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psuedosugu · 17 hours

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where the lilies grow [彼岸花が咲く場所]

summary. who could it be, this stranger, in your quaint dominion?

pairing. f!priestess!reader x geto suguru warnings for this chapter. longing word count. 2.2k author's note: i miss him imiss hi m imisshimimisshimimisshi- (smut in part 2)

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chapter 1/4, that with no face [顔のない者]

the autumn night is long only in name— we’ve done no more than gaze at each other and it’s already dawn.

IN THE BED OF mt. kita, shadowed by mt. aino, between the dense foliage of an old forest hiding bones and ancient caverns, a wind chime rings twice.

you lift your head, wooden broom in hand and blisters stinging. you feel it, like the balminess before spring rain. a visitor. for a moment, you expect to see them emerging where the cherry blossoms open by the steps, a thousand leading down to a quiet village misted from the damp morning.

the chimes sing.

“priestess,” a miko by your side, hand clutched to her chest, pale as snow against a her shirokakeshita. her gaze lingers on your profile, carefully sweeping from the pinch of your brow to the slight purse of your lips. she retrieves the broom, “okami mustn’t.”

“ah,” you yield under her smile, “thank you.”

“it’s no trouble. only happiness,” behind, the doors to the shrine part with a heavy creak; the air plunges in incense smoke and murmurs, “is okami troubled?”

“in idle thoughts,”

“oh,” she points a finger up, very pleased with herself, “i read that yesterday in the collection. but, there is no rain today. is okami truly alright?”

“ah, i didn’t mean a poem.”

“of course,” the disappointment is palpable; she bows before stepping back, “okami is much accomplished. and hardworking. please, return inside. it is not suitable for okami to labor such,” the miko flit about to their posts, reverent whispers of ojo-sama and okami against your ears, “the sun will soon reach its apex and it will be much too hot. okami mustn’t fall to summer sickness.”

the heat, it swelters and boils. the nights are frost with your fogging breath and the afternoons melt in kagu-tsuchi-no-kami’s fingers. like a pendulum swinging back and forth, the only bearable intervals exist in the morning and evening.

“thank you,” the gentle incline of your head has her embarrassed, and you retreat without further conversation.

your walk is practiced. your back is straight. a bead of sweat snakes from your temple to the crook of your neck. the heat, even in modest cotton, clings. the shade is lovely; changing colors; you find your basket tucked by the lemon trees, abandoned. sheers you collect next, the weight heavy. on the sharp jaw of the blade you see your reflection. the village elders once called you yamato nadeshiko. you think you lack the gentleness in her gaze.

down the thousand steps. the lanterns hung above are lit and extinguished like clockwork. when it’s dark, the steps are red, the tongue to amaterasu-ōmikami’s mouth called honden. an arduous trek, but no one complains – who would, when takamahagara is at one’s fingertips?

a deep ache pulses in your chest. you must visit mizuno’s grave.

through the innards of the village, the humble people and slanted rooftops reflecting the sun, the kind words and a bag of cherry seeds and stopping to pet ryome-san’s old cat. into the pines. the sound of water as you cross the arched bridge. it burbles through moss, streams winding through rocks and flowers. a river slowly winds her way. polishes the stone, digs into the earth, loves along the roots, and you think she hadn’t been last summer in a place where nothing changes.

the deeper into the woods, the denser it gets. you follow a well-worn path. the cracks in the branches bleed sunlight, almost tangible against your skin. further still, a red dot against a shrub, then two, and three, and four, and more, doused in the shade, the capital of flowers. spider lilies furl. you side-step not to touch them.

mizuno’s grave, a small cavity between the mountains, sits covered in lilies. there’s a wooden hokora, inside – a kokeshi doll that grows hair. you’ve never seen it happen yourself, and only noticed the change upon visit. there’re rumors, and prayers, and lingering, distrustful eyes cast to the pines upon mention of a name. a sore spot in the village body. a bruise, maybe, or a poorly patched wound.

you stop at the threshold, where trees disappear in the back and the cavern opens. a stranger, alert by your presence, stumbles back, and—

“wait!” you hold up a hand, as if the motion would freeze him. it does, “careful of them,” his gaze drops from you to the flowers by his foot. surprise flits to confusion and lastly to something you can’t name, “they will hurt you.”

