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chuunai · 4 months

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hello !! idk if you’ll see this but for the 100 followers celebration, may i please request pm! chuuya + (17) wondering if they deserve you or not + (6) “just look at you, then look at me” ?? maybe it’s like he gets doubts and worries, especially when he sees reader getting interactions with others and considering his job and what it means for the reader? but… um, could it end with fluff, please? also, could it be a fanfic, pretty please? i do apologize if this is way too specific !!

once again, congratulations on 100 followers, you totally deserve it, your writing is absolute heaven !! have a nice day/night/afternoon !!

I love specific people and things no worries and thank you I adore your fanfics too!

✧˚ · . right by you - chuya nakahara

he doesn’t deserve you. not when you’re so good.

summary ⋆ ★ comfort, fluff, unrequited love (supposedly), SFW → minor (barely any) angst with happy ending.

Chuuya Nakahara didn’t deserve you.

Nor the air you breathed, or the space you shared with him at the Port Mafia. He didn’t deserve any of that.

Chuuya had always considered himself an okay person. He killed people, but it was for the sake of Yokohama’s safety—subsequently, your safety. In the eyes of others, he’s a piece of shit through and through (that, he doesn’t deny). But in your eyes, he’s just a guy trying to do what’s best for his subordinates and city. In your eyes, he’s just Chuuya.

It’s a bit odd, honestly.

Having feelings for his subordinate.

It fucked with his mind too.

The Port Mafia was no place for love. Look at Higuchi pining over Akutagawa like a lovesick high schooler—that’s clearly going nowhere. So it’s not like he’d have a chance with you, anyway. Not when you’re so good, too. So, so much better than he ever could be.

Someone like you—who regularly brought cookies to the Mafia’s HQ to ‘boost morale’—didn’t deserve a fake human like him. One who was a vessel of a god. The fake Chuuya Nakahara. No matter how much evidence said he was the real one, he couldn’t believe it. Just look at him, then at you. No, you’re the real human.

And he’s a fucked up mess that also happens to be a murderer.

Great boyfriend material.

In the middle of his self-deprecation, a knock hit his door. Probably Tachihara, that smug bastard. Not like he was doing anything, anyways. Taking one last look at the ceiling of his office, Chuuya called out.

“Yeah yeah, door’s open. Come in.”

Instead of that redhead, it was you.

Shit.

He was sure your shift was over. It was what, eight at night now? You got off right around now, so you had no reason to see him. Yet his cheeks flushed up anyway as a pointless attempt at faking a cough was done to hide the obvious reddening. Mentally cursing himself for for being so childlike with his feelings, he sat up in his chair, pretending to write on a document.

“Need something?”

He’d do it. Just ask. Wait—that’s pathetic.

“No, but the others and I are going out to drink. You wanna come?”

Chuuya perked up immediately, already imagining the taste of red wine sliding down his throat and warming up his body. He loved drinking. Helped to get his mind off his problems—namely, you. His fingers drummed on the wood of his desk, a small hum drifting from his lips as he thought of the potential consequences.

He could get drunk and act stupid in front of you. Or accidentally harass you. Or end up blabbering his head off about Dazai again. Or-

Snapping out of his daze when he saw you awkwardly standing there waiting for his response, he shrugged.

Fuck it. It’d be fine.

“Sure. Usual bar?”

You nodded, fiddling with the hem of your sleeves. You always did that when you were nervous. A small wave of worry washed over him. Did he make you nervous? Shitshitshit. What’d he do?

Standing up, he quickly organized some papers—recent missions and current objectives—into piles on his desk, palms slightly sweaty from the fact that you were watching him. Chuuya didn’t like how he always was a wreck around you. It wasn’t gonna make him good in your eyes, is what he thought. Lord, he wished he knew what would make you like—no, love—him back.

“Let’s go now then, yeah? We can get a head start on the others. Don’t want Tachihara to brag his ass off about being first again.”

He offered a small attempt at a smile, cheeks rosy and all. It was nothing compared to when you smiled, though. Like an angel. His angel. Holy fuck. He’s really gotta stop daydreaming about you when you were in the damn room with him.

Leading the way, he carefully kept to your side throughout the long hallways of the Port Mafia’s HQ, occasionally stopping to discuss a quick matter or two with one of his assistants. When someone bumped into you, he hesitantly placed a hand on your back to keep you steady and remind the other grunts that you were under his protection.

