#whale teddy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lilac-5ky · 10 months

Text

Roommates from Hell, pt.6 (Toji x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 6: A Tale of Two Sisters

Chapter 5 | Chapter 7 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist | Requests

A/N: This chapter required my blood, sweat, and tears to finish.

There was a passage in one of your old school books—the ones sprinkled with little pink hearts that contained the initials of your history teacher even in books outside his field of teaching, and simultaneously, the ones Toji finished skimming over a week ago—that talks about the loudest sounds recorded in the world.

To this day, the record is held by the volcanic eruption on the Indonesian Island of Krakatoa, clocking in at an estimated 310 decibels, followed by the sperm whale’s call, which registers at 230 decibels, and then the Tsar Bomb, ranking third with an incredible 224 decibels.

None of these facts left him particularly impressed, and they were sure to vanish from his memory in the days ahead, but in the moment of his rude awakening, that junk tidbit of knowledge was all that kept the small 150-decibel sound wave confined in his handgun’s barrel. Because the so-called scientist who jotted down that crappy passage hadn’t borne witness to the catastrophic knocking that threatened to demolish the apartment’s four walls with its tenants inside at 9:32 in the morning.

The honor was all his, and maybe yours too, although your head remained comfortably tucked in the crevice of his elbow, oblivious to the torture he endured alone.

Whoever was banging away at the door was going to pay.

Pressing down on your forehead with a flat palm, Toji attempted to detach you from his body—

—except it ended with your arms adhering to his torso and your face sweetly rubbing into his neck, hogging him as if he were some sort of gigantic teddy bear that would cruelly be taken away from you. His name was at the tip of your tongue—liquid honey in his ears. He’d take it over any other sound in the world, amplify and draw it out in all tones and pitches until he forgot his name was ever spoken by another.

He made up his mind. Whoever was banging away at the door was going to die.

Gently pulling your body into his, he switched your places on the sofa and angled your head against the armrest. You almost got your clutches on him a second time, but he shook your bandaged paws off his pants before you had the chance to drag him down.

This would be quick. One bullet to the head, one body bag over the corpse, and one visit to the car’s trunk. If anyone asked, he was loading clothes to drop off at Goodwill later—no one would ask. Everyone was terrified of approaching him within a five-meter radius.

Tripping over his slippers, he kicked at them until his toes fell in place and rushed to the door with a glare capable of disintegrating metal. He didn’t mean business with the whole impromptu assassination plot, but he was dead serious about returning to you as quickly as possible. And if you were awake, then—

“We don’t give a shit about your shitty movement, got no cash for your stupid ass cult, and ya can take whatever piece of crap you’re sellin’ and shove it up your—oh.”

As soon as the door flung open, the words stagnated in his mouth, leaving Toji in the awkward position of welcoming your guest with the most unwelcoming scowl plastered on his face. Not to mention that he was still naked from the waist up and carried the scraps of morning wood in his sweatpants—courtesy of yours truly.

“It’s you,” he grumbled, cocking his head against the door frame with his arms folded over his chest.

“Long time no see,” the woman—perhaps the only woman in the whole wide world to wear a crochet dress over denim jeans—greeted him with a warm smile that stretched to her ears over the final syllables of the words “little brother.”

Toji remembered the first time he met that woman as if it were yesterday that the three of you—four, if the little human swimming in her belly counts—sat down on the top floor of a private dining sushi place in Akasaka. Folded screens, tatami mats, and legless chairs, with a view of pruned cedar trees. The real deal.

He’d granted his own invitation the day before when he snatched the small rectangular paper you were fumbling with all morning, weary eyelids hanging low and chin propped atop the mop stick’s handle, minding neither the commotion of hungry customers nor the 77th consecutive stroke over the exact same three spotless tiles.

You were an excellent cook but a lousy waitress. Forgetful, clumsy and hopelessly unaware of your surroundings.

In a flash, the business card changed hands, and he was reading its contents aloud.

“Ueno Hinata, Associate Fashion Designer at Shodi Apparel—what’s that?”

“Hey!” You snapped awake from your daydreaming, yet not in time to prevent the mop from dropping . “It’s none of your business!”

“Hmm?” Toji trapped the mop under his heel. “Ya taking 30 minutes to serve my damn fries is very much my business. Theirs, too.” He gestured toward the rest of the tables. “Quit mopin’ around.”

He booted the mop back into your grasp and returned to his seat, watching you gather the cleaning tools and bolt to the kitchen.

Your candid apologies did nothing to placate the crowd. Not a single “thank you” or “you can keep the change” for your effort to appease each of their outrageous requests. They treated you worse than they’d treat a roach scurrying between their tubby feet—stomp and shoo it away.