“the lilies?” the way he speaks is odd, but not unpleasant. he regains his balance just as swiftly as he had lost it.

and yet. your hand hovers by the shimenawa looped around your belt. you swallow, try to slow your racing pulse. he is not an intruder. not the lingering spirit you had so often heard tales of in the village, some whispering of it, others ignoring. only a stranger with an accent from some other world; you lower your arm.

the sincerity in his eyes catches you. the swirl and gleam from susanoo's storm. a traveler, maybe. they do appear from the mist and fade, come and go, but never here, never here.

he turns toward the hokora, to what he was doing before you found him. observes it from top to bottom, carefully examining it from all angles and finding its origins unremarkable. from the stand it watches over the grounds – the place where the trees and stone become one – and then you.

the flicker of light. the half-smile, something like fondness.

(later, you would wonder. wonder about the pale full moon at daybreak)

for now, he regards you for a long moment, and finally:

"how?"

"i fear you won't believe me. simply do not touch. they're turned away from you. it's not wise to disturb them,"

"like a wake."

"you are stood in a grave," you watch him from your corner of shade, wondering how long he will be, how he came here, where he is from, "wouldn't they be upset by this?"

he touches the bridge of his nose, thoughtful.

"alright."

"i'm not sure how you wandered all this way here," you add, a bit lighter.

his shoulders rise; the smallest shrug, a flash of humor in his gaze.

"dulling my eyes with the scenery. lost," it is as you expected.

"i don't recognize you," there are not many travelers. few are those who happen through your paths, "i have not seen you in the village. are you alone?"

"only a guest," he says amicably, and his cold features are mollified by a smile. it's a strange one, fitting for a strange man. his eyebrows raise, and his eyes close, and he seems hidden and uncovered all at once. the image leaves as easily as it comes, replaced with a soft nod, "my apologies for any trouble."

"of course," you offer your own, "please, no need for such formality. you've done nothing wrong. only be careful. these parts aren't safe."

"because of your flowers?" he doesn’t understand. perhaps he can’t, "what about you?"

"i'll be careful too," you say, holding up the sheers, "they cannot be touched, but they can be cut. i must take some for the evening rituals. after, i can guide you back. the inn has a spare bed if you wish to stay for a bit. neighboring villages are quite a long walk from here."

you watch his boots step toward you. from afar, he had appeared quite daunting – a tall, inked presence, so stark against the luminous backdrop. closer, you find him just as tall, and the sharp shadows sculpting his face soften into something tired. dark hair, dark clothes, dark, sunken eyes.

the summer heat is stifling.

"thank you,"

"not at all," you speak without thinking, because it is natural, as natural as breathing, "it is the least i could offer you."

he hesitates. then,

"maybe it's because you're a priestess. there's something holy in you, isn't there?"

the casual, uncaring ease of his words catch you. a sharpness. an air, maybe, of something older than himself. an endearing oddity. and at your curious gaze, he lets out a snicker, much younger and vulnerable.

"maybe not. sorry."

he retreats into thought, and you retreat to the side. set down your basket, kneel by the flowers not minding the stains of dirt and grass. bring your hands together, a wordless dip of your head. the sharp tip of the sheers point downward – the index between prayer and sacrifice.

you cut where ground touches stem. the flower falls into your waiting grasp harmless. red dots at the end, like it's crying. you place it in your basket. repeat the motion till it houses five. the stranger doesn't question, and when you leave, he follows.

through the woods, again.

"that's where i live," you point once back in the village, up the mountain where, though the trees, peaks the roof of the shrine, "our gates are never closed to those in need."

"holy land," he nods, amused, "thank you, again."

"i must return, but," you look to him, "i never learned your name."

he lingers there, and it strikes you how lonely he must be with no company. an affliction such as this should not move you, but it does – your heart, this gentle thing, feels through slumber, and beats faster when waking up.

his brow furrows as if deep in thought and you're reminded, like the snap of fingers, the odd sense of familiarity – something old and forgotten, a poem that syrups on the tip of your tongue and that you suddenly wish to question: what miseries alone increase in this forgotten garden?

it must be susanoo’s eyes, you think, so alive in their serene sadness, in a face not quite stern but too solemn. does he wring drops from his black ink-died sleeves?

"geto," he offers, "geto suguru. the name, that is."

geto suguru, an easy name to say. geto, short, efficient. suguru, subtle like rain. suguru. suguru, suguru, suguru.

(how can i be certain of you nightingale?)

you say it under your breath, to feel the shape and cadence. his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"you say it as if you've just remembered how."

"oh," you start. how childish of you. the faintness of his smile, an old story. a forgotten stanza. perhaps not a foreigner, no – a ghost, an onryō with the form of a young man, a haunt in his eyes of times gone by. perhaps someone even more beautiful. your heart warms, but you bow your head, perhaps to hide it, "i apologize. only the name is pleasant," when his smile is pleasant, "i will not forget it."