Although that still didn’t stop the dreamy stares at you.

Or the jealousy that Chuuya felt after. He knew that he wasn’t good enough for you, and he respected that. But these guys didn’t. No, they thought they somehow had a chance with you—a living, breathing angel—and that irked him. Shouldn’t they be grateful for just getting to see you? He was, anyway. He’d take all that he could get.

Including this short walk.

Lasting for only three minutes or so, soon you two were out in the chilly night air of the parking lot. You shivered a bit, cheeks and nose turning red and numb from the coldness. Chuuya couldn’t help himself as he nudged you closer to his side to be a bit more warm. Kouyou always said he was a human oven, after all. Walking to his car—nothing too fancy, yet not quite cheap—, like a true gentleman, he opened the door for you to sit in the front passenger seat next to him.

He always drove you to the bars. You always drove him back.

A fair deal, in his opinion.

Starting up the engine, Chuuya sneaked a glance at your profile. Nose tinted with red, cheeks puffy from the cold and eyes staring back at him. Wait. Huh? His face went red. Again. Now the both of you were flushed, and not from the cold.

“Want my coat? You uh, seem pretty cold.”

Please don’t say no, please don’t say no, please don’t-

“Yeah. Please.”

Chuuya shrugged off his black coat, carefully laying it on top of you like a cozy blanket. His hands brushed against your arms as he snugly placed it on you. You looked good under it.

“We’ll warm up with the alcohol later. I know you don’t like whiskey, but a shot should warm you up.”

You made a face, sticking out your tongue and giggling slightly while he started up the car, slowly backing out of his parking spot.

“That’s shit’s nasty, Chuuya-kun. Just like your wine.”

If Chuuya had one complaint about you, it’s that you didn’t like red wine.

“It’s an acquired taste, you brat. If you’d try it out more often, you’d like it.”

His heart warmed up at the sight of your smile, making sure to keep up the banter between you two as he drove to the nearby bar. His fingers twitched, aching to hold yours. To warm you up, too. He didn’t want his coat hugging you. Chuuya wanted to hug you. Was that too creepy? Hopefully not.

Traffic was a shitshow. Both of you agreed that more and more idiots were on the road lately, cursing at the car in-front of you. Thankfully, it didn’t last too long. Ten minutes later and he was pulling into the familiar parking lot of the same bar you two had been going to for a while with the others. A nice small corner bar, retro and one that didn’t mind their eccentricity.

Chuuya didn’t take back his coat from you as you wore it inside.

Ushering you into their usual corner booth, he ordered you two a small drink to start—just a vodka soda. Nothing too much. Although it got him slightly buzzed, a warm feeling calming him down a bit as he sipped. It felt nice. Just the two of you. No rowdy Tachihara. No Higuchi simping over Akutagawa or Gin staring at everyone.

Just you two.

“So uh, when are the others getting here?”

How much time did he have with you alone is what he really meant.

“Oh- let me check real quick. Sorry.”

Chuuya watched as you reached into your purse, grabbing your phone and probably texting Higuchi. A small frown came upon your lips after a minute. Nuh-uh. He’d kill whatever made you frown.

“Eh? Why’re you frowning? We’re drinking, cheer up a bit.”

You looked back at him sheepishly, scooting a bit closer to him.

“Well, apparently Akutagawa got sick so now Gin is taking care of him and Higuchi is worrying so she doesn’t want to come and Tachihara suddenly got busy out of nowhere.”

Yes! Yes yes yes! Just him and you now.

“Sucks. But the two of us are here, right?”

Chuuya was currently praying to God that you’d stay.

“Guess so. Should we order stronger drinks, then? I don’t wanna be sober.”

He now believed in God.

And so you drank. Him with his signature red wine, and you with your preferred drink of choice. Chuuya obviously got drunk first, with the redhead showing signs of intoxication while he got clingy with you. You were equally drunk, and didn’t care that much. So he clung into your arm like a baby while you braided his hair poorly.

“God, your hair is so pretty, Chuuya.”

Ooohh. You called his hair pretty.

“Is the rest of me not pretty?”

He pouted, tugging at your sleeve and resting his head on your shoulder.

“Huh? I didn’t say that. You’re really pretty. Super pretty.”

