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chaxiu · 1 year

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object impermanence

pairing: iwaizumi hajime x female! reader

summary: a love letter to small towns, and all the other things we outgrow. inspired by "the dry season" by hannah gramson.

⎯⎯⎯

The thing is this: if there’s anything you’re sure of, it’s that Iwaizumi Hajime loves his hometown, small as it is.

He loves the quiet streets, the roads that he’s been walking since he was old enough to take those first steps on his own, face screwed up in extreme concentration in a way that his mother loves to mimic even today. He loves the grandmother around the corner that always tells him Goodness, Hajime-kun, you’re getting so tall, even though he hasn’t grown even a fraction of a centimeter since his second year of high school, much to his dismay and Oikawa’s delight. He loves the konbini next to the school that always keeps his favorite popsicles in stock (the ones that come with two sticks and are perfect for splitting,) even in the heat of summer when everyone and their mother is scrambling to buy anything that’ll keep them cool. He loves his school, his team, and his friends: he loves the foundations he’s built here, the foundation he’s become. He loves his family, and the agedashi tofu that his mother makes for him whenever she thinks he’s done a good job at something or he needs something to cheer him up or she just wants him to know that she loves him.

He loves you: you know this. Have known this, ever since he’d started offering to walk you home from school, ears red, hand scratching the back of his neck as he looked anywhere but at you. You’d grinned at him, then. “Are you gonna look at me at any point the entire way?”

The red had spread to his cheeks. Part of you wanted to reach up and poke them, see if they could get any redder. “Shut up,” he’d said, wrenching his gaze to yours with what looked like some difficulty. “Do you want me to walk you home or not?”

You did, although he didn’t need to know just yet quite how much. Instead, you had grinned at him, shuffling a little closer and letting that stand as your response.

One day bled into two, then into a week, and before you knew it he was standing in front of you, hands clenched into fists as he yelled into your face: “I like you!”

“I know,” you’d said.

He’d stood there, mouth still half-open, until you decided to take pity on him, reaching up to cup his face in your hands, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before stepping back. He’d reacted almost immediately, grabbing your hands in his and pulling you to him, close enough that your foreheads almost knocked together.

You remember thinking a lot of things. How his eyes were greener than you’d ever noticed, that he smelled like salonpas and clean cotton. Mostly, you remember thinking about how rough his hands were: callused and sturdy, far bigger than your own.

They’d held you so tenderly. Fingers loose around your wrists, palm cupped underneath yours: soft, so soft.

Tonight it’s hard to remember a lot of things about Iwaizumi: the exact way his chin dimples when he grins, or how his voice rasps in the morning without the tinny sound of your phone’s speaker laid over it. You still remember his hands, though. You don’t think you could ever forget.

A crackling yawn comes through the speakers. “Babe? You there?”

“I’m here,” you say, quiet. “I always am.”

Night for you means morning for him, and Iwaizumi wakes up diligently every week for your scheduled calls, even if it means you get the pleasure of hearing his earth-shattering yawns every five minutes for the entire duration of the call. It’s what both of you signed up for, you know: it’s part and parcel of being in a long-distance relationship. And California to Japan is about as long-distance as it gets: your friends in college, when you tell them about him, all cluck disbelievingly. “So far away,” they all say. “That must be so difficult.”

“I love him,” you always say back. There’s no point in talking about whether or not it’s difficult. What matters is whether or not you’re willing to do it. At least that’s what the two of you had decided, when you sat down and talked it out a month before he was set to leave for California.

“I don’t want to let you go,” he’d said, eyes holding yours steadily. “I want to make us work, do you?”

He’d said your name, cradled in between his tongue and the roof of his mouth like it was the most precious thing he’d ever held, and you knew then you would never forgive yourself if you hadn’t tried.

“Yeah,” you’d said. It had been worth the tightening in your stomach to see the way his face lit up like the sun. “Of course I do, Hajime.”

“Hajime!” comes from the other end of the call, heavily accented and distorted almost beyond repetition. You catch a glimpse of blonde hair on the screen: Iwaizumi’s roommate. All you’ve been able to discern about him is that he’s a beanstalk of a man – long and lanky, with no coordination whatsoever – and is from the south of the U.S., which Iwaizumi tells you is apparently famous only for cowboys and meat. He seems nice enough, from what you can tell; still, hearing Iwaizumi’s first name in his mouth leaves a sour taste in yours.

It’s not like he means anything by it, you know. It’s only a difference in culture: Iwaizumi has told you about how it still shocks him, sometimes, to hear near-strangers call him by his first name. It’s not the same, you want to tell him, but there’s no way to tell him how it makes you feel without sounding ridiculous. That it feels like letting go. That it feels like your hold on him is weakening, somehow.

Back home, it was only his parents and you that regularly called him Hajime. Mattsun and Makki called him Iwaizumi, or Iwa, if they were feeling particularly chummy; Oikawa, of course, stuck with the tried-and-true Iwa-chan. At school, you’d been the only one to call him Hajime, and everyone knew what that meant. Now, everyone does, and it pokes at something tender in you, something you hadn’t even realized could be hurt in the first place.

Iwaizumi swivels around in his chair, saying something in English. You tuck your chin into your forearms, resting on the desk, watching his expression as he barks out a laugh, loud and harsh and your favorite sound in the whole entire world.

The last time he’d come home was almost three months ago, sun-tanned and with even broader shoulders. Still, there was the same familiar press of his hand on your back as he’d gathered you up in a hug. “Missed you,” he’d said, and you’d known that he’d meant it.

