing, it never really did get restored. But he knows this book: it’s the one she’s always held close to her being. A favourite, perhaps, or a carrier of sentimental values, those that date even before meeting Toji.

He never really got around to reading it then—the wound was too fresh, too deep—afraid that if he were to finish the book, then it was like the last piece of Kaori was truly gone.

But tired from work and jittery from pain, Toji flips the book open. Then, that is where he sees it. An old photo of them together, taken from one of those cheap photo booths that she had forced him into.

In the picture, Kaori had her head resting on Toji’s shoulder who encircled his arms around her, tucking her underneath his chin. Toji remembers pressing her impossibly closer, snuggling her on his chest because Toji wanted a reminder. Wanted proof that he is loved and spoken for.

He gingerly plucks it from in between the pages, stroking a finger at Kaori’s smiling face.

(He willed himself not to read what was on the page, but his eyes were faster than his mind. “I want you to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like—.”

Toji tears his eyes away, focusing on Koari’s picture instead.)

Toji never really forgot her face, gods he doesn’t know if he ever will, but it’s been too long since Toji had seen her look so alive. He studies her face, trailing his eyes at her smile and at the crinkles at her eyes and at the shimmer of her lips and at the rose of her cheeks, and sears it all to his memory.

A choked sob makes its way from his throat.

He flips the picture, remembering Kaori scribbling something at the back and—yeah, there it is.

In careful hiragana, Kaori wrote, “My love and I.”

“Fuck,” Toji whispers and the tears come easily, painful sobs wrenching themselves from his throat as he drowns at the sorrow once again.

───────────────

It’s been three years (six months and nineteen days) since Kaori’s death, and Toji still thinks there is not much left to live for himself.

Stumbling to survive, he has long given up on trying to find a semblance of joy, a sliver of hope, in this lonely world.

Kaori’s mother stopped giving him updates about Megumi (sometimes, saying his name hurts Toji in ways he cannot explain; it’s like being reminded of what was taken from him, what is irrevocably gone), and Toji tries to pretend that he understands why. Granted the boy was not told of his existence, but Toji thinks he still deserves to know even a glimpse of his son’s life. Of Kaori’s son. But they have changed their numbers and cleansed themselves of Toji, leaving him to mourn on his own once again.

He flips a page.

“Is that Sputnik Sweetheart?”

Toji peers up from his lashes to look at you, seeing awe sparkling in your eyes as you sweep a look at the book in his possession. Selfishly, he wished that no one else had read Kaori’s books; that these are something only she and Toji knew, a secret they share, a language no one else can decipher.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Read it?”

“Me? Nah,” you say, chuckling. “Could never really go through Murakami’s books, they’re too long and loaded.” He smiles at that, thinking, yeah, they are. He’s always wondered how Kaori ever finished them so quickly when Toji is lumbering page to page, rereading certain passages just to fully soak them in. “My ex loved them though, s’why I could recognize that,” you add.

He grunts. You tilt your head at the empty seat in front of him. “Can I?”

He casts a quick glance at the cafe, brows furrowing at seeing how packed it had gotten, before turning to you and nods.

“Sweet,” you say, collapsing at the chair and sagging in comfort.

Toji takes that time to study you. You are years younger than him, that’s the first thing he notices. Maybe ten or so years younger? You look like it. You’re short too. Well, shorter than him. You look tired; haggard in a way that he only remembers seeing from Kaori, back when she was still in college and cursing her professors. Then there’s this aching in your eyes that Toji doesn’t want to acknowledge, doesn’t want to see lest he is reminded of himself. It was this type of longing trapped in your eyes that never seemed to have healed, just dampened. It was there when you were talking about your ex, a heavy feeling that you pushed away quickly. But Toji has familiarized himself with the flickering sorrow.

He knows. You’ve lost someone too, huh?

“So how far along are you in that book?” You ask, shrugging your winter jacket off and hanging it on your chair.

“Finished it.” Toji picks up his coffee and sips to avoid saying more, but you smile at him, undeterred, and go back to fixing yourself up, unwrapping your scarf to let it hang loosely around your shoulders instead.