You didn’t deserve this.

Tearing his eyes away from the spectacle, he remained slapping the card in his palm. You were right. This was none of his business.

Eventually, you showed up at his table with the usual tray in one hand, and your balled up apron on the other. Your shift was over—or it would be in ten minutes after the other part-timer showed up.

You decorated the booth with the apron, and he scooted over for you to plop down beside him, noticing the dark skin patches below your eyes.

“Can I have it back now?”

Even with your pouty lips and scrunchy nose, Toji wasn’t compelled to give up on his loot. He slipped the card in the middle, only to retract his hand the second yours moved forward. You snarled at him and grabbed onto his tray, but again, he was faster.

“And what would it be?” He rephrased his previous question, witnessing you gradually shrivel into yourself like an overcooked shrimp.

“It’s… my sister.” You bit your lip into a sigh. “I have a sister.”

This wasn’t what he anticipated.

“Didn’t your folks kick the bucket?”

One beat you were nodding your head and shaking it the next, your fingers massaging the pulled roots of your ponytail. “I don’t even know, okay? I don’t know how this woman found me, how she knows my name and dad’s—I don’t know shit about any of this. She popped by my house last night, introduced herself, and said that I should give her a call if I wanna learn more about our family.”

His teeth clenched around his fry, breaking it into two uneven pieces that his tongue forced down his throat. Something about others knowing where you lived and imaginary sisters sprouting out of nowhere to pay house calls left him deeply uncomfortable. He knew that bunch. He’d gone around a lot more than you to acquaint himself with all kinds of shifty con artists that posed as distant relatives and inserted themselves into people’s lives just to rob them of their few meager possessions.

Hell, someone could say the same thing about him and he wouldn’t refute it, but it was better the devil you knew than the devil you didn’t.

Toji was about to tear the card into shreds when suddenly, he halted. Since when did he start mingling with others’ lives? Since when did he start caring whether the naive little girl he spent the last two years fooling around with was found conned or gutted, for that matter?

Unwilling to answer either, he pulled back. “So what are you gonna do? Want me to track her down?”

“I think I’ll give her a call.” You traced the name on the card, first with your eyes and then with your forefinger. “She didn’t seem like a bad person.”

You wouldn’t recognize a bad person if the word “bad” was tattooed on their forehead.

“Then what?”

“Then—I should meet her, right? That’s what she wanted.”

His mental groan was so loud that he hoped you sensed his frustration without him putting it into words. You didn’t. Your clueless ass skipped straight to the landline behind the counter, leaving him with little choice but to take matters into his own hands.

And that was pretty much how he ended up ordering himself the priciest sashimi platters off the menu, filling the table to the brim with bluefin tuna cuts whose notability he’d already forgotten. Marbled, fatty, tendon-full—it didn’t matter, as long as they cost your host a fortune.

Fashion designers were loaded. If the woman with the wacky glasses at the other side of the table was who she claimed to be, then she’d better prove it.

At least the sushi had nothing to prove. The ass cheek, or back cheek, whatever it was called, melted on his tongue like candy, and for the first time in his life, he moaned from something that wasn’t wrapped around his dick.

“I’m so sorry for his behavior, Miss Ueno.” You willed your head in a small bow, nudging Toji in the ribs to do the same.

He wrote you off, pinching about four pieces between his chopsticks, all the while entertaining the idea of seducing the pregnant woman in front of him. He was wasting his time with you. This was his chance at a good life.

“Don’t worry about it! I invited you to this place ‘cause the food’s crazy good, and little guy,” a swollen hand rubbed her equally swollen belly bump, “craved yellowtail for lunch. Eat as muuuuch as you want!”

“When are you due?” Toji asked through a full mouth.

Hinata counted the weeks on her fingers. “Today marks the—uh, 37th week, so he should be here soon. I’m registered for the 28th this month.”

With the way her belly bulged under her teal wrap dress, it’d be a wonder if she didn’t go into contractions right on top of the halibut, pleading with the chef to sever the umbilical cord with his kitchen knife while the kitchen staff played nurse.

“Have you decided on a name?”

His question overlapped with yours. “What about your man?”

“We are thinking ‘Kenzo’, after Takada Kenzo. My husband’s also in the industry, but he’s a numbers guy.” She picked up the teapot and gave your cups a refill, much to your insistence to serve instead. “Who knows, maybe next time I can get him to leave his books and tag along. I’m sure he’d love to meet you!”

“How much do ya make?”

“Toji!” You protested.

However, she didn’t seem to mind. “Enough to treat the both of you to dessert later.” She winked at you. “So eat up!”