"ojo-sama!" the familiar voice catches the both of you by surprise, and you turn to find a red-faced shrine maiden rushing down the steps and in your direction, "you shouldn't linger! the heat is merciless! it is not good to stay too long outdoors," her fretful gaze travels from you to the visitor, who stares impassively, and settles back. she bows, "pardon my interruption."

"not at all. thank you for your consideration," you return her bow. it is almost as if she flushes harder from this simple motion, a nod from the great priestess in the highest order. or rather, the idea of what a priestess could be. and when you smile at the maiden, the lovely tingle and tremble in her chin, "i was only just showing geto-san to the inn."

"he can find it," she says.

"eh?"

"geto-san," she turns to him, hands clasped firmly, and the directions spill over so quickly you barely catch them yourself. there are more than enough trails leading to the same place, and none seem better or worse than the rest. still, the fact remains: the miko is displeased with a man near the village priestess. with renewed vigor, she snatches the basket from your hands, "ojo-sama, we mustn't dawdle. the evening ritual."

the irritation, however minute, does not escape him.

"i will not intrude. thank you again for the guidance," his eyes drift to yours, "ojo-sama," but he says it as though he's teasing you, or more so mocking her. you find the sound less grating on his lips.

"i will see you," an ember slowly growing. there are duties, and miko, and a summer sun scorching your nape. your words linger behind him like the incense smoke in the honden.

geto lifts a hand in parting. the girl beside you watches intently, waiting for his footsteps to grow distant, before grabbing your forearm and steering you along the road, "beware strangers," and the strength with which she walks has you nearly stumbling after, "they may look human, or be dressed in your cloth. an okuri inu in guise – don't be deceived. such trickery is dangerous. they're more sly and hungry than we are."

"he was very kind."

"we mustn't speak of such things," and in her eyes is the color of night. you have a sense: geto, too, has a shadow trailing after him, "he does not belong here."

you suppose not. and if you could believe that to be so, surely you could ask him to leave. the ghost, the onryō, or man. who, it matters little. it is enough. he is enough. suguru. your mind calls the name as the ocean calls its ships, but only his mouth holds the tide.

(chased by the winds that lift the eightfold waves across)

glossary all poems are taken from shinkokinshu: new collection of poems ancient and modern and kokinshu.

starting poem is by ono no komachi.

miko – shrine maiden/young priestess that works at a shinto shrine.

shirokakeshita – a white kimono base, you’d wear a hakama (pants/skirt, typically red) over it.

okami, ojo-sama – honorifics that would be attached to a name (same as x-sama, x-ojo-sama); okami refers to ‘goddess,’ and i think star struck miko would very much revel their important young lady. ojo-sama is very formal and usually used when addressing ladies of high status.

in idle thoughts – a poem by ono no komachi: the colour of this flower / has already faded away, / while in idle thoughts / my life goes by, / as i watch the long rains fall. tbh there are plenty of different translations of this poem (as with most japanese poetry) and i used this version since i stumbled upon it first, though i prefer this one: while i gaze out during the long rains, / the color of the cherry blossom fades, / much like my life, / which passes in vain.

kagu-tsuchi-no-kami – in classical japanese mythology, kagu-tsuchi is the kami (god/deity/spirit) of fire. no kami is the honorific indicating god/deity.

yamato nadeshiko – the archetype of the ideal japanese woman: beautiful, demure, gentle, domestically skilled. basically, she’s devoted to her family and her husband. very graceful and etc etc husband would cheat & she’d smile, dip her head, and say ‘ok. i made dinner please join me’.

amaterasu-ōmikami – amaterasu is the main/pretty much most important kami in shinto when it comes to worship. she is the goddess of the sun. her origins differ from source to source, but she is one of the ‘three precious children’ along with tsukuyomi (deity of the moon) and susanoo (deity of storms and sea). omikami is a honorific denoting her status as the most great and important.

honden – the main hall where rituals take place in a shinto shrine, the most sacred. it houses the enshrined kami or deities to whom the shrine is dedicated.

takamahagara – ruled over by amaterasu. heaven basically.

spider lilies – generally mean the life and death cycle. in folklore, spider lilies are said to bloom along the banks of the sanzu river, which souls must cross on their journey to the afterlife.

hokora – wooden, clay, or stone shinto structure to house deities.

kokeshi – a clay japanese doll. this particular one is a reference to okiku, the doll that allegedly grows hair.

shimenawa – a sacred rope usually used to separate common space from holy space, marking a passage.

susanoo – amaterasu’s brother, god of storms and sea.