“Must be a good book if you’re rereading it,” you say, chuckling lightly. He gives another grunt before turning back to his book, and he sees you shrug from his peripheral, not taking offence at his dismissal.

Not that he cares, but there is nowhere else Toji can go to right now. Snow began pattering outside the cafe, and despite that the streets are still busy and full of people, and home is—there hasn’t been a place like home for him anymore. So he is grateful for your polite conversation, but he is more thankful for your silence. It seems like you two need solace, after all.

He returns to his book and you start fumbling about in your laptop before pulling out textbooks and notebooks and cleanly piling them on your side of the table. Your coffee (iced caramel latte, too sweet and kind of impractical for the cool weather) has begun perspiring as you lose yourself in your work, forgetting about your drink, and Toji pretends that he is not watching you from the corners of his eyes. He pretends that seeing you work does not feel like coming close to normalcy again.

There is an hour left before the shop closes, but Toji packs up to return to his apartment. You look up at his clamour before returning to your notes, notebooks sprawled open as if it was not enough that you have your laptop with you. He walks to the trash and dumps his empty coffee cup before sliding to the door. He pauses. Then he walks back to you again.

You look up once more upon hearing his steps, confusion clouding your gaze as you tilt your head in wonder. He speaks before you could. “Good luck with your work,” he says. He hovers, waiting.

“Oh,” you utter, confused. “Thank you?” You phrase your reply like a question and Toji’s lips quirk in amusement. He nods, a silent goodbye, then he walks out, this time for real.

Before rounding the corner, he turns to cast a quick glance at the shop again and feels a quiet type of elation when he sees you looking back at him. He raises a hand—another goodbye; he wonders what prompted it—before turning at the corner and disappearing completely from your view. He wonders if you mirrored his silent farewell.

He thinks you did.

───────────────

He returns to the cafe two weeks later.

It is late and the wind is a lot more biting, stinging his ears and nose. Toji’s face scrunches when he finally makes it to the shop, breathing in the familiar smell of coffee beans and too-sweet pastries. It’s quite packed again, everyone milling about to avoid the winter winds.

Then, he sees you.

Much like before, you are sitting at the same table, on the same chair. Your books are open again, this time you are scribbling in your notebook instead of typing away in your laptop. Your coffee cup—you’re still drinking iced coffee, it seems—is empty, leaving a mix of melting ice and cream-coloured leftover brew.

He turns to the cashier and orders two coffees, one hot and one iced, for him and for you. Toji tries not to think about the impulsive decision he made, choosing instead to bask in the warmth of the shop as he waits for the barista to finish up with his order. He does not notice it, but his eyes stray and linger on you, watching the way your hair curls behind your scarf and the way your back slouches deeper every time you write.

He huffs a humoured laugh when you thump your head on the table, hand fisted around your pen looking as if you have given up. Just like Kaori before, he thinks.

He pauses, dread filling up his heart. No. No.

When his name is called, Toji grabs his order and briskly walks out the door. Only when he is close to the train station does he realize that he is still holding onto the iced coffee. Toji throws it in the nearby trash can and scurries off into the platform.

───────────────

He visits Kaori’s grave.

It feels wrong, somewhat. It feels like he came to her because he is guilty. Guilty of thinking of another woman, guilty of comparing her to someone else. He places the flowers on the stone, but it just feels like an apology. Like an excuse. He tries forming words in his mouth, but they all burn at his throat and leave him empty.

Toji doesn’t quite know what to call the feeling—lies, Toji hears himself rebut, you know what it is—he just wants to unlatch it from his being and discard it away. He would rather feel hollow than feel this.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, but he cannot find it in himself to say what he is sorry for.

He watches as the snow piles up on the stone, dropping onto the flowers that he brought and clumping together with no abandon. There is a certain silence in the cemetery, but Toji welcomes it, anyway. It allows his veins to simmer and it lays the paths for Toji’s mind to wander.