You lowered your head and drove a blood-red slice into your mouth, swallowing too hard for the bite’s size. Before you could pick another, Toji dumped an assortment of his favorite cuts on your plate, urging you to try those next. Your eyes crinkled in appreciation that trickled down your lips, pink and tender and delicious as they tempted him to rekindle their taste.

“Not to be rude, but…” Hinata snipped his smile while at the primitive stage of being sewn. “I don’t remember inviting Pretty Boy over here.” She chuckled awkwardly. “Who are you?”

Toji would be the easy answer. The mindless answer. A cursed name that clung to his opponents’ final vitriolic-laced breaths and a blessed name for the heathens who chanted it as if it were gospel—he doubted that response would cut it. Not when her goal was to determine what he was to you specifically.

A hitchhiking pest embedded in your back; one who sowed your work benefits—unshakable in its nature. A watchdog that nudged you back to your feet whenever you found solace in the dirt. A potential downfall in how he could barely contain himself around you anymore, scheming dozens, if not thousands, of meaningless plans to get you in his bed—plans he always chickened out of.

He refused to recognize that, over the years, he’d become a shoulder for you to lean on. That he was any good as an influence, a friend, or that other laughable something. And so he spat out the one term that was tried-and-tested and could only be perfected through continuous failure.

“Family.” Toji grinned once he noticed you had no intention of correcting him. “So better get talking.” He cleansed his palate with a handful of pickled ginger. “Whatever ya tell ‘er will wind up in my ears, anyway.”

“Oh?” Hinata quirked a brow. “Is this what I think it is? In that case, don’t hesitate to call me sister, too.”

“Not happening.”

“Shame.” She frowned. “I’ve always dreamt of having a kid brother to spoil rotten, but if you insist, then I guess that means more for—”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions, sis.” Toji flashed an earnest smile.

“You don’t have to do this.” You glared at him and glanced at her. Meekly. “Paying for our meal is already too kind.”

The woman took a sip from her Konacha and folded her hands on the table—her otherwise cheerful demeanor turning solemn in a heartbeat. “I know I don’t have to, but I want to. Whether it’s buying you and your boyfriend lunch, or giving you a little extra something to get by, I want to act like a big sister for once. I don’t expect you to start calling me sis from Day 1, but can’t you at least let me do that?”

“I—” You chewed on your lower lip, searching for answers between her intertwined fingers. “But he’s not my boyfriend…” you trailed off, a tinge of pink encompassing your voice.

She laughed through her nose. “Lover, then?”

The undigested fish in your stomach swam up your throat, ripping out a violent cough that Toji was quick to soothe with a heavy palm on your back. You flinched away, mustering a broken, uncertain “I’m fine”.

He rolled his eyes. “Workin’ on it.”

“Best of luck!” Hinata cupped her mouth so that only he could hear her whispering, “But not too much luck, don't make me into an aunt this early."

He’d previously failed to spot any similarities between you, but something about your alleged sister’s smile reminded him of yours. Not the phony front you put up at the diner, but the spontaneous grimace you broke into whenever you watched him lose at the simplest game of odds at the pachinko. Hers felt like hubris in comparison, and he almost pounced at her, ready to rip it out.

You’d worked damn hard for that smile.

Her glee waned as she dug through her oversized handbag and pulled out a binder so hefty that the table whimpered in anguish. “I think it’s time I explained why I called you here. Don’t want a certain someone losing his head!”

There was a moment of stillness while she sorted out her papers, during which his eyes were free to wander in your direction, catching you dissecting your flounder into hair-thin slices. If it were just you and him and the roles were reversed, you’d tell him off for playing with his food, but it wasn’t. They weren’t. He wasn’t. He’d pulled the trigger and had no idea how to mitigate the impact; he was merely capable of muffling the noise.

Toji wasn’t good with any of that emotional shit. The only memory in his thick skull of exercising comfort existed from his picking up a dying sparrow off the streets to cradle until its tiny head froze over his thumb. Never before had death felt heavier than the accumulation of speckled feathers weighing down his palm.

He contemplated doing the same for you—whisking your hand into his and holding it until the end of things—but contented himself with a scowl. This wasn’t kindness. It was pity. You’d rather be put out of your misery, and maybe that’s what the bird wanted too.

“Let’s get it over with.” His cheek sank into his fist.

For the next hour, Hinata droned on about the extramarital relationship between her mother and your father, backing up her claims with various pictures, letters, and all sorts of unfeigned documents.

The story itself was simple. A typical boy-meets-girl, featuring a chummy, albeit penniless, lad with big dreams and a proper girl from a proper home with a proper housekeeper and proper old money parents.

They fell in love over the summer he worked menial work at their estate and got into some unprotected handy panky below the sheets. The girl’s folks found out and threw him out, but it was too late. The bun was already in the oven, and the boy was off to meet his next dame.