the pale full moon at daybreak – apoem by kōin: my heart is like this— / dimly visible through fine / autumn mists that cling / and softly veil its contours— / the pale full moon at daybreak.

what miseries alone increase in this forgotten garden? – fragments of a poem by murasaki shikibu: as the years pass by / miseries alone increase / in this world unknown / to the first snow that piles up / in this forgotten garden.

wring drops from his black ink-died sleeves – a poem by fujiwara no shigeie: shall i tell others / i shed these sad tears thinking / of the cycle of / lives to come as i wring drops / from my black ink-dyed sleeves.

how can i be certain of you nightingale – a poem by hachijōin no takakura: with just a single / song how can i be certain / of you nightingale / hidden in the darkening / clouds as dusky shadows grow.

onryō – in folklore, onryo are malicious spirits

okuri inu – a yokai (entity) taking form of a wolf/dog. found in trails in the woods. they eat travellers.

chased by the winds that lift the eightfold waves across – a poem by minamoto no morotoki: chased by the winds that / lift the eightfold waves across / no salt-sea roads the ship’s / sails scarcely seen if only / i might catch a glimpse of you.

ty very much for reading ♥

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psuedosugu · 1 day

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you drink your coffee black and we are afraid of each other ; shoko ieiri

synopsis; shoko makes you a morning cup of coffee; turns out she’s not very good at that, but it’s the thought that counts.

word count; 4.2k

contents; shoko ieiri/reader, gn!reader (but written w a fem!reader in mind), fluff fluff fluff!!, just normal morning shenanigans at the ieiri household, implied stsg (my brand), shoko can be a girlfailure. as a treat, reader is absolutely whipped (and so am i)

a/n; been writing too much gojo n geto lately. neglecting my wife :((((((( let it be known that i am a shoko stan first human second. this one is for my wlws pls eat up!!!!

you wake up to the sound of your girlfriend’s voice.

melodic and soft, low and saccharine; almost like she’s coaxing you out of hiding. a sound so lovely you wish you could drown in it, laced together with a distinctly raspy tilt, one you can only attribute to the copious amounts of cigarettes she smoked back in high school. a leftover residue, bittersweet memories ghosting her lips — one that gets you a little bit weak in the knees.

in the mornings, it’s particularly prominent, a little intoxicating. manifesting itself as a shiver down your spine, a jolt of your heartbeat, a flush on your skin for every word that she speaks. it’s enough to have you slipping from sleep’s embrace, carried back into the cradle of reality.

why you notice her voice first, and not the smell of something burning — or the sound of insistent beeping — is honestly beyond you.

it doesn’t take long for your sleepy brain to react, however, a pang of anxiety rushing through your slumbering veins. hurriedly stirring you awake. abrupting your dreamlike, drowsy state, tangled up in silken sheets with your neck smudged by lipstick marks; an alluring red, one shoko typically favors when she’s going out for a drink. coming home just a tiny bit tipsy, affectionate and giggly.

and when your eyelids finally flutter open, your mind melting into the motion of the waking world, you shoot up in a sudden bout of panic.

because fuck, you belatedly, groggily realize — that’s the fucking fire alarm.

and shoko is spewing curses, from afar, loud enough that you can hear it even through the fog of fatigue that clouds your brain. a raspy string of words that you don’t quite catch, but they’re enough to have you scrambling out of bed, nearly bumping into the doorframe as you kick the blanket off your legs.

”what happened?” you croak out, chest heaving a little, having stumbled into the smoke-filled kitchen. disgruntled, reeling with the aftermath of your deep slumber, cold air nipping at your bare skin. the balcony door is open, and the smell of rain invades your apartment.

when you look out the window, all you see is a gray sky, blanketed by a thick coating of wool. smothered by clouds, not a single ray of sunlight slipping through the cracks. the world smells dewy and sweet, asphalt and flowers melting into a nostalgic fragrance, one that reminds you a bit of high school smoke breaks — huddling under the slide at the nearest playground, watching a pretty girl wrap her lips around a cigarette, exhaling smoke just for it to melt into the pouring rain.

one that reminds you a bit of the woman right in front of you, balancing on a chair and stretching her goosebump-ridden arms towards the ceiling, wearing nothing but a lacey bra and a pair of unbuttoned jeans. messy hair that cascades down her back, brows furrowed, eyes simmering with irritation — before flitting over to meet your own.

shoko blinks. then sighs. ”you woke up?” she mutters, and you try not to shiver when the tremor of her voice deepens, morning-fatigue seeping into the syllables. “fuck. sorry, i —”

she stumbles a little, shifting her weight from one foot to another, and you take a step forward. on instinct, as if getting ready to cushion her fall. ready to be of service, in any way you can.