Wow. He’s super pretty now.

“Well, I think you’re pretty too.”

His face flushed, suddenly realizing what he said as he buried his face in your shoulder, squeezing your arm for reassurance. Why did he say that? Why did he say that!? Stupid alcohol. It made him talk so dumb like this. He didn’t talk like this when the others were around to keep him in check. Shit. Maybe he should’ve have drunk so much.

“You do?”

You looked down at him, fingers momentarily stopping their crafting of his braid.

“Mhm.”

A small shy mumble was all he managed to utter.

“You’re so cute! This is why I like you, y’know.”

His head snapped up immediately. No way in fucking hell were you gonna leave him on a bombshell like that.

“You like me?”

For the second time today, Chuuya was praying to God that you liked him romantically.

“Yep.”

Not helpful.

“But…like a friend? Or uh- romantically.”

Well. He said it. Fuck him. No way you’d like him back.

“Uh.”

Some silence from you.

“I’m not saying.”

Oh yes, yes you fucking were gonna say.

“C’mon, tell me. Pleaseeee?”

Puppy eyed Chuuya. He used this to get out of trouble with Kouyou. Surely, it’d work on you?

“Fine. You’re a bitch, but jesus, I like you romantically.”

Chuuya Nakahara was sure he was at Heaven now. No way you—his angel—just confessed to him. Albeit drunk. But still a confession. One of his hands slowly crept onto yours, lacing your fingers together. He was in bliss, basking in your warmth and ignoring the other rowdy patrons of the bar. You just confessed to him. You like him back.

You like him back.

When he finally got back to his senses and opened his mouth to say that he liked—no, loved—you too, his ears picked up on a small snore from you. Did you seriously fall asleep? You had done it before during previous get togethers, but now? A small smile crept onto his face. Whatever. It didn’t matter. He’d tell you tomorrow.

He’d confess back, take you on a date and prove his worth to you.

Because maybe Chuuya Nakahara could learn how to love like you.

Just maybe.

taglist: @twst-om-lover, @sinfulthoughtsposts

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queenlucythevaliant · 3 months

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Tell Your Dad You Love Him

A retelling of "Meat Loves Salt"/"Cap O'Rushes" for the @inklings-challenge Four Loves event

An old king had three daughters. When his health began to fail, he summoned them, and they came.

Gordonia and Rowan were already waiting in the hallway when Coriander arrived. They were leaned up against the wall opposite the king’s office with an air of affected casualness. “I wonder what the old war horse wants today?” Rowan was saying. “More about next year’s political appointments, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“The older he gets, the more he micromanages,” Gordonia groused fondly. “A thousand dollars says this meeting could’ve been an email.”

They filed in single-file like they’d so often done as children: Gordonia first, then Rowan, and Coriander last of all. The king had placed three chairs in front of his desk all in a row. His daughters murmured their greetings, and one by one they sat down.

“I have divided everything I have in three,” the king said. “I am old now, and it’s time. Today, I will pass my kingdom on to you, my daughters.”

A short gasp came from Gordonia. None of them could have imagined that their father would give up running his kingdom while he still lived.

The king went on. “I know you will deal wisely with that which I leave in your care. But before we begin, I have one request.”

“Yes father?” said Rowan.

“Tell me how much you love me.”

An awkward silence fell. Although there was no shortage of love between the king and his daughters, theirs was not a family which spoke of such things. They were rich and blue-blooded: a soldier and the daughters of a soldier, a king and his three court-reared princesses. The royal family had always shown their affection through double meanings and hot cups of coffee.

Gordonia recovered herself first. She leaned forward over the desk and clasped her father’s hands in her own. “Father,” she said, “I love you more than I can say.” A pause. “I don’t think there’s ever been a family so happy in love as we have been. You’re a good dad.”

The old king smiled and patted her hand. “Thank you, Gordonia. We have been very happy, haven’t we? Here is your inheritance. Cherish it, as I cherish you.”

Rowan spoke next; the words came tumbling out. “Father! There’s not a thing in my life which you didn’t give me, and all the joy in the world beside. Come now, Gordonia, there’s no need to understate the matter. I love you more than—why, more than life itself!”

The king laughed, and rose to embrace his second daughter. “How you delight me, Rowan. All of this will be yours.”