He was virile enough to father another only three years after the first, and when business started booming, he found himself on top of the world. But he was just too darn hapless. His ill fortune caught up with him and everything he’d built came crashing down. He jumped from the wreckage to the next ship in line, unaware it’d be his last cruise.

An unpleasant story through and through, with loopholes and points that were smeared by whiteout. She said a nice woman dropped his belongings at her door—Toji bet his money she was from Welfare. She said she tracked you down through the many pictures he kept of you and your mother—he guessed it was a PI’s work and that there were none, or else the box would be delivered to your doorstep first.

She said your father passed away peacefully in a hospital bed—he supposed that was code for found behind the dumpsters of a local bar’s trashed alleyway.

Even without him voicing his suspicions, it was a lot to take in, and he was surprised you’d steeled yourself to sit through it all in absolute calm, not a single tear shed or sob heard. You were fully sober, and somehow that worried him more than a breakdown would.

By the time you made it out of the Minka-style building, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Dark clouds gathered silently over the sky, white lapses growing plentiful among them. The flashes were distant enough not to alert him, for as long as he observed the exchange between you and your sister, who’d asked for a rain check for that dessert. Pregnant women tire themselves out too quickly.

Your courteous full-body bows were reduced to minor head tilts and small smiles that were easily returned. Of course they were. You were so lovable that anyone with a good set of eyes, let alone two of them, would embrace your credulous nature and simplistic, nearly child-like mindset with open arms. Your sister wasn’t immune to that either. In no time, she’d start calling you the apple of her eye, and the sentiment in her heart would soon match that of her words.

You would be loved.

“Are you sure you don’t want me driving you home?” Hinata asked once he’d turned his back on the saccharine sight. “It’s not a bother, really.”

It is a bother, Toji mused, stuffing his hands deep in the pockets of his windcheater. It was truly bothersome how she’d paid for the entire lunch with her card and how the bulky Range Rover responded to the key beeper in her hand; how she turned out to be a genuinely decent person who could offer you the stability you’ve always wanted—the stability he lacked.

But most of all, it was a goddamn pain in the neck that he couldn’t get over himself for one minute to congratulate you like a normal person would on your newly found family.

He could only focus on the fading image of you being driven away from the restaurant’s parking lot and away from his life, and he could only feel himself getting smaller and smaller until he was but a shit stain in your memory, one that the incoming downpour would wipe clean.

The engine’s purr turned distant as the car sped off in the opposite direction from where he was headed. His destination wasn’t clear. He’d once followed you because you had somewhere to go when he had no place to be, but as he dragged his feet to retrace every single path you’d crossed together, he hoped that the next U-turn would come with a new distraction. One that’d spin him round and round in a game of merry-go-round until either vertigo numbed his senses or your name spilled out of his guts.

A beam of light split the skies in half, cracking the silence of the gods with a spectacular roar. He pulled his hood over his head. If he broke into a jog now, he could make it out. But when his eyes lowered to the ground, a second pair of shoes flapped their way across the ripening puddles and into his field of view. No way.

“Are you competing for a medal or something?” An exasperated voice reached his covered ears. “Wait up!”

Undeterred, Toji accelerated his strides, slowing down only when his pursuer’s hands linked around his bicep. “Not my fault your midget feet can’t keep up.”

Instead of coming up with a witty remark that would spark a heated debate amidst the deluge, your lips parted into heartfelt laughter that shook him whole. Even your ears were smiling, and for a moment, he was left staring at you in utter awe. He knew for sure his joke wasn’t that funny, but that was about the first and last thing he was certain of.

“Are you that happy?” He asked the obvious.

“Of course I’m happy! I have a sister now, Toji. An older sister. My older sister.” You tested the different combinations.

“Why wouldn’t you be?” He murmured. “No reason to be unhappy when ya finally got yourself a real family. Loaded ass bitch.”

“What are you talking about?” You asked and he shook his head into a bitter “Nothing.”

Without warning, your head drooped over his shoulder, your eyelashes threaded with the same droplets of dew that gingerly laced your hair. A minute later, you’d come to resemble a wet dog, but that gave him an entire minute to process how cute you looked right now.

“She’s nice, isn’t she?” You hummed.

He shrugged, failing to meet your expectations without much effort. “Got a nice rack on her.”

“She’s my sister, you pig!”

You unlatched from Toji in disgust, only for him to sling his arm over your shoulders and unceremoniously shove your head into his chest. Your bottom lip stuck out, glossy from the rain. Just like a drenched pup, he smirked, bringing his fingers to part the dampened hair from your eyes.

