Archive of Our Own

His name is Yuuji Itadori, and he is bright like sunshine walking.

And you remember the very moment you noticed that brightness — the moment you had turned into it, instead of letting it linger in your periphery.

One month into the second term, he had stumbled upon you late one night, gazing out the window of the kitchen like you had many moons before that; into the darkness outside as if it held answers to the questions that haunted your every step.

You were lost in thought, so you hadn’t even registered his entry until you heard a yelp and a clattering sound like something had been dropped. You had turned toward him then, and he’d mumbled a sheepish apology, saying that you had scared him as he picked his phone up off the floor. You didn’t think much of it; you had simply given him the same practiced nod you gave all strangers, and told him that it was fine. You’d turned back towards the window, expecting that to be the end of it, but you hadn’t heard the sound of his footsteps moving away.

And after a moment, he had padded up beside you, and hesitantly asked if you were okay.

You had resisted the way your lips had wanted to twist wryly — honestly, were you ever okay? — and replied that you were, bluntly and inelaborately. That hadn’t deterred him, though. He’d stood quietly beside you, hands in the pockets of his sleep shorts as he, too, stared out the window.

He had asked what you were looking at. (It was raining outside that night.) Nothing in particular, you’d said. Just thinking, you’d said.

You wouldn’t understand, you’d thought. No one could.

Another moment of quiet had passed. You’d expected him to leave then; from what little you knew of him, he didn’t seem like the kind of person who was comfortable in long silences. You (in your ignorance) had wanted that, right then; for him to leave you alone in the darkness, so you could recede back into your attempt to forget the troubles the morning would bring.

And then he’d asked if you wanted some tea.

That offer had taken you off guard enough to reflexively accept it. And so, five minutes later, you’d sat with him at the kitchen table, a steaming mug cupped between your hands as you both watched the rain patter against the glass.

The two of you had drank in silence, draining away the liquid in your mugs until nothing but leaves remained. And then, wordlessly, he had gathered up your cup along with his, stood up to return them to the sink, and wished you a simple good night as he turned toward the door.

You’d looked away from the window then. You’d asked him, quietly, why he had stayed; you’d wanted to know why he even cared at all.

He’d lingered in the doorway for a moment, one foot over the threshold and a thoughtful expression on his face. And then he’d smiled at you for the first time, a little sadly, and said that you’d just looked like you needed some company. He’d told you goodnight, senpai, and left the same way he’d entered, with the tea kettle still cooling on the stove.

You’d stared after him, with the phantom afterimage of the shape of his smile still imprinted upon your eyes, for a very long time.

When you’d finally stood up a half-hour later and taken one last cursory glance at the window, you’d found that the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Your hand had brushed over the faded ring of warmth on the wooden table where your cup had sat, and you had looked through the glass, enraptured, as the stars finally began to reveal themselves through the wispy clouds.

Stars die, all the time. That’s how new stars are made, after all. It’s tragic, but there’s a sardonic sort of poetry to it — in the fact that for new beauty to take form, the old must burn away.

And out of the ash and nebulous hollowness that had churned inside you for the past seven years, you’d felt it.

That night, a star was born within you.

It was small, but it was there. And it’s still there now, a week later — a warmth glowing softly in your chest where your heart allegedly sits.

So you cling to it with both hands, and start laying out the foundation for its preservation.

Like anything with structure, there are certain steps that must be followed in order to bring your intentions to fruition. And first, as always, comes research.

The second thing you notice about him, after his radiance, is that he likes to go for a run every morning around the campus — right at daybreak, when the sun is just barely peeking over the horizon and morning mist still blankets the grounds. He alternates between three routes, but always sticks to a steady pattern between them. A routine. And after he’s finished his last lap, he always stops at the vending station for a Pocari Sweat before retreating back to the dorms to get ready for the day.

From the shadows of the temple, you watch him do this for a week straight and marvel at his discipline.

So he is a morning person, then, unlike you. For you, the night is solace. You take note of that fact — of its irony. Your curiosity grows.