He finds that he often loses himself in this place, almost like a plea for Kaori to come and take him with her.

Toji hears the crunching of snow as tiny shuffles make their way close to Kaori’s grave, and he waits for them to move away and skirt around him but they don’t. Instead, the padding of boots stops a few feet away from Toji, almost hesitating in the way they hover at his right. Curious, he looks up and sees you.

“Oh,” he hears you say, blinking at him, your soft voice tinged with surprise. “It’s you!”

He chuckles before he can stop himself. “Yeah. It’s me.”

There is a pause as you figure out if you were to stay or walk away, unsure if it is overstepping if you inquired any more of his time there or if it is rude to just continue on your way. Toji sees these thoughts dance across your face, his scarred lips tugging up in amusement (endearment), so he makes the choice for you.

“Visiting someone?” Toji asks and urges you to come closer. You take gentle steps, careful and quiet as you move to stand beside him.

He sees you eye the Fushiguro’s grave, reading all the different names carved on the stones. Toji wonders if you’ve seen Kaori’s name and just knew that the other half of his soul, the better half, is now dust.

“Yeah,” you finally say. He blinks when you utter a name he doesn’t recognize.

“What?”

“That’s, uh, that’s my name? We never really got to introduce ourselves last time,” you reply, scratching your cheek, embarrassed.

Toji grunts in understanding. “Fushiguro Toji.”

You turn to the grave in question. Toji shakes his head. “I’m visiting my wife.” You make a low noise at the base of your throat, nodding your head slowly.

He clears his throat. “How about you?”

Then there is this wobbly smile on your face and Toji thinks, I know how it feels.

───────────────

There was a man sitting at your usual table, grumpy as he flipped a page from a book that you are too familiar with.

(Flashes of Teruma’s bright orange hair danced across your irises, and for a moment it was like he was there with you again.

“Baby!” He would call you as he always had, and you would be weak on your knees because he’s alive, alive, alive.)

There’s a scar at the corner of the man’s mouth, long enough that it spanned both of his lips, and he oddly looked good with it, you thought. Then you remembered that it is rude to stare at people and so you forced your eyes to meet his, and saw pools of green flaked with glitters of gold. He was reluctant to allow you to sit with him.

That’s fine, you just wanted to get through your Geography homework, anyway.

He didn’t speak much, choosing to read his book again. Likewise, you zoned into your work and focused in earnest. Time trickled and ran, but every flip of a page from the man’s book sent you reeling back in time.

(Cheeky smiles and rough palms.

“I’ll come back soon,” is whispered on your lips.

“Okay,” you kissed back.

But he never did.).

When the man wished you well with your work before ambling away, you could not help the way your lips stretched into a smile.

What a gentle giant he was.

. . . . . . . . . . .

A couple weeks later, you saw Gentle Giant again. You saw his mirage from your spot, and you watched as he walked away from the shop, his steps looking rushed and almost frantic. The two cups of coffee in his hands sloshed at his brisk movements, and you just wished that whatever he was speed-walking to was worth him spilling his drinks.

Belatedly, you wondered if the other cup was for someone else.

You stared at his quickly retreating back until he rounded the corner, and disappeared from your vantage completely. Then, you turned back to your godforsaken paper, cursing your professors and the educational system.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Gentle Giant’s name is Toji, and he lost his wife. He hasn’t told you much, but you still want to tell him about Teruma. So you do.

You tell him about the boy who you’ve loved for six years, two of which were spent loving his ghost. You tell him about the breakup, the mutual understanding shared between you two before he went to Detroit. You tell him about Teruma apologizing, about you saying it is okay. Then, shakily, you tell him about the plane crash, the one that was on the news two years ago. You tell him about the funeral held for the boy whose body they never recovered.

“I was gonna marry him,” you say. “I was so sure that I was gonna spend the rest of my life with him.”

Toji does not mention the tears on your cheeks or the way your breath hitches or the tremble of your hands. He does not offer apologies or any placation, and you know it is his kindness. Silent, like everything else about him.