“Missed you more,” you’d said, and you’d meant it, too.

The thing is this: you’re absolutely certain that Iwaizumi Hajime loves his small town.

You’re also sure that he’s outgrown that love.

Two months and two weeks ago, you’d bounded up the stairs to his bedroom, hand poised at the doorknob to let yourself in when you heard Iwaizumi’s voice, gruff and irritated as usual but with a thread of tension through it, brittle in a way you’d never heard it before.

“-- I know it’s a good opportunity,” he’d said. “Utsui Takashi is a legend. I’ve wanted to work with him since forever –”

The person on the other end had cut him off with something you couldn’t hear. Iwaizumi had heaved an enormous sigh.

“Yes, even though he’s Ushijima’s dad. You know, you’re the only person in the world who’s still holding on to that grudge, I bet. But it would mean that I’d be committed to live in the U.S. for the next five years after I graduate, at least. Maybe more, if they decided to give me a job there. It might mean staying there permanently. And… I’m pretty committed to coming back here.”

Another pause.

“I know she’d understand, if I told her. But I don’t think I could do that to her. I don’t think I could make her wait for me like that. She deserves more than half a relationship, and I want to give that to her.”

A longer pause, this time, then an irritated growl. “I know I’m losing a good opportunity. I just – I can’t. I don’t want to talk about it anymore, okay? Utsui-san said I could have time to think about it, anyway. I’ll have plenty of time to figure out how to let him down gently.”

Your hand was shaking, you’d realized with a start, pulling it back to your side. You’d turned and walked straight back out of his house, swiveling at the doorway to rap three times on the frame, letting the sound echo limply through the rooms.

Iwaizumi had come downstairs and grinned at you. “Hey,” he’d said, as if he wasn’t giving up his life for you.

“Hey,” you’d said back, as if you weren’t letting him.

You’d meant to talk to him about it, you really had. But he’d seemed so content in Miyagi, in the same little town you’d both grown up in, the one both of you had known since birth. And a part of you, a selfish part, a larger part than you’d like to admit, had been whispering the entire time: Would this be so bad? He could be happy here. You could make him happy here.

And then he’d left, and now you’re here, sitting at your desk in your childhood bedroom, watching him tip back in his chair dangerously far, laughing so hard you’d probably be able to see his molars if it weren’t for your shitty camera quality.

You’re happy he’s happy. You don’t think you could stop being happy for his happiness.

There’s just this part of you that wishes he could find that here, still.

But you know contentment isn’t happiness, no matter how desperately the both of you have been trying to pretend it can be. He’s happy there, where he’s constantly challenged, constantly pushed to be better, better, better. Where he gets to chase his own dreams and not be constantly haunted by his what ifs.

Here, you think you could give him everything you had and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Iwaizumi would pretend it was, if it came down to it. If you let him. He loves you enough that he would. He’d press a kiss to your forehead before leaving for work in the morning and a longer one to your lips when he came home in the evening. There would be quiet dinners and bland weekends, a soft existence spilling out before you every day.

But there would still be a hunger in him.

It would be so selfish of you to keep him. You don’t know how to stop wanting him to stay.

“Hey.” Iwaizumi says your name, soft, a fondness in the sound that even bleeds through the screen. His roommate is out of the screen again, accompanied by a bang you assume is the closing of their door. “Is everything all right? You’ve been kinda quiet these past few weeks.”

Your stomach hurts, because of course he noticed, it’s Iwaizumi. You force a smile to your lips, although the muscles in your cheeks tremor with the effort. “Yeah, Hajime. Everything’s okay.”

“You know you can always tell me anything, right?” he asks. You know that if he were here there would be a hand intertwined with yours, or a gentle kiss pressed at the crook of your neck, right where it meets your shoulder.

That’s the problem, though. He’s not here. He can’t be here. You can’t – won’t – make him be here.

“Hajime,” you say, because some days it’s the only thing you have left to say.

He waits, silent. You can just make out the rise and fall of his chest over the pixellated laptop screen.

Coming back here, Iwaizumi had said, back when you had overheard him all those weeks ago. He’d said here, not home. Not coming back home.

“Hajime,” you say again, because you can. “Hajime, I think we should break up.”

A thud, and then Iwaizumi disappears from your vision with a muffled curse. He must’ve tipped back too far in his chair in surprise – you’re always warning him about it, ever since he’d told you about the odd chair that they’d given him in his dorm room, the one that rocks back a little too far – and fallen over. Part of you wants to laugh. The other part of you aches, a little, that this is the last time Iwaizumi will do something stupid with you here to watch it, you here to gently chastise and tease him after.

“Be careful,” you say, almost on reflex, as his head appears back on screen, hair mussed up and face red. “You’re going to crack your skull open someday.”

“I’m not going to – why are we even talking about this right now? You just said you think we should break up.” He takes a seat back in the chair, although he doesn’t tip back this time, you note.

“You should still be careful,” you say. He’s placed his hands on the desk, where they’re in view of you and the camera, and you can see the way they’re opening and closing hopelessly, as if he’s looking for something he can hold, or something he can hit.

“What the fuck?” he asks, disbelievingly. Then, “Is this a joke?”

“No,” you say. “It’s not a joke, Hajime.”

“Why are you saying my name like that,” Iwaizumi demands. His hands squeeze into fists and stay that way, white-knuckled on the desk.

“Like what?”