And, piecemeal, you continue to add to your knowledge of him and tuck it away for later.

His favorite meals are rice bowls, but his go-tos for his cooking day are noodle-based dishes. He doesn’t have a preference for either tea or coffee, but he always adds sugar and milk no matter which one he ends up choosing. He likes watching movie clips on Youtube and comedy videos on NicoNico, and prefers manga over text-only books. He sings in the shower, but always sulks when it rains, and the color of his umbrella is a faded burgundy. He’s tactile with his classmates, and his demeanor always brightens when he’s with the two of them. When he’s excited, his Tohoku drawl slips out a little bit before he corrects himself.

And every other Saturday, he takes a trip back to his hometown.

You wait until the third time you notice him do this, and then, in the early morning when the trains are just starting up, you slip away to Sendai, arriving hours ahead of time to wait outside the station.

Curiosity pulls you, but your interest is what compels you. (You want to know what it is that’s compelling him.)

When he finally emerges from the station sometime around noon, hoodie pulled up and a small bag hanging loosely off his shoulder, you trail behind him, discreetly and nonchalantly. You’re wearing all black — with a mask, too — and you hadn’t styled your hair before you’d left, so you’re sure he won’t recognize you even if he glances back.

He doesn’t, though. He continues all the way to the edge of town — all the way to a small cemetery that sits beside a lake. From out of sight, you watch him as he kneels in front of a marker and, after cleaning it and placing a small can of beer on the altar, withdraws incense from his bag and lights it. You listen to him as he prays and then, louder, begins to speak.

He talks for at least an hour, about the new things he’s seen over the past couple weeks; about Fushiguro spilling coffee on his second-favorite white undershirt; about Kugisaki taking him to a spa for the first time; about Gojou canceling class yesterday because a patisserie in Shibuya had hosted a one-day pop-up shop.

He talks, and he gestures, and he laughs, and then he is quiet.

He says, softly, that he’s almost halfway there. He says, I’ll probably see you soon.

And then he gathers his things, stands, and leaves back the way he came. But you stay.

You stay, kneeling on the short grass next to the fence.

You stay, and recall the way his voice had not wavered once, right up until the very end. You recall the way he had shaken the tremors from his hands before picking up the incense. You recall the way he had risen painstakingly to his feet, shoulders slumped forward as if he bore the world on his back.

Sukuna’s presence weighs down his every step, just as Rika haunts yours. This is something you had known, but not something you had understood until right this moment. He’s always shining, after all. Always smiling. You wonder how much of himself he has to tuck away, to maintain that smile.

And you wonder — would it really be so awful, to fall in love with a boy who is doomed to die?

(Would really it be so awful to do this all over again?)

But as you ride the train back to Tokyo, late in the afternoon long after he has left, the star inside you flickers a little brighter, cementing an answer you had already known.

So now that you’ve gotten an understanding, there’s no more time for hesitation. Now, it’s time to begin.

Do these things, and he will come to you. (This is what you do.)

Start simple. Catch him by the vending machines one morning right as he concludes his run. Act surprised, but not too much; you only need him to think that this encounter is coincidental, not unwelcome. Note his attire, the way his bangs are plastered to his forehead from sweat (and don’t reach out to fix them, even if you want to — it’s not time for that yet). Offer to buy him a drink, and when he accepts, hand it to him with a smile.

He stares. Right, he hasn’t seen you smile before, has he? That’s all right, though — as you bid him to have a good day, as you turn away to make your way back into the temple, you want him to think of it. You want him to remember it, just like you’ve memorized the shape of his.

So don’t glance back. Let the impression of your smile linger in the space behind you, and keep walking away.

Continue like this. Bring him souvenirs when you return from missions out of town — and even though you bring enough for everyone, make sure he always gets his first, when you catch him alone. Offer to help him with his remedial classwork in the evenings, and when you sit down with him in the common room after he accepts, make your way over to his side of the table halfway through, and don’t move back until he starts to shift his weight where he sits and glance at you from the corner of his eye. (Don’t push him if he’s uneasy. You have to respect what he’s comfortable with.) Greet him in the hallways when you pass him, and keep your smile to yourself when he stammers a greeting back with confusion in his tone.

