an ageless question I ask myself
who am I if I’m without
A Khun doesn’t need love. Khun children were fed on ambition and cunning and trained to compete for their lives and their name by the time they were ten. They don’t need affection. They need strength in their limbs and lightning in their bodies and blood between their teeth.
Then Bam looks at Khun Aguero Agnis and tells him, “I didn’t have any friends. Let’s be friends with them.”
There’s something else between his teeth and he can’t decide whether he likes the taste of it, the word coming out before he can hold it in. “Fine.”
He doesn’t need the feeling of Bam’s shoulder between his fingers, but he can’t stop reaching for it. Doesn’t need this sudden warmth in his chest when Bam asks to climb the Tower with them. A Khun doesn’t need love, he tells himself, unwilling to admit he doesn’t still believe it.
Fushimi Saruhiko wasn’t exactly hiding his heart, so much as he’d shelved it a long time ago as not particularly useful to him. There was always far too much pain involved with feeling things for as long as he could remember.
Then Misaki came, poking and prodding and asking a million stupid questions with that glowing look on his face as he pronounced Saruhiko amazing.
It was stupid how it made his heart beat, how every time Misaki came around, Saruhiko felt so much, he was practically vibrating with it.
Without stealth or skill, Misaki stole his heart.
They weren’t on the same page, they didn’t think the same thoughts, and they didn’t feel the same way. Not anymore. Once, they had—or it felt like it. Both of them had wanted to destroy the world they no longer belonged in, both of them wanted their own small world with each other. Both of them wanted power.
Now here they were with Homra, and they had it, and all Misaki could talk about were the people who’d claimed him as their own.
Saruhiko was beginning to realize Misaki had wanted another family, while Saruhiko had just wanted Misaki.
She was beautiful, truly beautiful, and he didn’t just think that because she was hot.
Kusanagi enjoyed watching Seri take charge of her clansmen with firm authority and easy competence. He admired her elegance and the way she’d sometimes soften her expression when she cared. He liked that they could talk comfortably about their mutual difficulties taking care of their clans.
“Always a pleasure, Seri.” He smiled when she found her way into his bar, ordered her horrible drink, sipped it slowly.
“Surely you jest,” she commented, eyebrow raised.
“Why wouldn’t I be pleased to serve such a beautiful woman?”
Whenever Dazai looks wistful, Chuuya notices it’s in moments they’re talking about drinking or a certain intelligence officer in the upper echelons of the Port Mafia or a certain lowest-ranking member of the same.
It’s never for things, like innocence or goodness or family or anything others seem to allow it to cross their face for. It’s never for someone like Chuuya.
He’s met them both, considered Sakaguchi Ango competent and professional. Oda looks at Chuuya like he’s listening with everything he is or, gently, doesn’t really look at all.
Chuuya isn’t Dazai’s friend. But then, he’s always known that.
She told herself she absolutely, one hundred percent did not have a crush on her father’s best friend. Absolutely not at all.
He was only the most good-looking man she’d ever seen and had ignored her existence for her entire life and was the best fighter in the Guard, possibly even better than her father and he was legendary, and watching the two of them laugh and train together with spears and total mastery totally did not make her mouth go dry and make her wonder why boys her age didn’t look like that.
It wasn’t right.
She watched anyway.