───────────────

Toji tells you about Kaori. He thinks it is to make it fair, after all you told him about Teruma, but really, he just wants to let the pain out. He sees how light you have felt after, and Toji yearns to feel that free. There is an aching in his heart that has festered and aged, and Toji wants, even for a bit, to let go. So he does, and he starts by telling you about his wife.

Toji loses himself in the memories, closing his eyes as he relives his moments with Kaori. It’s been years but she is still bright in his mind, concrete and alive, almost as if Toji could just reach out and feel her warmth again. Anguish thrums in his veins as he tells you about their son, but he bulldozes through because he wants the good memories. There is no more of Megumi that Toji could call his own, so Toji traces Kaori’s books, instead, and tells you their significance.

This is when Toji feels you come alive, springing like a bud and uncurling outward to meet him in his ramblings. You pipe in about Murakami’s books, excited and nostalgic at the same time. He tells you about Kaori’s frustrations—“Too much open-ending, apparently.”—and you tell him about Teruma’s—“He calls them poetry.”—and Toji feels like he’s found a kindred in your aching soul.

The ghosts surrounding you two must think you guys are fools; to be licking each other’s wounds as you recount your lives with your beloved. But so be it, Toji thinks, because he’s finally found a semblance of peace in his life.

He thinks of Sputnik Sweetheart, how this all started, and he remembers: “It came to me then. That we were wonderful travelling companions but in the end no more than lonely lumps of metal in their own separate orbits.”

How fitting, isn’t it?

───────────────

It becomes a regularity for you and Toji to meet in the cafe, Murakami’s books in his hands and your textbooks (and notebooks and laptop) in yours.

The meetups start quietly, letting the tension bleed out and allowing comfort to seep through. Then the greetings come, these ones more genuine. You share something about your life, and Toji listens. He is more reserved, only saying things that have no follow up questions, but it seems you do not care about his plans because you always find a way to make him speak more.

Often, Toji finds his voice wearing down after those meet-ups with you, and he does not remember a time after Kaori when he’s spoken this much. He feels elated, alive, and living.

Sometimes, it’s still a struggle to go about life without Kaori.

Sometimes, he forgets it as long as he’s with you. And if that isn’t terrifying.

He learns who you are past the stress of university exams and incoherent cursing at whoever pissed you off at work. He unveils your person deeper, seeing what you’ve become after trying to heal around Teruma’s passing. Toji sees someone who he wants to be like.

You laughed when Toji uttered this to you. “I’m a mess, Toji-san!” You said, clutching your stomach as laughter pittered off from your throat. That’s another thing that Toji learns about you: you say his name like it is milk gliding at your tongue.

“I di’n say you ain’t,” he remembers answering. I just want to feel more than sorrow, he added as an afterthought. He wonders if you knew what he wanted to say back then.

It seems like you always do.

───────────────

Spring air turns a lot hotter, welcoming summer earlier than anyone has anticipated. The only good thing that came out of the upcoming humid season are the flowers that grow in bigger and cheaper bundles.

He grabs white chrysanthemums for Kaori, you brought Teruma orange gerberas.

There are more people in the cemetery these days, plucking out weeds and cleaning their family graves as they welcome the new season. Toji helps you clean Teruma’s and you both hover at Kaori’s, offering a short prayer.

“Who knows?” You begin as Toji walks you to the station. He lives on the other side of the city, but it is still too early and Toji doesn’t want to be alone again. Not yet. “Maybe Kaori-san and Teru are reading Murakami’s books wherever they are right now.”

Toji snorts. “You believe in the afterlife?” He pushes his hair back, noting that it’s grown longer again and that he needs to cut it soon.

You shrug, humming quietly, and looking away when Toji meets your eyes. “I’d like to think that there is a better place for the dead. That there’s a place where the people we love are happier. Because why else would they leave us, you know?”

Toji blinks, quiet and stunned. Then, he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I get it.”

And it sounds a lot better, kinder, than what Toji used to believe in. Because if there is an afterlife, then surely Kaori is at peace and she is happy and she is no longer hurting.