Keep this up, these little gestures of amicability, until he smiles at you when you give him his souvenirs; until it takes longer for him to fidget when you sit next to him; until his voice loses its hesitance when he returns your hellos.

(You have to be patient. You have to remember that these things take time.

You have to remember the shape of his back as he sat in that cemetery, with the weight of his fate resting on his shoulders and a burnt-out incense stick trickling faint wisps of smoke into the heavy summer air.)

When he limps in from his latest mission with three broken fingers and a bruised jaw, rush over to him to ask if he’s all right. Offer to heal him — and then again, a little more firmly, when he hesitates. Ieiri’s office is in the next building over, after all, and surely he won’t want to prolong his discomfort when you are right here.

Now, as he thanks you quietly, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck with his newly-healed hand, give him a wider smile than before and tell him that it was no trouble. Tell him that you’re glad he’s all right.

Tell him that he did well.

His cheeks are pink, now. You want to cup them in your hands, to feel the warmth that shimmers under his skin for yourself, but you have to be patient. It’s not time for that yet.

Little acts of kindness add up, after all, and it’s only a matter of time before he seeks to pay them back. That’s how he is; you know that now.

And he does. Of course he does. (You knew he would.)

So let him.

He starts out simple, too, but haltingly.

He asks you if you want to join him the next time he runs. He rocks back on his heels when he says this, hands shoved in his pockets and a hesitant cant to his lips, but his smile comes easier when you accept. The very next morning, you jog together in silence, him a little ways ahead of you. In the watery light of the early dawn, the dusky pink of his hair matches the clouds at sunset. The two of you conclude at the vending station, of course, and this time he is the one who hands you a drink.

You are pleasantly surprised. You let yourself smile, and he grins back, brightly enough to shame the sun as it begins its arduous crawl over the horizon.

After that, he begins to relax a little in your presence. Now, he is the one who calls out to you for help on his assignments, instead of you having to offer. Now, it is him who seeks you out when you return with mission souvenirs. Now, he is the one who waves to you from across the courtyard as you mill around with your classmates, and he is the one who grins at you first when you wave back.

Maki raises an eyebrow at you the first time that happens, and although warmth is fluttering inside you, you simply give her an idle smile and shrug. There’s no need to elaborate on it. That’s for only you to know, until the time is right.

(He still shies away from bumping your shoulder with his, or slinging an arm around you like he does with his classmates. That’s okay, though. You can be patient.

All will come in due time.)

And then one day, as you sit at the kitchen table, slogging your way painstakingly through a reading for tomorrow’s class as he moves around in the kitchen (it’s his cooking day), he pauses and glances over his shoulder. You feel his gaze on you, but you don’t look up to meet it. You don’t want him to lose his nerve, after all; if it’s for him, you can wait.

After a long moment, he asks you about your favorite food. It’s an innocent question, a little unbefitting of his awkwardness from before, but that contrast makes you smile as you answer. (You smile so easily around him.) He perks up, then, and tells you that he’ll make it one of the side dishes for that night’s dinner. You are delighted for a split second — but then you remember that you have a late mission that will likely carry over into dinnertime. You admit this to him, reluctantly, and your heart squeezes a little when he visibly deflates.

But then he brightens again, and catches you by surprise when he tells you that he’ll make it anyway as a reward for your hard work and put the leftovers aside for you. At this, you can’t help but pause.

Unlike yours, his kindness is so effortless. You feel yourself nod; you hear yourself respond, but the words escape you. He simply grins, and wishes you luck on your mission.

That night, the flavor of salted cabbage lingers on your tongue, and the star inside you glows ever brighter.