“So what kept ya from goin’ home with that precious sister of yours?” Toji flicked your forehead gently. “Didn’t want me losing my way, or something?”

“Not everything is about you.” You said in a stubborn tone. “I just happen to enjoy a good rainfall.”

“A good rainfall.” He sneered. “Sure.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He wished that the water would wash the red tint on his cheeks away. “Said I like the rain too, stupid.”

The world came to a standstill, or rather his brain did, because he’d stopped thinking rationally. All the data he perceived—such as the sneeze you suppressed by pulling your upper lip over your teeth, the way you sneakily lowered the zipper of his jacket to stick your hands in, or even the mere fact of your presence and existence, both blessings on their own—fed straight into his chest, coaxing the appropriate response.

His destination was long reached.

“Let’s date. You and me.”

“Don’t you think we should call someone? It’s been hours.”

“Like who? The Grim Reaper?”

“Is Auntie dead?”

The urgency in your adorable nephew’s voice overpowered that of Hinata’s mild concern and Toji’s indifference, both further away from where you lay lifeless on the sofa. Well, not as lifeless as Toji wanted you to be, but convincing enough for them to be having this conversation and for a pair of hands to go digging for sand in the corners of your shut eyelids.

You had no idea why the two of them were there or how much time had passed since you nodded off in Toji’s arms. Everything was a blur, and if it weren’t for their voices, you wouldn’t be inclined to wake up until the next century.

Maybe playing dead for a while won’t hurt.

“Hmm?” Toji already sounded significantly closer. The light thuds from his slippers halted once he was standing before you. “Let’s find out. Gimme that.”

You felt a shift of weight on the sofa and realized that must’ve been Kenzo. Then a soft pop fired near your ear, and you were tempted to peer your eyes open, but you didn’t. You decided to save your questions for later and concentrated on your breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale—was that rubbing alcohol?

The scent grew stronger as the unmistakable tip of a brush tickled your skin in two symmetrical strokes that curled near your cheeks and finished at the ridges below your nose.

That’s it. You were going to murder him.

Denying Toji the opportunity to give you a matching goatee and sideburns, you raised your hands over your face. The marker blotched a dot of black ink where it pressed against your bandaged palm and he was forced to put it away.

“See?” Toji inched closer with a shit eating grin on his lips. “Fine and dandy.”

“Auntie!” Kenzo slipped between you and threw his arms over your neck. “You look like Gold Roger!”

You patted the child’s back, your eyes trailing behind Toji as he bent over the coffee table to drop the sharpie, the entire table an atelier for Kenzo’s art supplies. Colored papers were splayed beneath the mayhem: drawings of animals, triangular mountains, his oversimplified condo, and people whose faces you barely told apart, assuming the frizzy-haired woman was Hinata, the beanpole in the rectangular suit his father, and that the two severed heads with incomplete bodies belonged to you and Toji.

How grotesque.

“How are you, sweetie?” You planted a kiss on Kenzo’s cheek that he wiped with the back of his hand, claiming he was too old to be treated like a baby.

“Are you, now?” You ruffled his hair and attacked his neck with more sloppy kisses that he failed to protect himself against. “Got a long way ahead till you can call yourself big, little man.”

You wouldn’t call yourself a fan of children, but Kenzo was an exception. He was nothing like the kids at the diner. He didn’t eat with his nose or sleeves. He was bright, diligent, and focused. He’d gotten the first prize at his school’s science fair at the age of seven and declared his interest in becoming an astronomer at five.

He still jumped around when excited, sang along to the lyrics of his beloved anime openings, and had an incurable sweet tooth like the rest of his peers, but he was manageable. He was a good kid—

“But I want to be big, like Uncle Toji!”

—that had taken an extreme liking to Toji.

“Honey, you’ll even outgrow Uncle Toji at this rate.” Hinata interrupted, crossing over to your side.

She pulled her son off you and twirled him in the air before setting him on the floor. He made a beeline for Toji, who was dusting the corner of the bookshelf with his forefinger, maintaining his bored stance even while he was being shown something “exceptionally cool” on Kenzo’s Game Boy.

The two looked nothing alike, which should’ve been obvious considering they weren’t blood-related, but watching them side by side, you entertained a curious idea. An idea much younger, far whinier, and twice as lovable as the current version of Toji, with maybe just a little bit of you poured within.

Hinata’s fingers dispelled that thought as they snapped in front of your eyes. “Are you okay?” She asked in a low voice, her hand soothingly rubbing your shoulder. “Toji told me what happened.”

You didn’t want to imagine how he could have possibly justified you being tied up like a rotisserie chicken and knocked out on the sofa long enough to witness the sunrise and miss the sundown.