”don’t worry,” she fumbles with the fire alarm, clicking her tongue. nails scraping against plastic. “it’s fine, i just need to — there we go.”

finally, the beeping stops. and your shoulders relax, immediately, the tight little ball inside your chest untangling. with a deep inhale, the fragrance of espresso and smoke fills your nostrils, and a sense of calm washes over you. rooting your feet to the floor.

shoko settles down, too, seating herself on the wooden chair. a huff slipping from her lips. they’re smudged, a blurry red she still hasn’t found the energy to wipe away.

bringing a hand up to card through her hair, lithe fingers in between her messy auburn locks, she exhales. a blend between fatigue and relief.

”god. i need a cig.”

a moment passes. she raises her head, and sees the sleepy little pout playing at your lips — her eyes softening. blooming with something fond. giving you a smile, tired, small. but reassuring.

”i’m just kidding, love,” she chuckles. “relax.”

”don’t joke about that,” you frown, rubbing the sleep from your weary eyes. stifling a tiny yawn. ”.. took me so long to get you to quit.”

(sometimes you can still see the smoke leave her lungs when she exhales.)

shoko keeps smiling, but doesn’t say anything else. the pitter patter of rain against your balcony railing fills the silence of the kitchen, still brimming with a light layer of smoke, slowly dwindling. cold air drawing it out. clad only in one of suguru’s old t-shirts, you shiver, and shoko seems to notice.

“good morning,” she coaxes, opening her arms slightly — and you move forward, a moth to a flame. without thinking. “sorry for waking you.”

she wraps her arms around your waist, attaching her jaw to the curve of your shoulder, and you melt into the embrace. leaning close, to tuck yourself into her neck. she smells like lavender shampoo. “‘s fine,” you mumble, a yawn muffled into her collarbone. “what happened? are you okay?”

when her plump lips press against the sensitive skin of your neck, right next to one of the kiss marks she left there last night, you can’t help but shiver again. she must feel it, because you can hear the smile she’s trying to bite back in her voice when she answers.

“mm,” she hums, a gravelly noise that makes your throat clog up a little. “just burned something, it’s fine. don’t worry.”

tentatively, you take a step back. just to see her. gazing down at her, into her hazel eyes, the fading crescents beneath them. not as dark as they used to be, not as heavy with lost sleep.

shoko is gorgeous. always, every single day, but you think she’s particularly breathtaking like this. when it’s early, and she’s groggy and a little disheveled, eyes weary and lipstick smudged — bra strap close to slipping off her shoulder, black lace against pale skin, moles littering her forearms and chest like star clusters. oversized jeans that expose the curve of her waist, the fat of her hips, and you don’t notice how intently you’re staring until shoko’s raspy voice reaches your burning ears.

“eyes up here, baby.”

you do as you’re told, and she stifles a chuckle. eyes rich with amusement. you try not to blush.

“sorry.” you chew at the inside of your cheek. eyes trailing to the houseplants by the windowsill. “.. you’re just so pretty.”

shoko tilts her head, an exasperated little breath rolling off her tongue. almost a coo. she’s incapable of blushing; but if she wasn’t, you’re sure she'd blush.

“thanks.” her touch is light, fingertips trailing down the expanse of your arm. “you are, too. red is a good colour on you.”

you blink. shoko’s eyes are crinkled at the edges, soft lines of crows’ feet, and you huff when you realize she’s talking about the marks on your neck. suddenly a little self-conscious, you bring a hand up to rub at the skin — as if hoping to wipe them away. you doubt it works. shoko just breathes out an airy chuckle, getting up from her seat.

she looks tired, still. stretching her limbs out, sleepily, blinking drowsily.

and it’s odd, you think. that she got up this early, that she didn’t cling to you and make you stay with her in bed like she usually does. you don’t know anyone who loves sleeping in more than shoko does. especially after a night out.

so it’s strange. very strange.

“hey, sho.”

“hm?”

you tilt your head. “why are you up this early, anyway?”

she blinks, and then glances at the clock on the wall. ticking idly, counting down. when she looks back at you, she’s got a single eyebrow raised. “it’s not really early.”

“for you it is,” you quip, something resembling a grin tugging at your lips. and she rolls her eyes, smiling, before linking her arm with yours. bringing you to the stove.

“i was, uh —“ a pause. she does a little cough under her breath, clearing her throat. “trying to make coffee.”

silently, you look at the mess in front of you; what used to be your squeaky-clean stovetop, now stained with a muddy, rusty residue. an unassuming coffee pot sits to the side, having seemingly boiled over, smoke still drifting up into the air.

shoko cringes, a little, before a wry smile makes its way to her lips. ”it was…” she clicks her tongue. sighing softly. ”an attempt.”