Only Coriander remained. As her sisters had spoken, she’d wrung her hands in her lap, unsure of what to say. Did her father really mean for flattery to be the price of her inheritance? That just wasn’t like him. For all that he was a politician, he’d been a soldier first. He liked it when people told the truth.

When the king’s eyes came to rest on her, Coriander raised her own to meet them. “Do you really want to hear what you already know?”

“I do.”

She searched for a metaphor that could carry the weight of her love without unnecessary adornment. At last she found one, and nodded, satisfied. “Dad, you’re like—like salt in my food.”

“Like salt?”

“Well—yes.”

The king’s broad shoulders seemed to droop. For a moment, Coriander almost took back her words. Her father was the strongest man in the world, even now, at eighty. She’d watched him argue with foreign rulers and wage wars all her life. Nothing could hurt him. Could he really be upset?

But no. Coriander held her father’s gaze. She had spoken true. What harm could be in that?

“I don’t know why you’re even here, Cor,” her father said.

Now, Coriander shifted slightly in her seat, unnerved. “What? Father—”

“It would be best if—you should go,” said the old king.

“Father, you can’t really mean–”

“Leave us, Coriander.”

So she left the king’s court that very hour.

It had been a long time since she’d gone anywhere without a chauffeur to drive her, but Coriander’s thoughts were flying apart too fast for her to be afraid. She didn’t know where she would go, but she would make do, and maybe someday her father would puzzle out her metaphor and call her home to him. Coriander had to hope for that, at least. The loss of her inheritance didn’t feel real yet, but her father—how could he not know that she loved him? She’d said it every day.

She’d played in the hall outside that same office as a child. She’d told him her secrets and her fears and sent him pictures on random Tuesdays when they were in different cities just because. She had watched him triumph in conference rooms and on the battlefield and she’d wanted so badly to be like him.

If her father doubted her love, then maybe he’d never noticed any of it. Maybe the love had been an unnoticed phantasm, a shadow, a song sung to a deaf man. Maybe all that love had been nothing at all.

A storm was on the horizon, and it reached her just as she made it onto the highway. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Rain poured down and flooded the road. Before long, Coriander was hydroplaning. Frantically, she tried to remember what you were supposed to do when that happened. Pump the brakes? She tried. No use. Wasn’t there something different you did if the car had antilock brakes? Or was that for snow? What else, what else–

With a sickening crunch, her car hit the guardrail. No matter. Coriander’s thoughts were all frenzied and distant. She climbed out of the car and just started walking.

Coriander wandered beneath an angry sky on the great white plains of her father’s kingdom. The rain beat down hard, and within seconds she was soaked to the skin. The storm buffeted her long hair around her head. It tangled together into long, matted cords that hung limp down her back. Mud soiled her fine dress and splattered onto her face and hands. There was water in her lungs and it hurt to breathe. Oh, let me die here, Coriander thought. There’s nothing left for me, nothing at all. She kept walking.

When she opened her eyes, Coriander found herself in a dank gray loft. She was lying on a strange feather mattress.

She remained there a while, looking up at the rafters and wondering where she could be. She thought and felt, as it seemed, through a heavy and impenetrable mist; she was aware only of hunger and weakness and a dreadful chill (though she was all wrapped in blankets). She knew that a long time must have passed since she was fully aware, though she had a confused memory of wandering beside the highway in a thunderstorm, slowly going mad because—because— oh, there’d been something terrible in her dreams. Her father, shoulders drooping at his desk, and her sisters happily come into their inheritance, and she cast into exile—

She shuddered and sat up dizzily. “Oh, mercy,” she murmured. She hadn’t been dreaming.

She stumbled out of the loft down a narrow flight of stairs and came into a strange little room with a single window and a few shabby chairs. Still clinging to the rail, she heard a ruckus from nearby and then footsteps. A plump woman came running to her from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and softly clucking at the state of her guest’s matted, tangled hair.

“Dear, dear,” said the woman. “Here’s my hand, if you’re still unsteady. That’s good, good. Don’t be afraid, child. I’m Katherine, and my husband is Folke. He found you collapsed by the goose-pond night before last. I’m she who dressed you—your fine gown was ruined, I’m afraid. Would you like some breakfast? There’s coffee on the counter, and we’ll have porridge in a minute if you’re patient.”