So maybe, with this in mind, maybe Toji can begin letting go. Because if Kaori is in a better place, then maybe Toji doesn’t need to be haunted anymore.

(Because if Kaori is happy then maybe he can be too—)

───────────────

A year and a half spent with you, chasing away each other’s loneliness and submerging yourselves in books that are left behind by your most precious ones, has passed when you tell him that you love him.

Toji turns to you in surprise, watching the blush on your cheeks as you stop walking, waiting for his answer. Your eyes are steady as they gaze back onto him, your face schooled into a mask. He notes the falling leaves around you two and the wind that blows from his back and the way your hair sweeps away from your face and how you tremble, having always been weak to the cold.

His first thought is, You look good even in autumn.

Then his next is, I know.

“Are you asking me out?” Toji finally asks, grimacing when his voice breaks at the end, and swallowing to dislodge the lump stuck in his throat.

You shrug, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear and Toji watches, mesmerized. “If you want,” you say. “I mean, if you want to be in a relationship with me, that’s great. If you don’t, that’s fine for me too, Toji-san, we can just remain as friends. Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that I love you. Have been in love with you.” You coughed, blushing and looking away, shy all of a sudden.

There is strength in your voice that Toji cannot seem to shake.

(Later, when he looks back on this day, Toji will recognize that it is fortitude; it is courage that you have gathered in your arms and had lain in front of him, asking him to make a choice. Asking him to choose you.)

And he thinks that he’s known this day would come. He’s waited for this day to come. But Toji knows his faults, he has known them before any other could. For many nights that he was sleepless, Toji spent the time tracing the fractures in his being and knowing that there is something wrong with him. That there is something he cannot get through, something he cannot let go.

“I don’t think I can ever forget her,” he tells you, honest and broken.

“I didn’t expect you to,” you answer. “I don’t think we can love wholly again, but I still want to try with you.”

Oh, Toji thinks, you understand. You understand in ways no other had, in ways no one was willing to, and Toji thinks that maybe that is enough: that he’d feel safe in your arms and that he’d get to be happy again and that he wouldn’t be alone anymore. And he wants to. With you.

So he trudges close to where you stand, where you wait for him, and clasps his hand with yours and shyly says, “Please take care of me.”

And when you send him a smile, the one that has always been for him, Toji wills his heart to calm down.

───────────────

Nothing changes much between you two, except for the relearning of boundaries and stumbling into new ways of expressing the bubbles in your hearts, the ‘I love yous’ that are echoed. Sometime back then, Toji thought that he was doing something wrong—it was a relationship unlike Kaori’s, yes that he knew, but it was also different from all the others—until you eased his worries and told him, in an utterly fond voice, that your shared love parallels a friendship that is eons stronger.

“As long as you’re happy,” you said to him, holding onto his hands as you two lined up to pay for the bouquets, lilies for Kaori and freesias for Teruma.

“I am,” Toji replied before he leant down to press a soft kiss at the crown of your head. “And you?”

You craned your neck to look up at him, your smile wide and genuine, and whispered, “With you? Always.”

Toji’s heart swells at the memory.

Loving you, Toji thinks, is easy and light. It is built on trust and friendship and camaraderie, bearing a depth that no one seems to truly understand. A depth that people often passed off as being each other’s rebound, each other’s second choice. But neither you nor Toji think of your relationship this way.

Not when love brims from your lips, pouring your heart out with each kiss, each confession, all of which Toji reciprocates. Being with you is like finding light in the darkness, like feeling hope after the chaos, like being home once again. But it is also like a dandelion amidst the grass or a mug tucked at the very back of the cupboard; like slotting himself by your side feels natural and just right.

───────────────

There is a sound that tickles your senses, one that you try to bat away but it comes with vengeance. It starts off quiet, a whimper, and you try to drown it back, turning to sleep once again. But the sound grows louder, more desperate, more hurt, and there is nothing else for you to do but jolt awake, gasping as if you were submerged in water.