He shakes his head, rough, like he’s trying to get water out of his ears. It’s a familiar gesture, one you’ve seen him do many times before. Some distant part of you wonders if it’s too late to take it all back.

“I don’t fucking know, like – like you’ve given up already. Like you’re letting it go.”

“I’m not giving up,” you lie. “I just think that this will be better for us. In the long run.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Iwaizumi asks.

“I heard you talking,” you rush out. “To Utsui-san. It’s a good offer. I think you should take it. If you don’t mind taking advice from an ex, that is.”

“Is that what this is about?” he asks, then says your name again, so full of something that makes your chest ache. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll turn him down, I’ll come back to Japan. It’s okay, baby. We can still be okay. I love you so much –”

“I love you too,” you say, even though something in your throat is making it so that it hurts to speak. “But – Hajime, I think you love me like you love Miyagi. Or the grandmother who gives us those sweet potatoes in the summer. Or that park that you always take me to, the one with the bugs you say you don’t want to catch but I can tell that you do. Hajime, do you understand me?”

Iwaizumi opens his mouth. Closes it again. “I love all of those things,” he says. “I love you the most. What’s wrong with that?”

“You love us,” you say. “We could make you content. But the offer, Hajime. It would make you so happy to be able to study with him. Really, truly happy.”

He doesn’t contest your words. You’d known he wouldn’t, had half-hoped he might. Instead: “I could still come back after,” he says. “If you were willing to wait for me.”

“You know that’s unfair to ask,” you say. There are tears at the edge of your vision, threatening to spill over. You don’t bother to wipe them away. “Unfair to me, and unfair to you. You have to keep looking forward, Hajime. I think this – all of this – belongs in your past.”

He says your name again, voice cracking, spilling over.

Iwaizumi Hajime loves his small town. Iwaizumi Hajime loves you.

Both of those love him enough to let him go.

“Can I change your mind?” he asks, and you shake your head. The action dislodges a few tears, and they run down your cheeks, plopping onto the fabric of your pants and no doubt leaving a stain.

“I love you,” you reply, like an apology, like a goodbye.

“I love you,” he says, like a prayer.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

“Don’t forget to keep taking your vitamins,” he says, voice brittle. “And go to bed early and don’t forget to give yourself breaks and make sure to go for walks, every once in a while, okay? Just to get some fresh air. You can’t forget any of those things just because – just because I won’t be there to remind you.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything back for a minute. “Don’t stress so much,” you say, forcing it out past the lump in your throat. You may never get a chance to tell him again. “I’m sure Utsui-san will recognize how hard you work. You’re going to be incredible, Hajime, do you understand?”

Iwaizumi nods, stiff. His shoulders are shaking.

“Bye, Hajime,” you choke out.

He says your name – just your name – and you nearly fold, nearly give in, nearly buy the next ticket to California just to press your face into the crook of his neck and reassure him that none of it meant anything at all.

Instead you give a little half-wave, click the button to end the call, and shut the laptop woodenly. Your childhood bedroom has never felt so small, with the peeling posters and the small bed, tucked into a corner, with the knicknacks and stuffed animals cluttering up the shelves someone else must’ve come in and dusted, in your absence.

Outside, your little town remains quiet. You allow yourself to mourn alongside it.

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sabraeal · 2 months

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at home with the glass half empty, Part 1

[Read on AO3]

It’s not that Nanami expected fanfare when he returned to the realm of curses and sorcerers; they hardly have time to mourn their dead, let alone celebrate the living. It’s only…

There should be more to it than this. More than Gojo-senpai’s crooned, ‘Nanami-kun’ crackling over the speaker of his phone, rousing him before even the sun's bothered to heave itself over the horizon. More than the mission brief being a location and time couched in a stream of that idiot's nonsense, more than showing up at to the rendezvous as the sole adult not wearing his high school uniform--

More than the situation going pear-shaped at the moment of contact. At least, that's what he'd thought there'd be when he still trained under these people. Last minute texts seemed normal when he was just some shitty teenager; when he was just some student called in as an afterthought once instructors had deemed the situation safe enough to stand in for a lesson. He'd assumed that when he was an adult, when he finally became a peer rather than a pupil, he'd finally be privy to all the secret strategies the other sorcerers seemed to know down to their bones

Now he'd just settle for a plan before they turned a children’s park into a battleground.

Cursed energy drips off his knuckles, liquid in a way real fire never could be. It flickers with the same frantic rhythm as his breath, a flare of flame before it extinguishes itself on the concrete. That had been the reason he’d left, wasn’t it? That there never had been a plan. That their only way of fighting the creeping tide of humanity’s apathy was to throw more bodies at the problem until it was solved.

Even if those bodies were children.

“Threat neutralized,” he pants, quenching the cursed energy licking over his shoulders. They tense in its wake, braced for a fight long over. “…Gojo-san.”

“As expected from my reliable kouhai!” A lanky arms slings itself over his shoulders, drawing him far too close to that smug smile. “Tell me, was it fun? Is it just like old times?”

“I’ve been doing this for a year.” And Gojo-senpai— intolerable, as always— never changes his script. Unbelievable that they gave this man dominion over children. “It’s shit.”

He nods, sagely. “Just like old times.”

Isn’t that the truth. Nanami plucks his blazer off the carousel's rail, slinging it over his shoulders. “If there’s nothing else…?”