“Thank you,” Coriander rasped.

“Will you tell me your name, my dear?”

“I have no name. There’s nothing to tell.”

Katherine clicked her tongue. “That’s alright, no need to worry. Folke and I’ve been calling you Rush on account of your poor hair. I don’t know if you’ve seen yourself, but it looks a lot like river rushes. No, don’t get up. Here’s your breakfast, dear.”

There was indeed porridge, as Katherine had promised, served with cream and berries from the garden. Coriander ate hungrily and tasted very little. Then, when she was finished, the goodwife ushered her over to a sofa by the window and put a pillow beneath her head. Coriander thanked her, and promptly fell asleep.

She woke again around noon, with the pounding in her head much subsided. She woke feeling herself again, to visions of her father inches away and the sound of his voice cracking across her name.

Katherine was outside in the garden; Coriander could see her through the clouded window above her. She rose and, upon finding herself still in a borrowed nightgown, wrapped herself in a blanket to venture outside.

“Feeling better?” Katherine was kneeling in a patch of lavender, but she half rose when she heard the cottage door open.

“Much. Thank you, ma’am.

“No thanks necessary. Folke and I are ministers, of a kind. We keep this cottage for lost and wandering souls. You’re free to remain here with us for as long as you need.”

“Oh,” was all Coriander could think to say.

“You’ve been through a tempest, haven’t you? Are you well enough to tell me where you came from?”

Coriander shifted uncomfortably. “I’m from nowhere,” she said. “I have nothing.”

“You don’t owe me your story, child. I should like to hear it, but it will keep till you’re ready. Now, why don’t you put on some proper clothes and come help me with this weeding.”

Coriander remained at the cottage with Katherine and her husband Folke for a week, then a fortnight. She slept in the loft and rose with the sun to help Folke herd the geese to the pond. After, Coriander would return and see what needed doing around the cottage. She liked helping Katherine in the garden.

The grass turned gold and the geese’s thick winter down began to come in. Coriander’s river-rush hair proved itself unsalvageable. She spent hours trying to untangle it, first with a hairbrush, then with a fine-tooth comb and a bottle of conditioner, and eventually even with honey and olive oil (a home remedy that Folke said his mother used to use). So, at last, Coriander surrendered to the inevitable and gave Katherine permission to cut it off. One night, by the yellow light of the bare bulb that hung over the kitchen table, Katherine draped a towel over Coriander’s shoulders and tufts of gold went falling to the floor all round her.

“I’m here because I failed at love,” she managed to tell the couple at last, when her sorrows began to feel more distant. “I loved my father, and he knew it not.”

Folke and Katherine still called her Rush. She didn’t correct them. Coriander was the name her parents gave her. It was the name her father had called her when she was six and racing down the stairs to meet him when he came home from Europe, and at ten when she showed him the new song she’d learned to play on the harp. She’d been Cor when she brought her first boyfriend home and Cori the first time she shadowed him at court. Coriander, Coriander, when she came home from college the first time and he’d hugged her with bruising strength. Her strong, powerful father.

As she seasoned a pot of soup for supper, she wondered if he understood yet what she’d meant when she called him salt in her food.

Coriander had been living with Katherine and Folke for two years, and it was a morning just like any other. She was in the kitchen brewing a pot of coffee when Folke tossed the newspaper on the table and started rummaging in the fridge for his orange juice. “Looks like the old king’s sick again,” he commented casually. Coriander froze.

She raced to the table and seized hold of the paper. There, above the fold, big black letters said, KING ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL FOR EMERGENCY TREATMENT. There was a picture of her father, looking older than she’d ever seen him. Her knees went wobbly and then suddenly the room was sideways.

Strong arms caught her and hauled her upright. “What’s wrong, Rush?”

“What if he dies,” she choked out. “What if he dies and I never got to tell him?”

She looked up into Folke’s puzzled face, and then the whole sorry story came tumbling out.

When she was through, Katherine (who had come downstairs sometime between salt and the storm) took hold of her hand and kissed it. “Bless you, dear,” she said. “I never would have guessed. Maybe it’s best that you’ve both had some time to think things over.”

Katherine shook her head. “But don’t you think…?”

“Yes?”

“Well, don’t you think he should have known that I loved him? I shouldn’t have needed to say it. He’s my father. He’s the king.”