“Can you help me get that shit off my face first?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?” Hinata asked right as the cotton swab came poking at your cheek, soaked in that horrible fluid you’d only recently grown to distaste.

Ever since you were brought out of the hospital in a baby carrier, you never set foot in that place again. You hoped to keep it that way and to keep rubbing alcohol away from your nostrils for the rest of the decade.

“Mustache is making a comeback.” Your sister reasoned, but her quip was lost on you.

She pulled your skin taut and scrubbed so hard that you thought a piece of your cheek would come off. For someone who spent her weekdays drawing mannequins and her weekends doing “social drinking”, she was freakishly strong.

Torn between staring at either her face or hands, your attention fell to her fingers—spotless and polished with a finely touched French manicure that contrasted her mismatched appearance. Artists were weird. You knew she owned million-yen Chanel handbags, and yet she dressed like a hot mess outside of work.

Not as if you had the right to talk when you bought all your underwear in bulk.

“What are you smiling for? Something good happened?”

You really ought to exercise better control over your reactions.

“Just admiring your nails. They are pretty.”

“Mm, yeah?” She bit the bottle cap between her teeth while pouring some more rubbing alcohol on a fresh cotton swab, flicking the old one to the bin under the sink. “Could give you her number. She does wonders.”

You almost laughed in her face. “Last month I did laundry with dish soap ‘cause we didn’t save for detergent. You think I have the cash to burn on manis?”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” She rubbed again. “My little sister is a repressed eighty-year-old man.”

“That’d make you at least eighty-three, so I’m glad.” You deadpanned.

“What a bunch of geezers we’ve become.” She finished up by dabbing a wet towel over your lips. The excessive friction brought your face to a boiling point that no depilatory cream or wax tape could possibly achieve.

Just when you thought your torture was over and got up from the closed toilet lid where you were seated, your cheeks were forcefully seized and squeezed into resembling a pufferfish. “Not so fast, Missy! We aren’t leaving until you fess up.”

“Fess up what?” You managed through puckered lips.

“Don’t what me now.” Your face deflated as she took a step back, slyly blocking your only escape. Damn it. “How long has this been going on?”

Before the interrogation could progress, you turned on the faucet and let the water run to obscure your voices. You could go a day without showering

“About four months.” An immediate gasp. “He needed a place to stay, and I provided—that’s all there is to it.”

“Four months?” She covered her mouth for dramatic flair. “You didn’t think of telling me you two were living together for four months straight?”

“I—we both got busy, okay?”

Her eyebrows wiggled suggestively as her voice gained a sultry intonation. “Busy?”

“Not like that, you Perv!”

Sometimes you couldn’t help but wonder why it was you that Toji went around with instead of her, before remembering she was already married with another man's child in her guts when the two met—not as if that’d been a reason to stop him in the past.

“So what you’re trying to say is that you’ve been sleeping in the same space for months, using the same bathroom, eating at the same table, and nothing’s happened?”

She scrutinized the souring look on your face through squinting eyes. You could lie to her like you lied to him—or you could actually tell her and receive some actual advice from someone whose dating experience didn’t come from three miserable college hookups and an overused vibrator.

She’d nearly lost all hope when your gaze lowered to the floor. “Something isn’t nothing, right?”

“You did it?!” Your sister yelled so loudly that you mildly considered shoving the sink’s plug in her mouth. You went for the more hygienic option instead.

“Keep it down!” She zeroed in on the hand prodding out of your ridiculously long sleeve, following it down to Toji’s shirt which seemed disproportionate on your body. A good fit for him, but a glorified mini dress for your shorter, muscle-free physique.

You filled her in on last night’s incident, skipping over the part where you got jumped by a cursed spirit (that’d apparently turned into a finger-eating car door in Toji’s explanation) and mincing your words when it came down to how you ended up sharing a sofa with him.

In return, she went over each and every vowel known to man, her reactions akin to those of an impressionable child being told tales of malevolent yokai.

“So…was there tongue involved?” Hinata grinned.

“How’s that important?”

“Stay married for 12 years, and you’ll see for yourself. Your heart will race even at afternoon dramas. Do you know when was the last time Takuma bought me flowers? Or took me on a date without the kids. Or—”

“I thought we were dealing with my problems.” You cut her spiel short.

“Right, right.” She took hold of both your hands and spoke in an authoritative tone that all but convinced you of her non-existent credibility. “Here’s what will happen. You’re gonna go out there and you’re going to kiss him again. Plain and simple.”

“Kenzo is also outside!”

“I’ll cover his eyes, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not!”

Your sweaty palms were heating up in their encasement of flesh and bandage like taiyaki. This was a mistake. You were better off seeking advice from Toji himself than from your scatterbrained sister, who thought everything was doable and achievable so long as you put your mind to it.