“What? You’re not going to stick around? Reminisce about old times?” Gojo’s lip juts out, wounded. “Come on, Nanami-kun—”

“I told you not to call me that.” They’re work colleagues, not classmates.

“You were a salaryman, weren’t you? You know about post-work drinks. Happy Hour?”

He hadn’t gone to those either, not once it was clear he would make more money on overtime than schmoozing for a promotion. “It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Lunch, then,” Gojo-senpai decides far too quickly. As if he’d already planned— “I made bento!”

Ah, there it is. The metal teeth snapping shut on this trap. “All right,” he sighs, slumping under his senpai’s weight. “Show me this…bento.”

The paper bag should have been his warning. It’s rumpled, like it’d been pulled out of the bin, the top not even neatly rolled down but merely clenched shut in Gojo-senpai’s fist, like a cartoon bank robber making his getaway.

“I made your favorite,” he says, so saccharine Nanami’s teeth ache. “What is it you always get now? The casse-croute.”

The casse-croûte is a light meal— a snack, really, though a substantial one— an idea that includes but is not exclusive to sandwiches. What he prefers is the jambon-buerre, the parisien, a baguette slathered in butter and layered with Paris ham— or more often, prosciutto— lettuce and brie. But the konbini around here don’t make a distinction between the two, and by the terrible mockery Gojo-senpai’s mouth makes of a French accent, neither will he.

He takes the bag anyway, top pinched between two of his fingers. Between the grit of his teeth, Nanami manages, “Thank you for the meal.”

What he finds inside is…unspeakable.

“Is this…?” His mouth works, at a loss. “Mozzarella?”

“Nice, isn’t it?” Gojo-senpai’s nose wrinkles above his own egg salad, pressed sloppily between two slices of white bread. “Better than that stinky stuff they usually put on. You know it has a rind?”

The bread squishes beneath his fingers— not a baguette at all, not even a French loaf, but some sort of mass-produced bread-like product. A...sandwich roll, shoved into a plastic bag with a half dozen other of its ilk, sold for cheap and then bought by this absolute fool to be split in twain and abet this blasphemy trying to pass as a sandwich. The lettuce is soggy and— he’s pretty sure— shredded. Maybe even iceburg.

Even still, his mouth salivates. Not for this abomination, but the superior sandwich it apes; the same way cursed spirits shuffle, mere shadows of the human fears that birth them. One sitting behind a glass case, wrapped in crinkling film, crusty bread glimmering enticingly beneath the bakery’s lights. He can taste it, the funk of the cheese and the crispness of the lettuce, the baguette shedding sesame as it yielded to his teeth. And the girl behind the counter—

It’s much better than the konbini’s, isn’t it? The curse coiled on her shoulder cocked its fly-head to match hers, as if it had a share in her pride. As if it were anything more than a leech, sucking the life out of her sip by sip, until only a hollowed-out shell remained. He’d gotten rid of it; his last gift to the world he’d left behind. To the girl who made the perfect jambon-buerre.

A year ago now. His mouth twists. A lot can happen in a year. Do her shoulders still sit so proud? So easy? If he went back, would he find her still smiling, or would there be another one of those worms wrapped around her neck, squeezing tighter every night. Killing her day by day, unchecked, no sorcerer to—

Nanami balls up the bag, sandwich and all, and throws it into the nearest bin. That has nothing to do with him now.

“What’s the matter, Nanami-kun?” Gojo sing-songs, impossibly long limbs sprawled over the bench, taking up as much space as his smile. “Don’t like the sandwich? What’s wrong, too much mayo?”

Mayo. He pinches his nose, adjusting the way his glasses straddle it. “I don’t like anything about this.”

The sandwich, the job. The growing amount of cursed spirits spawning around the city. The strange way Gojo-senpai smiles when he asks about it. Gojo-senpai in general.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Gojo's must as well; he slips his out from his trousers, brows knitted as his eyes scan over the message.

“Lucky us,” he drawls, smirk stiff as a carcass across the spread of his lips. “Another cursed spirit, and only a few streets over.”

Nanami frowns as the man unfurls from the bench, casual as a cat on its way to batter yet another mouse. “There’s more now, aren’t there? That’s why you were all so happy to have me back.”

“Whatever do you mean, my dear kouhai?” Gojo swings close— too close, his mouth all teeth. “Clearly we missed your scintillating personality.”

“It’s gotten worse.” He doesn’t need to see the man’s eyes to know how tightly he’s holding them, not when the rest of him is strung as taut as piano wire. “You think they’re going to overrun us, the way they did when Geto-san—”

“See? There he is.” One of those long hands reach out, patting him on the cheek. Slapping, really. “That’s the kouhai I missed so much. Nanami-kun, always so positive.”

“Don’t call me that,” he grunts, shrugging him off. A tug fixes the sit of his blazer of his shoulders. “Come on, let’s get going. I’m not about to put in overtime for you.”

Gojo rocks back on his heels as he walks away, taking in a deep breath. Despite the clear skies, a thunder rumbles through the city.

“It’s a lovely day for walk, isn’t it?” he hums, the words dogging Nanami’s heels. “How lucky for us.”

The cursed spirit might only have been lingering only a few streets away, but it’s a slippery one, leading them on what Gojo calls a ‘merry chase’ to the other side of town. By the time they corner it, writhing and helpless now that senpai's patience has run out, his stomach is empty enough that even that war crime of a sandwich seems appetizing.

A good thing that he’d put it in the garbage, then. Nanami would never be able to live with himself if he ate mayonnaise with brie. He had never been to France, but he would one day— if only for the food— and they certainly wouldn’t let him in after that.