The next day, he asks you to spar with him — and although you’re puzzled at the suddenness of the request, you accept. (As if you could deny him anything). He wants to work on his hand-to-hand, which comes as another surprise; from what you’ve seen, his physical prowess is nearly on par with Maki’s, which is why he’s her favorite to spar with during joint training. You agree, though, and although you’re less comfortable fighting like this than with a bokken, you quickly come to revel in it.

You learn even more about him, then; about the way he moves, how he strategizes on the fly, his ingenuity in his use of space. By the time you call the session to a close, both of you are out of breath and soaked through with sweat, but you can’t help but be exhilarated.

And then, as you both lay sprawled and panting on the wooden floor, you remember it with a sudden starkness: he’s tactile.

He just wanted an excuse to touch you.

You have to turn your face away from him then, to roll casually onto your side even as you dig your teeth into the flesh of your palm as hard as you can to ground yourself. You can’t get excited. You can’t be impatient — and most importantly, you can’t let him know.

Not yet. It isn’t time for that yet. But now, you see (and you see it so clearly) that time is getting closer. It’s almost within your grasp, an arm’s-length away — just like he is, laid out on the floor behind you.

You have woven all the groundwork — all the threads that you can. You need to reel him in.

So do these things, and he will fall for you.

(This is what you do.)

Pick up where he left off, but subtly — discreetly. The next day, when you saunter into the kitchen and he’s already there, tap his shoulder lightly as you pass by and tell him good morning. When he falters for a moment, pretend you don’t notice; make your way over to the table, where Maki and Fushiguro are already settled, and pull them into a conversation so that he won’t be self-conscious. So that he won’t think too hard about it.

And from there, normalize it.

Brush your fingertips over his shoulder to get his attention; squeeze his arm encouragingly when he solves the most difficult problem on his homework set; pick a stray grain of rice off his cheek at dinnertime (and ignore the surprised glances that Toge and Panda give you from across the table). But don’t touch him like you want to, touch him like you have to — gently, fleetingly, idly.

Spread these little touches out over a week or two; you don’t want to overwhelm him, after all, and these things are best done gradually. And when he starts to return them — when he leans over your shoulder to take a peek at the book you’re reading, and playfully hip-checks you to the side when he’s opening a cabinet, and settles right next to you in the lounge when you’re watching TV, close enough for the side of his thigh to brush yours — don’t shy away from him.

Let him draw closer, closer, closer. Let a pattern unfold between you, let it become routine —

—and then, when the time is right, upend it just slightly.

The next time you join him on his morning run, keep your face pensive, as if you are lost in thought. Pretend not to notice the concerned glances he shoots you from the corner of his eye, and let your fingers brush his as you take the drink he hands you after the conclusion of your lap at the vending station.

And then, lean over, as if absently, and drop a kiss to his forehead.

He freezes — as expected — so mirror his response, and freeze too. Stutter something about not thinking. Whisper an apology and avert your gaze. You need to blush, here, so think of something else — of the first time Rika held you, of the first time she touched you, of the first time she pushed you down and smothered your gasp under her lips.

Your face is hot now. Good. Because you’ve blushed, he’ll blush harder.

And he does — pink deepening into red, peach blossoming into ruby, outshining even the color of his hair.

(He’s so, so lovely.)

Mumble something about needing to get ready for class, and then flee. Keep walking quickly, vanish around the corner as he stammers for you to wait. Just this once, just this once, don’t give in to him. Pretend you didn’t hear him, and don’t turn back.

Don’t wait for his words. Wait for him to come find you.

And when he does — like you knew he would — that same afternoon right before dinner, you wait for him to speak first. It pains you, but you stiffen your smile as you greet him; you keep your body language closed off, the picture of discomfort. He wilts a little, and it pains you to see it, but you have to do this — you have to, so that he will be the one to push this time.

He hesitates; he twists his hands together, then shoves them into his pockets, and you wait, and you wait, and you wait.

He tells you, quietly, that he doesn’t want things to be awkward between you because of that morning. And you match your voice to his; you tell him, gently, that you don’t want that either. You tell him to forget about it, that it won’t happen again.