Katherine replied briskly, as though the answer should have been obvious. “He’s only human, child, for all that he might wear a crown; he’s not omniscient. Why didn’t you tell your father what he wanted to hear?”

“I didn’t want to flatter him,” said Coriander. “That was all. I wanted to be right in what I said.”

The goodwife clucked softly. “Oh dear. Don’t you know that sometimes, it’s more important to be kind than to be right?”

In her leave-taking, Coriander tried to tell Katherine and Folke how grateful she was to them, but they wouldn’t let her. They bought her a bus ticket and sent her on her way towards King’s City with plenty of provisions. Two days later, Coriander stood on the back steps of one of the palace outbuildings with her little carpetbag clutched in her hands.

Stuffing down the fear of being recognized, Coriander squared her shoulders and hoped they looked as strong as her father’s. She rapped on the door, and presently a maid came and opened it. The maid glanced Coriander up and down, but after a moment it was clear that her disguise held. With all her long hair shorn off, she must have looked like any other girl come in off the street.

“I’m here about a job,” said Coriander. “My name’s Rush.”

The king's chambers were half-lit when Coriander brought him his supper, dressed in her servants’ apparel. He grunted when she knocked and gestured with a cane towards his bedside table. His hair was snow-white and he was sitting in bed with his work spread across a lap-desk. His motions were very slow.

Coriander wanted to cry, seeing her father like that. Yet somehow, she managed to school her face. Like he would, she kept telling herself. Stoically, she put down the supper tray, then stepped back out into the hallway.

It was several minutes more before the king was ready to eat. Coriander heard papers being shuffled, probably filed in those same manilla folders her father had always used. In the hall, Coriander felt the seconds lengthen. She steeled herself for the moment she knew was coming, when the king would call out in irritation, “Girl! What's the matter with my food? Why hasn’t it got any taste?”

When that moment came, all would be made right. Coriander would go into the room and taste his food. “Why,” she would say, with a look of complete innocence, “It seems the kitchen forgot to salt it!” She imagined how her father’s face would change when he finally understood. My daughter always loved me, he would say.

Soon, soon. It would happen soon. Any second now.

The moment never came. Instead, the floor creaked, followed by the rough sound of a cane striking the floor. The door opened, and then the king was there, his mighty shoulders shaking. “Coriander,” he whispered.

“Dad. You know me?”

“Of course.”

“Then you understand now?”

The king’s wrinkled brow knit. “Understand about the salt? Of course, I do. It wasn't such a clever riddle. There was surely no need to ruin my supper with a demonstration.”

Coriander gaped at him. She'd expected questions, explanations, maybe apologies for sending her away. She'd never imagined this.

She wanted very badly to seize her father and demand answers, but then she looked, really looked, at the way he was leaning on his cane. The king was barely upright; his white head was bent low. Her questions would hold until she'd helped her father back into his room.

“If you knew what I meant–by saying you were like salt in my food– then why did you tell me to go?” she asked once they were situated back in the royal quarters.

Idly, the king picked at his unseasoned food. “I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me, Coriander. My anger and hurt got the better of me, and it has brought me much grief. I never expected you to stay away for so long.”

Coriander nodded slowly. Her father's words had always carried such fierce authority. She'd never thought to question if he really meant what he’d said to her.

“As for the salt,” continued the king, "Is it so wrong that an old man should want to hear his daughters say ‘I love you' before he dies?”

Coriander rolled the words around in her head, trying to make sense of them. Then, with a sudden mewling sound from her throat, she managed to say, “That's really all you wanted?”

“That's all. I am old, Cor, and we've spoken too little of love in our house.” He took another bite of his unsalted supper. His hand shook. “That was my failing, I suppose. Perhaps if I’d said it, you girls would have thought to say it back.”

“But father!” gasped Coriander, “That’s not right. We've always known we loved one another! We've shown it a thousand ways. Why, I've spent the last year cataloging them in my head, and I've still not even scratched the surface!”

The king sighed. “Perhaps you will understand when your time comes. I knew, and yet I didn't. What can you really call a thing you’ve never named? How do you know it exists? Perhaps all the love I thought I knew was only a figment.”

“But that’s what I’ve been afraid of all this time,” Coriander bit back. “How could you doubt? If it was real at all– how could you doubt?”