Gojo-senpai doesn’t stick around to offer another; he’s got to go back to his class, to the children he’s teaching to sacrifice themselves before they even know who they might be. That’s what they’d wanted him to do when he’d first come back. Even had a promising crop of scouted talent, still wide-eyed from having the veil thrown back, the way he had been when he’d first enrolled, but—

But he’d just laughed. Told them to leave all that to Gojo, a man who tasted death and liked the flavor. They had his number; he’d come when they called.

So there’s no reason for him to be here. No reason for him to be idling next to this awning as rain pours down, pelting umbrella he’d bought from the konbini a street over. His old one; the shortest jaunt from his last apartment, closer still to the building where he used to work. One that still didn’t have casse-croute in the case.

But she would.

It’s busy now— the dinner rush, now that the salarymen have been turned out from their offices, ravenous and eager to avoid their empty apartments. Or worse yet, the filled ones— the kind with the children their parents wanted and the wife that begrudges their existence just as much as they begrudge hers.

A red beret blazes behind the counter, but even through the plate glass, it’s outshone by the smile beneath it. She’s been doing well, it seems— it had only even been her at the till before, but there’s two other employees working behind her now. They’re laughing as she tallies up an order, one of them wiping tears from his eyes.

It’s…nice. Good even. More camaraderie than he’d ever seen on the front lines of the stock market. More than he sees now, despite how close these missions fly to death. And that should be enough for him, to see proof of her success, but—

But that fly-head cocks its head, its unblinking stare settling on him through the glass. A larger one than the last. Makes sense; it’s had a whole year to siphon off its sustenance.

Nanami heaves a sigh, and with a nudge of his shoulders, opens the door.

The bell rings, the same bright chime he remembers, but the shop is so full, so lively, that no one bothers to look at the man stepping off to the side, letting another glut of customers through. He collapses his umbrella, careful to keep the extra water from dripping all over her floor. Even from here, he can hear that damn thing chittering on her shoulder, teeth clicking at every twitch of his fingers.

There’s nothing to be done about the thing from back here— he’s not Gojo-senpai, he can’t simply exorcise a spirit from annoyance alone— but he can’t bring himself to join the crowd. To hop in line and simply be yet another customer, not when she could look up and know—

But she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He’d been a regular for only a few months more than a year ago. There’s no reason for her to remember his face, at least not enough to see past the new set of glasses on his face.

It’s better that way.

One of her employees passes behind her, leaning down to murmur in her ear, and her eyes jerk up, scanning the back of the shop. Not casual, no— that gaze is sharp, focused. Searching. It skims over him— once, twice— then catches, the tense lines collected at the corners of her eyes easing.

Oh.

She does remember him.

Her mouth opens, a hand lifting to a wave— only to flounder in empty air as the next customer shoulders his way to the counter, spitting out his order. She blinks, attention dragged back to the mundane, to the only reality she knows, and—

He should have never come. What difference did it make if he rid her of that curse? Oh, he can pretend it’s altruism, that all he cares about is gaining one small foothold in this war of attrition, but this isn’t about her. No, all this— it’s about him. About his pride. About proving to himself that these small victories meant something-- that even if he fell protecting this world from the horrors they’d never see, he’d leave a mark. That he'd have done something to make is better.

And now Nanami has his answer: he can push these boulders up this hill all he wants, but they’ll always fall back down. It’s only a matter of time.

He should leave.

The rain is still coming down outside, hard enough it bounces off the awning, splattering his already half-soaked blazer. A cluck catches between his teeth, trapped tight as he wrangles his umbrella open. An unremarkable black, one that will disappear into the sea of identical canopies; one more body in the surging tide, and—

And the bell rings. “Wait!”

He’s too close to feign ignorance, to pretend that he can’t hear her as easily as the heart pounding in his chest. That he can’t see her panting where she leans against the glass, rain dripping onto her chef whites. “This is for you!”

It’s the second time today that a paper bag has been foisted on him, but unlike the last, this one is crisp, a clean white with a neat fold at the top. And when he unfurls it, glancing into its pristine depths—

It’s his usual. The jambon-buerre. It’s a miracle his stomach doesn’t growl. “I didn’t…”

Order anything. He shouldn’t even be here.

“I know!” If he’d thought her smile was bright behind the counter, it is blinding this close. He squints into it, half-surprised it hasn’t burned the clouds away. “I keep one in stock, just in case you stop by. As a thank you!”

He blinks down at the bag. It’s been a year, he doesn’t say.

“Your neck,” he manages instead. “Does it still bother you?”

“Ah…!” Her eyes pulse wide. “Yes! How did you know?”

The fly-head chitters on her shoulder, and if it were possible for it to know what danger it was in, Nanami might have called that beady gaze a glare.

“Could you step closer?” His request isn’t breathless, but it is soft; softer than he’s ever spoken. She follows before he’s even finished, quick enough to leave his mouth strangely dry.

His movements are not practiced like he’d thought they’d be. Before he’d been relying on memory, on the feel of how cursed energy collected in his palms, but now he’s used to the way it sits there, to the way it tingles against his skin. He brings up his hand too fast, expecting the weight of the cleaver, but it doesn’t matter— the cut is same with an edge or without, his fingers honed just as sharp when it comes to little pissant curses like this one. It explodes over her shoulder, like a fly beneath a swatter.