She didn’t know half of it. She only knew the Toji that was effortlessly charming and made everyone laugh with his cynical admissions and crude punch lines. She didn’t know of the Toji that flipped through women as if they were pages of a magazine that he left dog-eared—never to be smooth again. Toji the hitman, who gambled his every penny away, and whose body count didn’t matter nearly as much as his clothes turning up with lip stick stains around the hem did—

How many times have you gone through the same rows of adjectives and accusations to excuse your own shortcomings?

“Y/N. Do you know what the meaning of life is?” You shook your head, distrusting what might come out of your mouth. “The meaning of life is… I don’t know either.”

“Kinda anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

Your sister smiled. “I wouldn’t be here if I knew. I’d have a big statue sculpted in my honor, or a university named after me. Maybe a planet, too.”

“You sure think big…”

“I might not know that,” she continued, “but I do know what being alive means. It means living—it means indulging yourself in an overpriced manicure once in a while or buying a dress that you know you aren’t going to wear. It means making stupid decisions and hitting your head on the wall afterward. It means laughing at yourself when you should be crying, and it means loving—hard, with your entire being. If you insist on calculating the consequences of everything and deny yourself those simple freedoms, then that’s not living; that’s surviving. You understand what I’m trying to say?”

Live. You never considered that your mother’s final request would shackle you into doing the exact opposite, nor did you ever question your way of living. You always thought that as long as you stood still, you wouldn’t be lost; that as long as you floated, you’d never sink. But it was only then you realized stability meant decay.

Hinata let your hands drop and turned off the faucet, stepping away from the door. You were free to go, yet you were anchored in place.

“One last thing. For what it’s worth, the look in Toji’s eyes is the same as Takuma’s when we first met. Men come in different flavors, but they all look stupidly cute when they’re in love. Do what you must. Live a little!”

"That’d be 980 yen."

Right after walking out of the bathroom, you discovered you’d not only slept through the majority of the day’s meals but that the fridge had been emptied out. You would have been more frugal with your race earnings had you known you’d be receiving guests, but then again, you didn’t foresee being attacked by a curse, nor did you count on Toji whipping up pickled plum Ochazuke for everyone either.

Granted, he went heavy on the salt, but eating something he’d prepared with his own two hands made up for the briny dashi and the salty tears running down your cheeks.

The four of you split evenly into groups of two: you and Hinata in the kitchen, while Toji kept company with Kenzo on the couch. Your sister ran her mouth off about her hotshot clientele—sighing whenever a local celebrity whose name you didn’t know came up—and went on about their participation in whatever rising idol group or promotion material you weren’t interested in knowing.

"Ma’am…?"

At the time, you were immersed in the fighting game Kenzo and Toji were hunched over. Every few fatalities, the console would change hands, and a new round of explicit slurs would be fired by the man capable of single-handedly mowing down armies but unable to take down an eight-year-old in a war of button-flicking.

They were too absorbed to catch you staring their way, playing your personal game of spot-the-difference between Toji’s various expressions. He looked the same as he did any other day. A little disinterested, somewhat vexed, and a great deal of livid while his fingers battered the screen in the futile hope of finishing that "whore-rrible Mileena".

They were still duking it out when you popped outside under the guise of getting ice cream, and you were still discrediting Hinata’s notion by holding up the entire queue at check-out with your wool-gathering.

"Ma’am, if you’re not gonna pay, please step aside so the next customer can—" The employee paused as a hand snatched the wallet from your grasp and paid off the bill in your stead. "Are you with her?"

You blinked at the crossing of your eyes, struggling to comprehend how a 25-minute distance was closed in less than 3 minutes, until you decided it was possible. It’s Toji. And you blinked again when he picked up the bags and dragged you by the arm out of the store.

You murmured a silent thank you that fell quiet behind the sound of plastic wrap unfolding in his hands as an impatient Toji stuck the first cone he grabbed into his mouth. He bit the chocolate coating off as if he were a snapping turtle and chewed at the frozen cream without letting it thaw first.

"Kids are the fucking worst." He spat, malice running sweetly from the corners of his lips. A small smile crept up yours. He was a bigger kid than the one he accused. "Using fans to fight like some pussy," he trailed off. "How the fuck are pussy fans stronger than harpoons?"

"You’d rather he beat your ass with a sword?" His death stare threatened to make you regret your very birth. "Okay. Guess not."

On the way home, his complaining grew in volume but lowered in pitch—a mosquito-like buzz that constantly lamented over the gaming industry and the corruption of youth. The gist was that inaccuracy in game design led to false expectations, and one day the kids who grew up playing those games would bring a knife to a gun fight and end up with their brains blasted. Global collapse was also thrown into the mix, but at that point, his train of thought had derailed too far to follow.