”… wait.” you turn to look at her, dubiously, and she avoids your gaze. ”that’s what you burned? coffee?” still no answer. a tiny smile tugs at your lips, and you can’t help it if your voice comes out sounding a little teasing. ”how is that even possible?”

”look,” shoko exhales, heavy. ”i don’t know, okay? i think it was the coffee grounds, or something. i look away for one second, and it’s just —”

a little giggle slips from your lips, and shoko shoots you a glare. mostly harmless, but she untangles her arm from your own. ”sorry, it’s just —” you apologize, failing to hide your amusement. ”why didn’t you just use the espresso machine, honey?”

she bites her lip, and you think she might be just a little embarrassed. averting her gaze, briefly flitting towards the machine in question. ”… i didn’t know how to use it,” she mutters. ”i’ve seen you do it, obviously, but i never paid attention to the steps.”

a smile graces your lips. consoling. “it’s not that complicated once you know how it works,” you nudge her arm with your elbow. ”it just looks that way.”

she hums. a click of her tongue, as she adjusts her bra strap. ”well, anyway. i tried. so.”

”right.” you try to stifle a grin, to no avail. ”so… you burned your coffee.”

”and woke you up.” she grins, herself, just a tiny bit self-deprecating. but pretty, always, hair falling over her eyes when she tilts her head. ”a mess, aren’t i?”

”not at all.”

shoko looks at you, and your eyes meet hers. unflinchingly. tired irises falling into the gentle hue of your own, trickling down to the curve of your lips. there’s an honesty to your voice that she’s never quite been able to deal with.

(love, she thinks. a kind of love she finds somewhat hard to stomach. a sea of acceptance that she fears she’ll eventually drown in.)

before she can properly fall into a morning spiral, you stretch your neck a bit, idly, and she gets a good look at the red marks littering your skin. the way your pulse beats at the base of your throat. tender, slight, a mantra she’s grown just a little bit addicted to.

”why, though?” you hum, and shoko blinks. snapped out of her thoughts, and back into reality. back into you, the faux pout on your lips. playful, but a little confused. ”i thought i was the coffee brewer of this relationship…”

and it’s true. you’ve been making shoko’s morning cups of coffee for a while, now, even before you moved in together. she likes it black, sometimes with a drop of cream, sometimes with a cube of sugar. never both. you think it’s very like her, to tiptoe that line between bitter and sweet — never entirely giving in to one or the other. there’s a balance to shoko, something stable. something for you to hold on to, a bitter tinge or syrupy taste that always leaves you yearning for more.

truthfully, your coffee brewing skills aren’t anything special. but it makes shoko happy, to wake up and stumble into the kitchen, being able to hug your back. being handed a cup of fresh coffee. sipping from it in silence, muttering out a groggy good morning that makes your heart flutter.

(to you, it’s precious. that lilt of her voice, that bittersweet tinge. the dearest thing in the world.)

plump bottom lip trapped between her teeth, shoko furrows her brows. ever so slightly. nails tapping at the edge of the kitchen counter, a series of satisfying clicks against the marble. “… well.”

she clears her throat, but doesn’t say anything else. a moment passes. you try to find the answer in the curve of her lips, the crease of her brow, in the depths of her eyes — but you don’t succeed.

something discomforting settles in the bottom of your throat. almost uncertain, maybe a bit anxious. sheepish, as your tired mind spins in circles. parting your lips. hesitant.

“do you… not like the way i make it?” there’s a dejected tilt to your voice when it spills out, one that makes you feel a little silly. so you smile, or try to, eyes trailing towards the windows; you note that the rain has grown heavier. “i can change how —“

“what?” shoko cuts you off. “no. no, of course not — your coffee’s perfect. honestly.”

again, your eyes meet. and again, shoko seems to be struggling with finding the right words. or maybe she’s struggling to voice them.

“i just… haah.” she brings a hand up to her face, pinching the bridge of her nose. you just watch, silent, hungry to hear the thoughts she’s not letting you in on.

a beat. again, the sound of the rain against steel railings, the scent of honeydew and concrete. espresso-flavored smoke, almost entirely faded, leaving only cold air to nip at your thighs.

and again, as always, inevitably, your eyes are fixed on shoko — a moth to her flame. helpless to the cinders that ghost at your skin whenever she looks at you. a certain contemplation swims inside her eyes, simmering beneath the surface, as she chews gently at the plush of her lips. before turning to face you.

you can only blink. but shoko finally speaks, clearing her throat in a way that strikes you as rather sheepish.