He shuffles in place like he doesn’t know what to say. His cheeks turn pink again; your heart skips (don’t lose this thread), and then he says that it’s okay.

You let your smile soften, and then you tell him that you’re glad that the two of you are friends.

And there it is —

— look, look —

— it’s brief, as swift as a shooting star, but you see a flicker of dissatisfaction cross his face.

He pauses for a moment, then smiles (it’s a little strained, and you feel a bit guilty at your delight in that fact) and says that he is too. He finally takes his hands out of his pockets and asks if you want to play Smash Bros with him and Fushiguro after dinner, but his fingers tap the side of his leg restlessly, and you have to hold back a smile.

And although you have no love for video games, it’s him who’s asking. So (of course) you don’t deny his invitation.

The rest of the week passes without him approaching you again, and you let him have his space. If he’s drawn a boundary, then all you have to do is wait for him to bring it down. The two of you still talk in passing, after all, so you can satisfy yourself with that. You can be patient. You can wait a little longer.

(You can outlast him.)

And then on Sunday, when you’re settled at the kitchen table doing homework with your classmates as he and his argue about whose turn it is to restock the pantry, you feel his eyes on you.

You don’t look up. You simply lean over to take a peek at Panda’s paper as he works on his essay, and pretend that you don’t notice his gaze. Panda pushes you away and tells you to get to your own work, and you laugh and lean back into your chair, the embodiment of practiced ease.

Fushiguro appears with Kugisaki, and they squeeze in at the end of the table; Maki asks them who’s getting the groceries, but a voice from directly above you answers before they can. You look up to find your third kouhai grinning down at you, and when you (finally) meet his eyes, he asks you if you want to come with. Kugisaki rolls her eyes, muttering that he can handle it himself, but you simply smile and agree, and the two of you head out.

It doesn’t take long to gather the week’s necessities. He has a sharp eye for discounts and deals, you note, so he takes the lead, and you are content to let him. The shopping mostly passes in silence; afterwards, he trails behind you, radiating restlessness, with his share of the bags as you both set off for the school.

You let him, for a little while — but at the halfway point, you decide that you’ve let him simmer enough. The thread is there. All you have to do now is pull it.

You turn your head to peer over your shoulder, and gently ask him if there’s something on his mind.

(And you’re cruel, aren’t you? You know what’s on his mind.)

He stops, so you do, too. The street you’re on is mostly deserted at this time of night; people are inside their homes, trying to snatch a last few hours of relaxation before the work week begins again. It’s just the two of you, suspended in the dusk.

He hesitates and stares at the asphalt, bags swinging loosely from his hands, and you turn the rest of the way to face him. You say his name, in a voice soft with concern, and watch pink fade into his cheeks. The streetlights flicker on above the two of you, washing his hair in yellow fluorescence, and you wait,

and you wait,

and you wait.

And then, he looks back up, straight into your eyes — and says, very quietly, that he likes you.

And —

Joy bursts in your chest, a supernova so intense that you want to keel over and gasp.

You had never thought you would feel like this again. You had never imagined having anything to look forward to than the promise of your eventual death — of your reunion with Rika. And even though this is what you had wanted — even though this is what you want, so badly — you can’t think of how to react. You wait too long to respond.

You can only stand frozen, eyes wide, and he sucks a breath in through his teeth and chokes out a sorry, nevermind and tries to dodge around you, back up the street towards campus.

(No, no, you’re fucking this up, don’t let him get away don’t let him —)

You drop the bag you’re holding — something inside shatters, but you pay it no mind — and catch him by the arm as he rushes past. He looks back, face bright red, and asks you to let him go as he strains against your grip. And he doesn’t know it, but that’s impossible at this point —

—you’ll never let him go.

You pull him into your arms, ignoring the twin thuds of his bags falling to the ground, and say his name again, and then again, in a voice wavering with relief. He’s tense — you’ve never held him like this before, after all — but after a moment he returns your embrace, squeezing tighter than a lifeline. And in your arms, he is so very solid. He is so, so warm.