Toji was a sore loser and a sorer winner—the type to rub his minor achievements in others’ faces and use them as an excuse for rewards. However, he hadn’t said a word about last night’s incident. He didn’t ask for anything in return, and he didn’t wake you up to handle your family either. Even now that he was holding your bag for you, he acted as if that was something to be expected from him.

Toji didn’t win too often, and you didn’t have much in terms of a prize, but you’d started contemplating a premature surrender because victory suited him—because you wanted him to win.

"How’re ya feelin’?" His frustration dissipated enough for him to ask. "Your hands—they hurt?"

You instinctively glanced down. Maybe if the bandages hadn't cut your blood flow, you could’ve had an answer.

"Saw you spilling that water earlier." Toji went on, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. You chased his frown to his eyes. He was looking straight ahead, either at the stars or at the asphalt road—never at your face to see you faltering.

"Is that why you’re here? Because I spilled some water on the counter?" Your eyes glowed like discs of light, antagonizing the moon that waned above your heads.

"Well…yeah." He admitted, kicking at the pebbled ground right after. "Stop making things weird, weirdo."

The name was meant to be taken as an insult, but instead it moved you—both in the figurative and literal sense—as a rush of confidence pushed you in front of him. Thin eyebrows furrowed while he studied your stance, a slight curl forming near his scar when he realized you were still in his shirt, the hem tucked inside a pair of denim shorts.

You studied him back—the darkened eyes you couldn’t tear away from; the choppy strands that ran rampant down his ears, long overdue a cut; the chocolate smeared around his lips. You tried to see what Hinata saw, wondering whether the secret lay in the lenses of her glasses or in how her vision of him wasn’t laced with a decade’s worth of longing, until you saw it for yourself. A soft glow of tenderness that flickered like a candle in the dark, harmless on its own yet keen on escalating into wildfire.

"You care about me." The knot in your throat came undone. "You actually care about me."

Toji scoffed. "You say that as if it’s some grand discovery."

"And you liked it, didn’t you?" Your cheeks burned scarlet under the pale moonlight.

"The kiss. You… liked it."

He cocked his head to the left. "What kinda backward confession is this?"

"I want to talk about what happened last night."

A groan came out before he cruised by, his chin jotting out as he did. "Save it. If you’re gonna start moanin’ and naggin’ it was all a mistake, I don’t wanna hear shit."

"What if it wasn’t?"

He froze in his tracks, the plastic wrapping that was clenched in his fist slowly cascading to the street—as slowly as you turned around, resuming your previous positions a step ahead.

Cautious thoughts swarmed up in your brain, each tiny voice screaming for a chance to be heard only to be muffled by the three words you chanted like a mantra. Live a little. Again and again. Live a little, and then a little more. Live a little until all the littles gather and turn into a lots—until you are compensated for every a little you let slip away.

Live.

Your palms acted before your feet, framing his cheeks in position for you to place a chaste kiss on his lips, the suspicion of cream pulling you back in for another.

"We should do this more often." You suggested with a demure smile. The scene was almost comedic due to his stupefied expression being sandwiched between your bandaged palms. Stupidly cute, indeed.

His answer came in the form of his mouth colliding with yours, the lightweight sensation of the plastic bag with the remainder of ice cream countering that of the strength poured into his arms as they encircled your waist. The inconvenience of kissing while standing hit you. He had to lower his neck, and you had to crane yours, your heels lifting off the ground.

"Fucking finally." Toji panted out, grinning at how the chocolate on his chin had rubbed off on your skin. "Y’know, the offer from that day still stands," he mumbled with his thumb fluttering above your lips. "But it’ll mess ya up even more."

"So now you care about those things?" You chuckled lightly. "Go ahead. Mess me up all you want, prick."

"Careful what you wish for, dumbass."

Your hands slid behind his neck while you closed your eyes and waited patiently for his lips to find yours, his tongue darting around before prodding its way into your mouth, sweetness clinging to every languid swirl.

You weren’t sure if this was the kind of stupid decision that would have you banging your head against every wall available or the kind of blessing that came once in a lifetime. Regardless of all the possible consequences, kissing him was the only outcome you were certain of.

A small peck marked the moment’s ending as you remembered you were standing in the middle of the street, your public display of affection turning into a raunchy spectacle for the dim street lights and the concrete pavement bollards.

The two of you had just climbed down the final slope leading to the apartment block when Toji spun your arm around and forced you in a direction different than where you were headed, without any real explanation other than a cheeky "Can’t ya tell? Kidnapping you".

165 notes · View notes