When she breathes in, it’s with noticeably more ease, the tense line of her shoulders softened to a more natural curve. Funny how such a little thing could carry so much weight.

“Ohhh,” she sighs, eyes fluttering shut. Her hand raises, rubbing at where it sat, and he— he has to look away. “That’s so much better.”

“Thank you.” The words are foreign on his lips. “For the sandwich.”

For remembering. He turns, umbrella resting on his shoulder. It’s time.

“Wait!”

Fingers tangle in the sleeve of his blazer. Small, insignificant things, grip so weak a hard breath might break it. But it’s enough. This time, he turns back.

“How…?” Her face scrunches, head shaking. “No, wait. I asked last time, but I don’t think you heard me.”

She plucks her phone from an apron pocket, waving it with a smile. Not a shy one, but hopeful. “Can we exchange contacts?”

He stares. Not…forbidding. Simply…blindsided.

“No pressure,” she tells him brightly, despite the pink flush across her cheeks. “If you drop me a line the next time you’re around, I’ll make your sandwich fresh. No charge.”

That, if anything, tempts him. But still— he should go. It’s not good to make connections among the mundane. It only hurts them when they get caught up in his world.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He smiles to ease the sting. “Thank you, though.”

This time when he leaves, she doesn’t call after him.

Nanami waits to eat until he’s home, setting the bag on the counter, right beside his keys. There’s a part of him that’s reluctant to eat it, to take advantage of her kindness when the best he can do is walk away. But the famished part wins out, salivating at the very memory of its taste, of how the butter and brie meld into the most decadent expression of flavor, and—

And he might get a plate, at least. A luxury; he’d always eaten it on the run, trying to finish before he went back to the office, putting more hours in on the clock. Watching his life tick away through rows of a spreadsheet.

He sits down too— ah, what a dream this would have been back then, to sit and savor each bite. To not just cram as much into his mouth as he could before the elevator finish twenty-four flight climb, spitting him out into yet another soulless lobby. He unfurls the bag, extracting the sandwich with exquisite care. There’s a napkin wrapped around it; it flutters to the plate first, and he nearly leaves it there, but—

Sayo, it reads, followed by a string of numbers. Ten of them, to be exact, grouped two, four and four.

Ah. Heat flares where his collar rests at his neck. A phone number. That’s…persistent.

He stands up, skin tingling the same way it does in battle, but there's no curse energy to blame. Only the strange beat of his heart, and the even more foreign sensation of heat beneath his collar. He paces the kitchen, once, twice, trying to expend the tremble in his muscles, to still the half-formed thoughts racing in her head, and--

And with a delicate swipe of his hand, he guide the paper into the bin. Sayo, it still reads, and a number after it. Right there, on top of all his rubbish.

Nanami turns away, taking the plate with him. He’ll eat on the couch tonight.

#jujitsu kaisen #jjk #nanami kento #kento nanami #nanami x bakery girl #my fic #at home with the glass half empty #god okay i wrote the draft for all three parts #but unfortunately only had time to write the first one #this is one of those 'rating subject to change' fics #because this is pretty G right now!#but it is not gonna stay that way

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chibimomiji · 10 months

Text

erste Hoffnung

Bleach characters x oc

Semua karakter Bleach adalah milik Tite Kubo sensei, saya hanya meminjam.

"Fuyuki-san…!"

Seseorang melambaikan tangannya kepadaku dari seberang jalan. Begitu lampu penyeberangan menyala hijau, gadis berhelai coklat itu berlari kecil menghampiriku dengan senyum lebar seperti biasa menghiasi wajahnya.

"Maaf membuat Fuyuki-san menunggu lama.." Gadis itu Inoue Orihime, mengatupkan tangan di depan wajahnya, meminta maaf padaku.

Aku menggeleng dan menjawab singkat, "Tidak apa."

"Kalau begitu, ayo kita berangkat sekarang." Ia menarik tanganku. Tapi, langkah Orihime tiba-tiba saja terhenti. "Eh, tunggu sebentar.." Kedua iris coklat Orihime mengamati pakaian yang aku kenakan dari atas sampai bawah dengan seksama. "Apakah Fuyuki-san akan pergi ke festival dengan pakaian ini?"

Aku berkedip bingung, kemudian menatap penampilanku sendiri di kaca sebuah konbini yang tak jauh dari tempat kami berdiri. "Ada yang salah dengan ini?"

"Ah, tidak. Tidak ada yang salah, kok. Aku hanya merasa kalau Fuyuki-san pasti akan lebih cantik jika memakai yukata juga."

Aku berkedip untuk kedua kalinya. Yukata, ya?

Setelah mendengar Orihime berkata begitu, aku baru menyadari bahwa dia memang memakai yukata untuk ke festival. Yukata yang ia kenakan berwarna merah muda, sewarna bunga sakura di musim semi. Rambut panjangnya diikat dan diberi hiasan rambut dengan warna senada.

Terlihat sangat cantik..

"Tapi … aku tidak punya yukata."

Orihime tampak sedikit terkejut mendengar jawabanku. Dia terdiam untuk beberapa saat. Sampai akhirnya berseru bahwa dia tahu dimana aku bisa mendapatkan yukata dengan cepat saat ini juga.

Dia pun mengajakku pergi ke suatu tempat yang cukup aku ketahui.

Benar, itu adalah toko Urahara.