“well — you’re always the one doing all the work. aren’t you?” her voice trickles out into the air, low and saccharine, a blanket pulled over your shoulders. so soft you hold your breath and strain your ears, just to make sure you hear it. “i guess i figured… i don’t know.”

shoko pauses, again, and you can almost delude yourself into thinking there’s a cherry red tint to the tips of her ears. when she parts her lips, that usually carefree voice of hers sounds almost meek. almost, but not quite. more like unsure. embarrassed?

another moment passes, entirely silent. shoko swallows her pride.

“.. satoru always brags about suguru making him those fucked up sugary drinks he likes,“ she mumbles. turning around, to rest her back against the counter, looking out at the downpour. “says it makes him feel so loved. or whatnot. so i just —“

she waves her hand, haphazardly.

“you know.“

a beat. then another. you can physically feel your lips part, a kind of surprise weaving itself into the contours of your face.

and when you finally speak, your voice comes out a little garbled, scrambling for the right words. not sure if you should feel deeply amused, or just a tiny bit horrified. “wait. you’re saying you…” a moment passes. silent, slow, and all you can do is blink owlishly. in disbelief.

“… got inspired by suguru?”

shoko groans, deep and gravelly, almost comically agonized. covering her face with her pretty hands. “don’t say it,” she pleads, “you’re making it sound as dumb as it is.”

a little giggle slips from your lips. accidental, but she still shoots you a displeased look, huffing under her breath. crossing her arms just to tap at her forearm with her nimble fingers. frowning.

“don’t laugh at me.”

“sorry,” you search for her gaze, but she keeps looking ahead. so stubborn. “i don’t mean to, ‘s just — not very like you, y’know?”

shoko exhales. nearly a huff, but not quite. and you think she must be embarrassed, gnawing at her lip like that, fingers eagerly searching for something to fidget with. it makes you soften, impeccably, the blood inside your veins warming up beneath your skin. stirring you, coaxing you into soothing her. your very own heartbeat seems to be a little enamored with shoko ieiri.

”i appreciate the thought,” you smile. a tender tone, sincere. lingering with amusement. “really. but let’s not base our entire relationship around satoru and suguru of all people, alright?”

and again, she sighs. brittle, a little fatigued. brows scrunching together. ”look, i —”

a pause. she gnaws at her plump bottom lip, eyelashes fluttering like a battered heartbeat. her voice comes out sounding soft, all duvet pillows and fresh lavender, a lilt that anchors you to earth. sweet words. so honest it makes your breath hitch.

”i want to take care of you.”

and this time, you’re the flustered one. burning under her gaze, feeling a heat blossom on your skin. feeling the fervent pitter patter of your heartbeat, as her pretty eyes look into yours. a nice mocha brown.

but even with the fresh embarrassment trickling through your veins, you find it in you to speak. desperate, maybe, to cross the distance between you — even when it borders on non-existent. desperate to feel your heartbeats synchronize, figuratively or literally. to stitch them together.

“i want to take care of you, too,” you echo, looking down at the floor. and then back at your girlfriend. hesitant, a tad shy. but sincere.

a sincerity so palpable it makes shoko feel a little jealous.

(sometimes, she finds herself wanting to put a hand inside your chest. dig around your organs, run her fingertips down every single one, until she finds what she's looking for. that miraculous something that makes you stick around, that makes you so frighteningly easy to love. that makes her want to safeguard you so terribly.)

”then let’s take care of each other,” she breathes, a small smile slipping into the curve of her lips. reaching out to brush against your knuckle, weave your fingers together. delicate.

she clears her throat. “… i guess.”

and you can’t help but smile. somewhat cheeky, a little teasing. “ah,” your eyes crinkle, and you stifle a coo. “did that embarrass you?”

a sharp little scoff. shoko gives you a lazy grin, paired with a soft roll of her eyes. brushing her thumb across your knuckles, even still. “oh, shut up.”

the world seems to still, ever so slightly, as you look into each other’s eyes. like everything else is just background noise, from the pitter patter of the rain to the fading smell of coffee all around you. shoko looks at you like she’s trying to see inside your brain, see what makes you tick, see you for what you are.

and when she eventually leans in for a kiss, you’re pliant. expectant. her lips against yours, breathing you in, as soft as ever. like she’s afraid of getting too greedy. she tastes like nectar and cosmetics.

“give me some time,” she says, after pulling back. hands on your waist, squeezing softly. “i’ll make you another cup right now.”

