Maruki followed Akira’s movements with feigned interest, unsure of what his play was. Maybe he was just this charitable in general. Or maybe… he still didn’t feel entirely comfortable. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had kept their hands busy to fill the silence while speaking to him, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
He sipped his coffee, watching as Akira carefully moved plates back onto the countertop, his motions fluid, practised—like someone who had done this a thousand times before. It was strange, this feeling creeping up on him. The presence of someone else in his home—especially someone who wore the face of him, of Akira Kurusu, the young man who had once stood before him with unshakable resolve—was unsettling in a way he couldn't quite put into words.
For five, maybe six years, he had lived alone. And now, nearly a week had passed with someone else sharing his space, his kitchen, his mornings.
"That's—" The words barely made it past his lips before Akira’s reason settled in, catching him mid-sip.
"...Akira-kun."
His fingers tightened slightly around the handle of his mug.
"You don’t need to do any of that to show your appreciation," he said slowly, uncertainty threading through his voice.
He used to be a therapist too after all or even did internships and mentorships outside of his own course. While Azathoth's...assistance usually prevented any sort of actual crash out, he's studied enough to know how to comfort the heart.
He hesitated, the unspoken words sitting heavy on his tongue—I’m surprised you haven’t left yet.
Because, truthfully, he was.
It hadn’t been him who put Akira to bed last night—it had been Azathoth. That thing inside of him, the being whose voice still curled around his thoughts when the night was too quiet. It had cradled Akira with the ease of someone who knew exactly how to lull a troubled heart into rest. Not him.
And yet, here Akira was, in his kitchen, saying he had helped him.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2025-01-29 08:37 pm (UTC)He sipped his coffee, watching as Akira carefully moved plates back onto the countertop, his motions fluid, practised—like someone who had done this a thousand times before. It was strange, this feeling creeping up on him. The presence of someone else in his home—especially someone who wore the face of him, of Akira Kurusu, the young man who had once stood before him with unshakable resolve—was unsettling in a way he couldn't quite put into words.
For five, maybe six years, he had lived alone. And now, nearly a week had passed with someone else sharing his space, his kitchen, his mornings.
"That's—" The words barely made it past his lips before Akira’s reason settled in, catching him mid-sip.
"...Akira-kun."
His fingers tightened slightly around the handle of his mug.
"You don’t need to do any of that to show your appreciation," he said slowly, uncertainty threading through his voice.
He used to be a therapist too after all or even did internships and mentorships outside of his own course. While Azathoth's...assistance usually prevented any sort of actual crash out, he's studied enough to know how to comfort the heart.
He hesitated, the unspoken words sitting heavy on his tongue—I’m surprised you haven’t left yet.
Because, truthfully, he was.
It hadn’t been him who put Akira to bed last night—it had been Azathoth. That thing inside of him, the being whose voice still curled around his thoughts when the night was too quiet. It had cradled Akira with the ease of someone who knew exactly how to lull a troubled heart into rest. Not him.
And yet, here Akira was, in his kitchen, saying he had helped him.
Maruki's chest felt tight.
"-Did you sleep alright after all that?"