You think you dreamt of Teruma—orange hair, rough palm against your cheek, a static voice announcing a series of names, the feeling of dread, then, the dropping agony at hearing his—but the recollection fades as you turn to Toji, seeing him weeping at his sleep.

He is haunted—like me, you think, like me—and you crawl close to him, urgency steeping in your veins. “Toji-san?” You call. He whimpers but does not stir, and he turns his head away, his face scrunching in pain.

You caress his cheeks, hands gentle despite their tremors. “Toji-san,” you say, panic clouding your voice. “Come back to me, please.”

Please, Kaori-san, give him back to me.

Toji does not wake, curling on himself, instead, as tears continue to run down his cheeks. You do not let him go, voice washing over him even when he cannot hear you. You try shaking him and slapping at his shoulders, hoping the pain that his body feels is stronger than that of his heart. But you know. You know he is there, seeing Kaori leave again.

Toji continues to slip deeper into his dreams, lost and hurting. “You are okay,” you whisper, pressing kisses at his closed eyes, willing them to finally open. “You’ve been doing better, so come back here, Toji-san. To me. With me, like always.”

It takes a few more torturous minutes before he gasps awake and sits upright, his hand clutching where his heart rests. He wheezes, gulping air hungrily, before choking on a sob. He turns to you, calls your name in a quiet voice that breaks your heart, and you open your arms, not trusting your voice to comfort him. He collapses onto you, pressing his face on your shoulder as he wails, shaking, clutching you tighter as if afraid that you too will leave him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” you reply. “You’re okay.”

Toji shakes his head, but he does not say anything else and lets the silence go on as he holds you close. You don’t mind, choosing to run your fingers through his hair, and letting him come back down from his dreams.

“What if we’d never work out because I’m not—I still remember her. Sometimes, I still miss her,” he finally says, breaking the silence.

You flinch and Toji must have felt you tense because he pulls back from your arms, sliding until he is sitting in front of you. He ducks his head when he sees the tears pooling at the corner of your eyes. There is silence between you two, letting his words stew. You inhale sharply when his hand twines with yours, tugging, almost begging.

You sigh from your nose. “What do you want to do, Toji-san?”

“I’m sorry,” is what he says instead.

You shake your head. “Tell me. Let’s talk this through.”

He slumps forward, bowing down into himself. Your hand twitches, wanting to pull him in an embrace again, but you take his silence and allow him space.

“I love you,” he begins, voice steady and sure, and your heart flutters. I know, you want to say, but you see how he tests out the words on his tongue, hesitant and stiff, and so you wait. He squeezes your hand. Thank you.

“I'm terrified. Darling, I love you but why can’t I let go of the pain? It’s like, I allow myself to be happy but then I remember her and then I miss her all over again.” He sighs, almost a hiss, and he lets one of your hands go to push his hair back, agitated. “And I want you with me, god knows I don’t want to let you go. But am I worth it?”

You huff a humourless laugh. “Always.”

“Baby—”

“No,” you interrupt, “Toji-san, listen to me. You are always worth it, worth my love.” His breath hitches at your words and you smile as he pulls you close again, this time sitting you on his lap. You sweep his hair away from his face and plant a kiss on his forehead, and another, and another. Precious kisses for your most precious person. “So worth my everything,” you mutter.

Toji hugs you tighter and rests his head at the crook of your neck. His big hands envelop your back and you feel so small like this, as if Toji could just tuck you close in the pocket of his chest, in his heart. At the same time, Toji looks so vulnerable. Shaken. Afraid. Your Gentle Giant folded so close to you, almost as if begging you to tell him why he should stay—

Your mind screeches to a halt. Oh, Toji-san.

“I dreamt of Teru tonight,” you start, clearing your throat when your voice shatters. Toji doesn’t move, but you know he’s listening. He always does. “I dreamt about him a few nights ago too. There are days when I miss him too much that I forget he’s gone. Then there are days that it’s all I could remember. Four years of being with him doesn’t just go away, it seems. He is seared into my memories, after all.”