Pria dengan topi dan kipas yang biasa dipanggil Urahara itu tersenyum lebar begitu melihat kedatanganku dan Orihime. Orihime langsung menjelaskan tujuan dari kunjungan kami kali ini. Dan dengan senang hati pria itu memberikan sebuah yukata kepadaku.

"Cocok sekali! Fuyuki-san benar-benar cantik seperti dugaanku!" Orihime berbinar begitu melihat yukata berwarna ungu yang aku kenakan. Dia lalu membantuku menata rambut, bahkan memberikan hiasan rambut juga.

"Nah, sudah selesai! Sekarang ayo kita pergi!"

••••

Sejak tinggal di kota Karakura, aku tidak pernah membayangkan akan pergi ke festival dengan seseorang. Apalagi seseorang yang bisa aku sebut sebagai teman. Karena dulu aku tahu betul bahwa tujuanku datang kemari bukanlah untuk itu.

Tapi sejak bertemu Orihime, aku sering menemukan hal baru yang membuatku berdebar. Dia mengajariku banyak hal. Mengajariku begitu banyak emosi. Bahkan darinya, aku bisa tahu tentang apa itu kasih sayang.

Dia adalah gadis yang sangat baik hati dan lembut, dengan senyum yang bersinar, dan perhatiannya yang tulus. Jujur saja, itu membuatku merasa sangat nyaman saat ada di sekelilingnya. Mungkin karena itulah, sulit bagiku untuk melepaskan pandangan darinya.

Apakah … ini yang disebut mengagumi seseorang?

Di festival ini, kami tidak datang berdua saja. Ada Tatsuki-san, Kurosaki-kun, Ishida-kun, dan Sado-kun juga. Oh, di belakang Kurosaki-kun ternyata ada Karin-chan dan Yuzu-chan.

Kami semua kemudian berkeliling, membeli beberapa makanan ringan, sampai mencoba banyak permainan juga.

Yang paling menyenangkan adalah saat aku dan Kurosaki-kun beradu menembak, siapa yang bisa menjatuhkan kaleng lebih banyak.

Ah, apa aku bilang tadi menyenangkan? Sejujurnya aku masih kurang mengerti dengan kata itu. Hanya saja … aku merasakan jantungku berdebar lagi saat melakukannya.

Sebelum pulang, Orihime mengajakku dan yang lain untuk menggantung tanzaku. Dia memintaku menuliskan sesuatu di kertas persegi panjang itu, kemudian menggantungkannya di bambu.

Aku menatap kertas di tanganku dalam diam. Apa yang harus aku tulis?

Begitu perang besar berlalu setahun yang lalu, aku akui aku memang hidup dengan sedikit lebih baik sekarang. Padahal saat itu aku sudah menyerahkan akhir hidupku pada para shinigami.

Tapi Orihime dan Kurosaki menyelamatkanku. Mereka mengajakku untuk kembali ke kota Karakura dan mengatakan bahwa aku punya rumah di sini. Mereka juga memberikanku harapan serta alasan lain mengapa aku harus bertahan hidup.

Aku sungguh berhutang banyak pada mereka. Meski begitu, sampai saat ini aku tidak tahu bagaimana cara untuk membalas semua kebaikan hati mereka. Yang bisa aku lakukan sekarang hanyalah berharap agar mereka hidup bahagia.

Ah, itu dia.

Akhirnya aku sadar, bahwa harapan yang harus aku tulis di tanzaku ini bukanlah untuk diriku, melainkan untuk mereka yang telah melakukan banyak hal untukku.

Selesai menuliskan sesuatu di kertas dan menggantungkannya di bambu, aku berbalik. Aku melihat Orihime dan yang lainnya tengah menungguku. Dan kalian tahu? Mereka semua tersenyum padaku.

Ah, perasaan apa ini? Jantungku berdebar lebih cepat dari sebelumnya. Sepertinya aku benar-benar sangat menyukai berada diantara mereka. Ini tidak masalah, bukan?

#ayachiiyume🍁#punyaayachii🍁

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earlgreymon · 2 years

Text

hot summer night

🍶 miyako + iori // [day 6] exam (challenge) - for @digiweek 2022 for this day, i'm trying to write about that one dynamic (and perhaps two characters) i rarely wrote about. this fic was tricky to write and i even finished this the last one among all the digiweek contents i created. but that's what this day is about, right? and frankly i'm happy with the result! this fic was inspired by this fanart. the first time i saw it, i knew i had to write about iori accompanying drunk miyako someday. this fic sets before kizuna and before miyako left for spain. idk why i remembered miyako having an exchange program instead of being a full-time student in barcelona. let's just assume it that way in this case, and sorry if i was wrong. at least i correctly implied miyako as a gemini (this is canon fyi). also, no, this is not a romance fic between those two, even though it has hot in the title (sorry i'm on title block so i only snatched one of the script's song titles). there's a minor kenyako, though. happy reading!

___

Iori found Miyako in front of his cram school that night in June, looking very standout with her purple strands and cherry-tinted lips. It was easy to be in the limelight when you wore makeup and shirts with striking colours among students with crumpled uniforms and weary faces after studying for the whole day.

“Iori-kuuun!”

Her high-pitched voice didn’t sound like a mature college woman, however.

Iori sighed, getting a second-hand embarrassment because everyone’s attention diverted to him after she echoed his name. He proceeded to walk out and approached her, asking the obvious, “Miyako-san, what are you doing here?”

“Meanie. Is that something appropriate to greet to your senpai?” Miyako pouted for a second before returning to her jolly mood. “I happen to be around so I figure I can ask you to accompany me for a dinner.”