”sure you don’t want me to do it?” you ask. “i don’t mind.”

another little scoff. offended. ”look, i’m not incompetent, okay? i’m just not used to it.” she untangles herself from you, warmth slipping away. you will yourself not to chase it. “just stand there and look pretty for me.”

and she smiles, when those words make you giggle, infected by your sleepy joy. something soft and silky blooms inside her ribcage, mirrored by the glimmer in your eyes when you intertwine your hands again. fingertips brushing against each other, delicate, a love that’s handled with care.

”.. i like making you coffee,” you whisper after a beat. smiling. under your breath, like you’re telling her a secret. ”it makes me happy.”

a moment passes. something in shoko’s bones still, for a second, enough for you to notice. and her eyes fill with a kind of hesitance. doubt, maybe. or fear.

when shoko opens up to you, it’s always like this. sleepy, rainy days, or tipsy afternoons. in no more than a whisper, a fragile breath, the ghost of a confession. when you can feel her heartbeat, one finger on her wrist, listening to the rhythm of her pulse. intimate. a little clumsy, but…

”i just don’t want you to spend too much of yourself on me.”

the words are spoken in passing, almost casually, a lighthearted kind of resignation. a hungry ghost. one that follows her, follows you. suguru and satoru, too. there’s a lump in her throat, you can tell, something that makes it a little harder to say what she means. an intimacy that frightens her in a way nothing else can; frightened to hold it in her palms, to keep it close without having it break apart.

(not just her — you all are. all four of you. that’s why you've always been together, you think, why you always will be. four hedgehogs huddling together in the cold of night, too desperate for warmth to stay away from each other's spines.)

carefully, almost cautiously, you bring her hand to your lips. as if you’re handling a flimsy sheet of glass. featherlight, a touch so tender you hope she knows what you’re about to say before the words leave your throat.

“you’re worth it,” is whispered against her skin, your lips against her knuckles. shoko softens, but you think the sigh that slips from her lips sounds just a little shaky. “always.”

and finally, you know you aren't deluding yourself. it’s there, visible, the cherry red of her ears; a red that matches the lipstick on your skin. a flush that never travels down to her face. but it’s enough.

she clears her throat. voice beginning to change shape, slowly but surely, morning fatigue peeled off with the ticking of the clock. there’s still a raspy residue, leftover smoke that’ll never quite leave her lungs, but it’s silkier now. trickling like honey from her parted lips.

and it’s terribly soft, her tongue twisting around the vowels, a low lilt that drips with tenderness. she wills herself to smile. tired, but fond. “just let me make you one cup, then.”

so you do.

you let her, after briefly pointing out the functions of the far too expensive espresso machine that satoru bought you when you first moved in, and she listens intently. those pretty eyes, the intelligence behind them, her lips pursed in focus. shoko’s a genius, you’ve always thought — so effortlessly good at memorization, at figuring out how things work. what ties everything together.

you think it’s a little comical that she struggled so much with making coffee, of all things, but you choose to attribute it to her slight hangover.

because she’s focused, when she begins to fiddle with the machine. attentive. as if she’s dissecting it. a satisfaction in the way she moves, the way everything clicks into place as she works. everything serves a purpose, every single part in the machinery, every tube or pump of caffeine. she compares it to the human body, a glint in her eyes, and you can’t disagree.

all you can do is watch her. silently, entirely mesmerized. sitting on the kitchen counter, bare thighs against the marble, swinging your legs. telling her about the dream you had, while she listens. always.

a fresh, thick aroma of espresso and rainwater begins to waft through the apartment. one you drink in, greedy, steam filling your lungs. as you admire how the tiny droplets bounce off the hyacinths blooming on your balcony.

and when she’s finished, producing one cup of espresso, tailored to your liking, you can’t still the beating of your heart. unsure if you should blame it on the caffeine yet to enter your veins, or the proud smile that lingers on your girlfriend’s lips. maybe the way her fingers curl around the handle, the way a soft here, baby, spills from her smudged lips. all of the above, probably.

she’s gorgeous. breathtaking. sometimes you want to give her everything, more than you could live without. your heart, your lungs, your eyes. anything she asks for.

but she would never. all she’ll ever need is for you to keep sticking around, keep telling her about your silly dreams, keep letting her feel the beat of your pulse at the base of your throat. a mantra she’s fallen a little bit in love with.

and when you put your lips against the ceramic, and a bittersweet scent fills your lungs, you think you can taste it. that care, a love soft enough to mend all the jagged edges of your heart.

shoko smiles. smoothing a stray eyelash from your skin, thumb against your cheekbone. “how is it?”

(you swear it’s the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had.)

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