He is dazzling, loved by the sun and just as radiant. You are ghostly in comparison. You are colder, in comparison.

Heartbreak has rendered you cold, forever, but your love for him is melting you.

You pull away (you want to see his face) and find him already staring up at you, his eyes wide and shining, the streetlights shimmering like stars in their depths.

You ask him to say it again. His blush darkens, and he mutters no way, but you only laugh, and hold him closer, and rest your forehead to his as you tell him that you like him too. (And if that’s just a partial truth, then he doesn’t have to know. It isn’t time for that yet.

But that time is getting closer. It’s almost in your grasp — and so is he.)

He looks at you expectantly with an unspoken request in his gaze. And like always, you follow it, and lean down to kiss him.

The two of you hold hands on your way back to campus, and although you’re reluctant, you let him slip his hand from yours right before you reach the top of the stairs. He looks back at you with a smile that’s uncharacteristically shy, and says you’ll have to wait till later, that the others are probably starving. You want to kiss that smile (you want to kiss all of his smiles, to know their shapes against your lips), but you resist. You simply agree, as readily as always, and follow him into the temple, back to the kitchen where the others await.

(The thing you had broken, you discover, is the 6-pack of strawberry Ramune Maki had requested. You get pummeled, of course, but you can’t help but laugh giddily even as she puts you in a headlock. She makes you promise to buy her three in recompense. You’re too happy to care.)

After dinner — it’s Panda’s turn, so it’s seafood pancakes — you wish everyone good night (with a special smile for him, of course), shower like usual, and retreat to your room to organize your things for class tomorrow. It’s your normal routine, and it’s driving you mad how badly you want to throw it away. You want nothing more than to go to him.

But it’s not time for that yet — because what comes next is the most important part of all. You can’t spoil it in your impatience. Tonight, you will have to content yourself with your hand and the memory of how his sigh had felt when you had lowered your lips to his. Tonight, you will be alone. But tomorrow, you’ll begin spinning the final thread in your tapestry.

He is hungry, in many ways. This is something you have come to know about him, to understand about him during your time together. But you don’t want to satisfy that hunger, not just yet.

You want to whet it.

So do these things, and he will hunger for you.

(This is what you do.)

When the next morning arrives, tell him — regretfully — that you won’t be able to run with him today. Watch his face begin to fall, but don’t let it drop completely — lean in and push a brief kiss to the corner of his mouth. Apologize. Skim your fingertip along the edge of his blush as it blooms, and tell him you’ll see him later — in a low voice, like you’re sharing a secret.

And then, smile — less coyly, more warmly — and draw away. Pretend you don’t notice when he leans forward a little bit, following you, before stopping himself. Wave over your shoulder as you turn away, and retreat to the kitchen (it’s your cooking day), and pretend that you don’t want to turn back around and gather him into your arms like before — that you don’t want to kiss the breath from his body until he’s gasping for you.

That time will come soon enough. You just have to keep being patient, no matter how hard it is.

Continue like this. Give him just enough — just enough to want more, but not more. (Not yet.) Trail your fingers lightly over the back of his neck when you lean closer to correct a mistake he’s made in his classwork, and draw away again when you feel him shiver under your touch. Skim your thumb over the corner of his lips, fleetingly, when you brush crumbs off his cheek at dinnertime, when the others are preoccupied; then, step into their conversation before he can retaliate, while he stares at you with pink cheeks. Fix the collar of his hoodie with the backs of your fingers brushing the underside of his chin, then step back completely right when his hands start to twitch as if he’s going to reach for you.

But don’t be cruel, either. After dinner, when it’s just the two of you trailing down the path back to the dorms, turn to him and kiss him (but don’t get carried away — keep it chaste) before the others emerge from the kitchen to follow. Squeeze his shoulders with a smile when your study sessions conclude, and when he squirms into your embrace, let him settle there. On the subsequent mornings, when the two of you are slowing down at the end of your final lap, take his hand in yours, and return his delighted grin with one of your own.