He glanced at her feet and atop of her head, only to find something was missing. “Where is Hawkmon?”

“Oh, I told Hawkmon to fly to your house with some food from my konbini. Armadimon is home, ne?” she responded. “Come on, Iori-kun. It’s been a long time since we had fun just the two of us. Isn’t this a perfect time now that I’m going to leave next week and the others are too busy with their freshmen stuff?”

It was not a bad idea at all. He initially planned to grab a takeaway because his mother and grandfather were out of town, but now with Armadimon’s dinner settled, he didn’t have to worry about his partner starving alone.

He just didn’t know that Miyako also had her own plan of ordering a bottle of sake right when they just stepped inside the yatai tent.

Iori took a seat beside her, eyeing her ever so cautiously. He remembered the day Miyako turned twenty last May, and she decided to celebrate it by secretly grabbing a can of beer from her store. She posted its photo in their group chat, prompting joyous reactions from Mimi and Taichi, in addition to a jealous wail from Daisuke. Miyako then seemed to embark on her personal adulthood venture, trying different types of liquor ever since.

“…you do understand that I am still a minor, don’t you?” he said as he watched her pouring the sake into a cup.

“And why do you think that will stop me? It’s not like I’m asking you to drink along.”

“Just because I’m younger than you, that doesn’t mean I cannot tell you off.”

“Well, can you?”

He could, for real. He just chose not to.

Miyako then chuckled. “Don’t worry. It’s because you’re with me that I have to drink more responsibly. What will people say if they see a high schooler carrying a drunk woman home?” She took her first shot and whooped right after her cup was empty. “Ahh, this is sooo good! You’re going to love this once you turn legal.”

“To be honest, I cannot see myself drinking even when I reach the right age.”

“Aw, what a shame. I look forward to coming back here and sharing sake with you.”

He pondered, sipping his ice tea. “Well, perhaps I can make an exception for you.”

“Right? I don’t think lawyers can survive without attending nomikai,” Miyako instigated as she snatched the first fresh-grilled yakitori from their plate. “Speaking of which, is that what you really want to aim for? Go to law school and become an attorney?”

“That’s the plan for now,” Iori also grabbed a negima but did not bite into it before he finished with his answer. “I know it’s hard to enter a law school, so that’s why I sign up for cram school as early as possible.”

“Yeah, but I just—” Miyako sighed. “I don’t want you to keep studying and let your youth pass without having fun. You’re only in high school once, so do something crazy. Skip a class, have some dates, go on a summer vacation with your friends….”

Iori paused, looking at his faint reflection on the glass.

“I am having fun,” he continued. “I have a great time battling monsters and saving the world. It makes me realise that I want to fight for the right thing and help people to get out of iniquity. And I believe becoming a lawyer is a good way to accomplish that.”

He was aware of how idealistic he sounded just then. If he was with other people, they would certainly be laughing at his words, telling him that the world was too cruel of a place for justice to prevail and he should just stick to a dream that was more within his proximity.

But he wasn’t with other people right now. He was with Miyako, who cracked a smile while looking at him with proud glimmering behind her spectacles.

“That’s just really you,” she said. “I know you’re a good kid the moment I laid my eyes on you. And I hope you know that I’m always rooting for you, no matter what. After all, I’m the big sis who just loves my reliable Iori-kun a bit too much!”

And that was when Iori couldn’t help but giggle. He was used to people calling him mature even when he was a little boy, but once he wore the high school uniform and felt a lump growing in his throat, it was still surreal for him how he really reached the age of adolescence. That was why he was glad to have Miyako around because she was a constant reminder of how he would still be someone’s little brother.

Her phone suddenly vibrated above the table, and as she picked up to see what was on the screen, Iori noticed her face getting a bit red. Somehow, he reckoned it wasn’t because of the sake, yet he didn’t want to pry further so he chose another topic. “How’s your departure preparation?”

“No hay problema! I’m leaving on Wednesday’s noon, though, so I guess you can’t set me off to the airport.”

“Ne, sorry for that.” It was rather unfortunate for him that Miyako chose to fly to Barcelona instead of using the Digital Gate for the sake of enjoying that wanderlust feeling. Iori started to consider whether this would be the right time to skip a class just like she advised just now. “Is there anything I can help with?”

“Hmm. Just promise me to pick up when I video-call you,” she said before quickly adding, “oh, oh, I know! You can visit me during your summer break. Ask Ken and the others to join too!”

Just like that, he easily solved the puzzle. “Ichijouji-san?”

“Ah, yes! He’s helping me learn Spanish even though he’s busy with college,” Miyako responded, and Iori could hear her voice turn jovial at once. “He even texted me just now to check my progress. I think I should go meet him tomorrow.”

There was something stirring inside him that he tried to brush off by picking up another skewer. However, it was obvious he didn’t sound so thrilled when he blurted out, “Oh.”

And Miyako caught his reaction with pleasure. “I thought you no longer hate him.”

“I don’t hate him.”

“Are you jealous, then?”

“No.”

But boy, did he never stray too far from the truth.

After all, he was a little brother who just cared about his big sis a bit too much.

#digimon #digiweek2022 #by me #fic #ioyako #is that the name of this dynamic??#or is it miyaori??#iori hida #miyako inoue #constructive criticism is welcome since this is the first time i'm writing them #also i know that's a beer image not sake lmao #couldn't find a better pic #digimon adventure 02

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