The king’s weathered face grew still. His eyes fell shut and he squeezed them. “Death is close to me, child. A small measure of reassurance is not so very much to ask.”

Coriander slept in her old rooms that night. None of it had changed. When she woke the next morning, for a moment she remembered nothing of the last two years.

She breakfasted in the garden with her father, who came down the steps in a chair-lift. “Coriander,” he murmured. “I half-thought I dreamed you last night.”

“I’m here, Dad,” she replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, the king reached out with one withered hand and caressed Coriander's cheek. Then, his fingers drifted up to what remained of her hair. He ruffled it, then gently tugged on a tuft the way he'd used to playfully tug her long braid when she was a girl.

“I love you,” he said.

“That was always an I love you, wasn’t it?” replied Coriander. “My hair.”

The king nodded. “Yes, I think it was.”

So Coriander reached out and gently tugged the white hairs of his beard. “You too,” she whispered.

“Why salt?” The king was sitting by the fire in his rooms wrapped in two blankets. Coriander was with him, enduring the sweltering heat of the room without complaint.

She frowned. “You like honesty. We have that in common. I was trying to be honest–accurate–to avoid false flattery.”

The king tugged at the outer blanket, saying nothing. His lips thinned and his eyes dropped to his lap. Coriander wished they wouldn’t. She wished they would hold to hers, steely and ready for combat as they always used to be.

“Would it really have been false?” the king said at last. “Was there no other honest way to say it? Only salt?”

Coriander wanted to deny it, to give speech to the depth and breadth of her love, but once again words failed her. “It was my fault,” she said. “I didn’t know how to heave my heart into my throat.” She still didn’t, for all she wanted to.

When the doctor left, the king was almost too tired to talk. His words came slowly, slurred at the edges and disconnected, like drops of water from a leaky faucet.

Still, Coriander could tell that he had something to say. She waited patiently as his lips and tongue struggled to form the words. “Love you… so… much… You… and… your sisters… Don’t… worry… if you… can’t…say…how…much. I… know.”

It was all effort. The king sat back when he was finished. Something was still spasming in his throat, and Coriander wanted to cry.

“I’m glad you know,” she said. “I’m glad. But I still want to tell you.”

Love was effort. If her father wanted words, she would give him words. True words. Kind words. She would try…

“I love you like salt in my food. You're desperately important to me, and you've always been there, and I don't know what I'll do without you. I don’t want to lose you. And I love you like the soil in a garden. Like rain in the spring. Like a hero. You have the strongest shoulders of anyone I know, and all I ever wanted was to be like you…”

A warm smile spread across the old king’s face. His eyes drifted shut.

#inklingschallenge #theme: storge #story: complete #inklings challenge #leah stories #OKAY. SO #i spend so much time thinking about king lear. i think i've said before that it's my favorite shakespeare play. it is not close #and one of the hills i will die on is that cordelia was not in the right when she refused to flatter her dad #like. obviously he's definitely not in the right either. the love test was a screwed up way to make sure his kids loved him #he shouldn't have tied their inheritances into it. he DEFINITELY shouldn't have kicked cordelia out when she refused to play #but like. Cordelia. there is no good reason not to tell your elderly dad how much you love him #and okay obviously lear is my starting point but the same applies to the meat loves salt princess #your dad wants you to tell him you love him. there is no good reason to turn it into a riddle. you had other options #and honestly it kinda bothers me when people read cordelia/the princess as though she's perfectly virtuous #she's very human and definitely beats out the cruel sisters but she's definitely not aspirational. she's not to be emulated #at the end of the day both the fairytale and the play are about failures in storge #at happens when it's there and you can't tell. when it's not and you think it is. when you think you know someone's heart and you just don'#hey! that's a thing that happens all the time between parents and children. especially loving past each other and speaking different langua #so the challenge i set myself with this story was: can i retell the fairytale in such a way that the princess is unambiguously in the wrong #and in service of that the king has to get softened so his errors don't overshadow hers #anyway. thank you for coming to my TED talk #i've been thinking about this story since the challenge was announced but i wrote the whole thing last night after the super bowl #got it in under the wire! yay!#also! the whole 'modern setting that conflicts with the fairytale language' is supposed to be in the style of modern shakespeare adaptation #no idea if it worked but i had a lot of fun with it #pontifications and creations

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