Tease him closer; stoke that fire within him. Don’t douse it yourself; wait until he’s burning with it. Because then —

—he’ll follow you back to the dorms one night, all the way to the staircase leading to the second floor, and ask with a sheepish smile if he can come to your room.

(And who are you to deny him?)

You open the door and flick on the light, gesturing for him to enter before you. He’s wide-eyed, buzzing with nervous energy (it’s his first time being invited in, after all), and turns his head eagerly from side to side as if he’s taking it all in. When you shut the door behind you, though, he pauses in his looking. Now it’s just the two of you.

(Now, it’s just the two of you.)

You turn to him. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but the tips of his ears are bright red, and (you almost reach for him, but clench your hands behind your back just in time — you can’t be the first to reach —) you ask him what he’s thinking about. He takes a step back, then, and you feel a stab of dismay — but in the next second he’s pushing himself into you, squeezing you just as tightly as he had on that night under the streetlights.

So you hold him back, you card your hands through his hair and, in the silence, you can hear how uneven his breaths have gotten.

He pulls back and looks up at you, red-faced, and says that he’s sorry.

You blink, as if you are surprised. (As if you don’t understand.) You ask him what he’s sorry for.

But he doesn’t answer. He tightens his hold on the back of your shirt, and leans up to kiss you.

At first, it is no different from the others you’ve shared with him. Sweet and chaste, like any other couple stumbling their way through a new relationship — completely normal. You move your hand to the small of his back and press him closer, just a little bit, as you tilt your head and slide your tongue over the seam of his lips. You want him to open up for you.

You want him to —

He makes a breathless, ragged sound and sucks your tongue insistently into his mouth, your shirt bunching tightly in his fists. Your heart skips a beat. And then the air between the two of you ignites.

You forget that you’re supposed to be coaxing him. You forget to be patient.

You forget, and kiss him like you’re trying to stifle him — but his response is far more enthusiastic than you had anticipated. He takes it all, all that you’re giving him, taking sharp breaths through his nose and wrapping his arms around your shoulders to keep you from parting from him. You can feel the heat in his face, in his body, from how tightly he’s pressed against you; you can feel his pleasure, in the way his unconscious sounds vibrate from his chest into yours and the way he grips your shoulders in his hands. You can feel everything, everything, everything.

You are enchanted. You are ecstatic.

You —

(Is it time?)

—with great effort, you tear your lips from his, nudge his chin upward, and wrap your hands around his throat.

And they fit, perfectly — as if they were meant to be there.

And even though his heartbeat is fluttering under your fingertips, you don’t squeeze — not yet, not yet. He’s not ready for that yet.

You have to show him tenderness first before you smother him.

You drink in his expression — the way his cheeks are stained red, the way his pupils are so large that you can barely see a hint of brown. You listen to the way his breath shudders when you cradle his face in your hands. He’s here; here in your hold, the point of coalescence for all the threads you’ve so arduously woven. He’s looking at you.

He’s looking at you.

So do these things, and he will never look away.

And this is what you do.

Whisper his given name, just to watch him shiver, and then kiss him again. Start out slow, gentle; and when his hands find their way into your hair, when he angles his head to the side, follow his request. Kiss him deeper, longer, until he’s swaying in place, snatching gasps between each parting, and then give him more.

More. Give him more.

When he finally tears away and bites at your neck, don’t grasp at him — not yet — but wind your arms around him and walk him backwards to the bed. When he clings to you as you push him down, go down with him. Don’t let him be apart from you — not even when you’re pulling his hoodie over his head and his pants down his legs, when you’re peeling your undershirt off and casting it somewhere off to the side. When he digs his nails into your back as you fit your hand into place between his thighs, don’t flinch. He’s asking for more. Give it to him; you have plenty. You’re overflowing.

He’s pliant under you now. Kiss him as you coax him open, bit by bit. Kiss him everywhere you can reach — show him the depth of your regard, the intensity of your ardor.