The more you spoke, the more Toji tenses, freezing as if he could see where you are going with this. By the end of it, his head hovers in front of you, eyes searching for something within yours. He lifts a hand to cup your cheek and you nuzzle his palm, resting your smaller hand on top of his.

You are almost breathless when you continue, as if desperate and frantic. “But it doesn’t mean I love you any less, Toji-san. I miss Teru, but I love you. And for me, that is enough.” You whimper when he brushes a stray tear away from your cheeks. “And I need to know if you feel the same, Toji-san.”

You barely got the last of your words out before Toji is pulling you in for a kiss, warm lips meeting yours in a heated tangle. He pulls and pulls, pressing you impossibly close, his touch scorching your skin as he devours your doubts away, and you know, there and then, that he loves you just as much.

When you pull back, gasping, Toji touches his forehead with yours. “I do,” he says, voice as broken as yours. He says your name, then “I love you so.”

He kisses you again, this time slower but not any less intimate. “‘M sorry for what I said,” he whispers. “‘M sorry, my love.”

You kiss his cheeks and his nose, skirting away from his lips, and quietly giggling as you press a kiss on his chin instead. “I’m okay,” you say. “We’re okay.”

He hums, low and soft. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you reply. You grin. “‘And this love is about to carry me off somewhere.’”

He chokes on a laugh, one that you note is fond, after recognizing the reference. “It’ll carry you to me, hopefully,” he says cheekily and kisses you once again. You laugh, carefree and happy, as if a load has finally been lifted off your chest.

───────────────

Teruma’s death anniversary is today.

Toji knew even before he opened his eyes, sensing the ache in the air even before he could look at you. Toji turns to your side of the bed, not surprised to see it empty. He fumbles for his phone, checks the time, and stands up to prepare for the day.

He quickly leaves the apartment and speedwalks all the way to the flower shop. A worker greets him the moment the wind chimes sound, smiling as Toji makes his way to the counter. The owner looks up from his flower arrangements and sends Toji a smaller smile upon seeing him. Toji buys carnations and baby’s breaths, and walks out the door after telling the man that yes, Toji would greet you for him.

He takes the train and doesn’t bother with all the stares that people give him, tracing, instead, the familiar route toward the cemetery. He quickens his steps, almost jogging with how fast he is moving, sincere in his desperation to be with you through this.

When Toji gets to you, you are muffling your cries behind your palms, shaking as if you are about to collapse. He rushes to your side, afraid that you will, and you startle, turning to him. Toji’s heart breaks at the grief painted on your face, and he pulls you in for an embrace before you could utter a sound.

The flowers in his hand jostle and some of the petals fall, but Toji doesn’t spare them a thought as he rests a hand on your head and wishes that this helps even for a bit.

“I’ve got you,” Toji says. “I’ve got you.”

───────────────

“I’m home! Anyways, look what I found!” You scream as soon as you arrive, and Toji blinks at your excitement.

“Welcome back,” Toji greets, smiling fondly as you jump beside him, plopping yourself so close to him. You pull your bag to your lap, fumbling about, before pulling a worn book.

“I found this in the thrift store,” you say, showing him the book excitedly, lips stretched into a wide grin. “I wasn’t gonna buy it, but look.”

You flip at the pages before thrusting the old book under Toji’s nose. He picks it up, confused as to why you were showing him a book you know he’s read already, but then he catches sight of it.

“Is this—”

“It is!”

“And it was just in the thrift store?” Toji asks, still not looking away from Murakami’s autograph.

You laugh, nodding your head frantically. “Yup,” you say, popping the ‘p’. “Thought you’d love it.”

Toji turns to you and grins. “Well, I love everything you give me.”

“Aww, Toji-san! You’re such a sap!”

He rolls his eyes goodheartedly. “And you’re such a brat.”

“Mhmm. But you still love me, anyway.”

Toji smiles and finally, finally, pulls you in for a kiss. Then, “That I do, baby.”

(book references, order based on appearance):

1Q84, 1Q84, Norwegian Wood, Sputnik Sweetheart, Sputnik Sweetheart — all are written by Haruki Murakami

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