(And even though he’s here with you, in your arms, never forget that this is a libation. An oblation to him, an orison for his acceptance. You want to give him everything.

But you need to give him what he wants.)

He gasps something as you press yourself into him — your title, not your name, but it’s just as endearing. You want to understand him. You want to sink into him, all the way through him, like syrup (like nepenthe, like absinthe), but you need to be careful with him. You don’t want to break him; you want to ply him. You stop at his centre, and his grip on your forearms is tight enough to bruise.

Don’t tense; don’t move away. Take everything he gives you — all of it.

Kiss him more. Touch him more. Wait until he hooks his ankles into place behind your hips, and then, move. Indulge in his gasps, his hics, the way he leaves the imprints of his teeth scattered all over your shoulders and neck. If he wants to consume you, then you are his to devour. And you always will be.

Engrave your presence into his body. Angle your hips; touch him more insistently until he’s squirming under you. Until he’s hissing that it’s too much, that he can’t — that he’s gonna —

Watch him fall apart under your hands.

You did that. That is your doing.

(Of course once isn’t enough. You’ve waited so long, so you let yourself be just a little bit selfish in this.)

Continue like this. Unravel him, again and again — gently, tenderly, indulgently — use all that you know about him, all that you’ve learned — and savor it all. His breath is hitching, now; his lashes are wet. His voice breaks when he speaks — it’s your given name, this time, and he says it so imploringly — so listen to him, just like you’ve been doing all along. Slow down; soften your touch. When he shudders again, when his eyes roll back as he tenses up for the final time — press your face into the curve of his neck and breathe him in as he clutches at you. He’s sticky with sweat, and flushed pink all the way down to his chest, and you don’t just like him, you adore him; so, so much.

You tell him.

You feel his pulse skip. He pushes at you, and you feel a flicker of surprise. Was that too soon after all? Should you have stayed silent? Heart sinking, you try to move back, to pull away from him, but he slips his arms around your shoulders and brings you back, just like before, to keep you from parting.

Presses his forehead into yours as he tells you, shakily, that he feels the same.

His eyes catch on the chain dangling from your neck, on the ring where it rests between his collarbones, and his face softens. You feel a prickle of unease, but —

He picks up the ring, delicately, and brings it to his lips. Your breath leaves your body.

Ah. He really is…

He holds you tighter as you start to move again, a little harder — and you let your composure slip, just a little, because you know now that he’ll catch you. He’s here. He isn’t leaving.

He’s taking you.

He says your name again, softly and so sweetly, and you finally tumble over the precipice of pleasure and fill him with the culmination of it; white-hot, like the star burning in place of your heart. He takes it; he shivers under you, eyes fluttering, and then you kiss him again, wrapping your arms around his body and letting your full weight settle into him.

You don’t want to let him go. You don’t want to move away, not just yet — not after he’s finally given in to you. And he doesn’t protest; he only holds you back, just as closely, and happiness floods your chest.

You cherish him. You treasure him. You want to stay like this, forever and ever, until the rest of the world crumbles into ash and your two souls meld into one. For him, you want to bring the impossible to form.

For him, you want to rewrite the stars — to uncross them from his fate.

Eventually, you have to pull away to clean up, and even if he grumbles when you do it, he quiets after you press a kiss to his cheek and whisper that it won’t take long. You are careful with him as you wipe him down; he isn’t like you, and exhaustion and oversensitivity are surely weighing down his senses.

Even so, when he reaches for you as you climb back in beside him, you let him pull you to him and tuck his head under your chin. You press your smile into the top of his hair. And as his breaths grow long and heavy, as his body loosens in your arms, you stroke your fingers down his back and close your eyes. But you don’t fall asleep just yet.

He has accepted your offering, has accepted you, but that doesn’t mean you can relax just yet. It doesn’t mean you can grow careless. If anything, you need to double your efforts tenfold. You can’t let him slip away, no matter what, because —

You belong to him. You belong to Rika, you’ll always belong to Rika, but you belong to him now, too.

Now all you have to do is keep this up until he belongs to you.