Chapter Text
“Do you need help, Makoto?”
Physical injuries are easy to heal from. At least, that’s what the general practitioner had told her. It was an absolute miracle she had survived with injuries that barely scratched the surface – the worst being fractured ribs – and with time, patience, and consistent therapy, she was bound to make a full recovery from the impactful crash that had left her wrecked. She won’t be sitting in the hospital for much longer to let the snapped bones mend on their own, to let the purplish bruises wane into green hues before vanishing completely, the third-degree burns fade into barely visible scars. They would become mementos on her skin; reminders that she lived to tell the tale – it’s a privilege she knows to not take for granted.
And with time, she’ll be good as new. Fit as a fiddle.
“I-I’m fine.”
“Are you sure about that – “
But the thing is, nobody ever told her how, precisely, or what it would take to tend to a broken heart that had left her completed shattered and near dysfunctional for one of the most torturous years of her life.
Nobody told her how difficult it would be to open her eyes to an empty bed when she had grown accustomed to a certain someone’s presence being there – and even worse, having to go through the motions of the day like she wasn’t phased by the tiniest of reminders just from walking down a crowded sidewalk. Nobody told her how unfathomably ugly raw jealousy was – so much so, that when she had looked at her own haggard, pitiful reflection, she saw nothing but pure disgust and absolute repulsiveness in the amount of animosity that pooled within those crimson-tinted eyes.
And nobody had told her how tough it can be, fighting this cruel, indecisive mental war of wanting to welcome him back in with open arms –
“I said,” she repeats, her tone touched with just the slightest of hostile forcefulness that has been long out of use. When was the last time that she had behaved so antagonistic? “I’m fine.”
Or, to continually shut him out with the impenetrable, ice-cold wall she had erected.
“…Alright, then.”
Perhaps she’s choosing to do this out of spite, where her childish side is emerging from the depths once more to teach him a valuable lesson that it’s not so easy to get back in her good graces. Or, she just wants to be damn selfish for once, stopping herself from weakly conceding to whatever sweet words or gestures that he attempts by indirectly telling him that he’ll have to work harder –
But in truth, she knows.
And there’s a part of her that loathes herself for it.
And hence, in spite of whatever he says, in spite of him showing up to her bedside with lucent crystal beads staining his face (a tragedy, she thought to herself, that pricks her own eyes too whenever it comes to mind), in spite of whatever she had said during her dazed, near-delirious state –
Makoto Niijima doesn’t give in, letting her hollow resentment speak for itself as it echoes sharply in her words, and down the hallway like a vicious sonic boom.
And while her determined expression for something so simple – struggling to walk down a deserted hallway in the hospital where she was nursing her wounds to use the restroom – betrayed nothing, her chest clenched and seared. Painfully, like a wildfire, as she shuffled inelegantly. She tries to convince herself that that gut-wrenching sting throbbing from deep within is just a side effect that comes with the severity of her injuries, but it's to absolutely no avail.
Not when she knew full-well that his melancholic, exhausted eyes were staring after her, dumbfounded and undeniably hurt.
To tell her that he still loved her was one thing, and under normal circumstances, Makoto should have no trouble in believing him.
But to allow herself to trust his words, however, is an entirely different story. And it’s difficult because it’s a concept that she literally has no familiarity with. Her choice – her only option, really, has always been to put her faith into his decisions. In times of desperation, of turmoil, and of helplessness, she looked to him for guidance.
It’s just like back then, she thinks as she hobbles pitifully down the hallway that now seems like a mile long, closing her eyes as the vivid memories come flushing back like a wordless black and white film. Back then, when the Phantom Thieves had decided on a high-risk gamble, fooling Akechi into committing a falsified murder. She remembers it well, where the others – Ryuji, especially, has developed a deep respect for the taciturn, mellow-headed leader – had feared for their leaders’ safety. And who wouldn’t be, knowing that he was willingly delivering himself into their enemies’ malevolent clutches so easily?
(She’ll never forget the title of the breaking news bulletin.
And she’ll never forget how, despite a presumably unshakeable will and a steady image of self-composure, her knees seemed to give out on her. Turned jelly-like. Weak.
And inevitably, she collapsed on the floor, which alerted the troubled, concerned calls of a teacher who was just emerging from the staff room.)
But despite that - despite her own nightmarish demons eating away at her like there was no tomorrow, like the unspeakable, foreign drugs that left him vulnerable or the inflicted savage brutality - she continued to grasp onto hope. Gallantly clinging onto the certainty of him returning, alive.
Safe.
Unharmed.
In her arms once more.
And naturally, he didn’t disappoint then, letting her sink deeply into his warm embrace for as long as she wished even after the others had departed for the evening upon his return. Barely any words were exchanged that night, but his minute actions – the gentle tuck of her hair behind her ear; the press of his crackled, dried lips against her forehead and the heavy breaths expelled when she adamantly refused to peel away from him – was more than enough to calm her agitated heart and tell her that yes, he was there.
The unruly-haired teenager was very much real.
And that above all, he’ll never leave her like this again.
Granted, he did tell her that lie nearly six years ago. On that wintry Christmas Eve, he had sacrificed nearly two months of his freedom and his already tarnished reputation to save her – no, them. And perhaps, she could’ve given in to her negativity, of thinking that she meant nothing to him. But she decided otherwise, showing unwavering, resolute support from afar –
(“Tell him this. We’re not giving up on him.”)
Letting her heart break, and immediately repair itself upon the sight of him, standing just a few feet away –
(“I need you. Please, don’t ever leave me again.”)
He knew that he would have to bear the consequences of his actions upon his return. He even pointed it out to her a few days later, that she had all the right in the world to be upset with the handling of his incarceration. To be angered that he stayed silent behind his veil of warm smiles and wishes to end their first Christmas together on a high note.
So, why aren’t you? How were you able to forgive me so quickly? He asked, perplexed and confused.
And while a heavy, intense silence had slipped between the pair before Makoto could finally look him in the eye, what he saw reflecting at him had left his heart fluttering away warmly and the corners of his lips pulling together into a genuine smile. It’s how he watched her, too, but she was not one for putting too much thought into second glances. So often, she misses it. Or, perhaps it's not due to a lack of insightful observation. Rather, it's possible that she just doesn't recognize what that expression conveys, being a self-proclaimed bashful amateur when it came to anything relating to romance, but he certainly did.
It’s nostalgia. Nostalgia that only comes from unspoken adoration. And love.
Yet, Makoto had surprised – not just him, but herself, too. She spoke candidly, softly. A quiet murmur that had left him speechless because these were things he never expected her to confess, things he assumed would be dropped for special occasions had they lasted well into the foreseeable future.
Yet, on a day with just the two of them, hands tightly intertwined, doing the most menial, most non-significant of things, he heard her say this.
“It’s because I love you.”
It’s funny, too. Because as far as Makoto was concerned, she only held high confidence in matters that concerned her studies. You know, concrete, tangible theories that were easily comprehensible. Understandable concepts that were built upon a primary foundation of primary numbers, alphabets, and facts that she’s buried her nose deep in since grade school.
Love, though. Love definitely wasn't one of them. Love wasn't something she could read about. Much less, be tested upon.
But with just one look at him – the presumed delinquent who had not only saved her once from falling into a self-pitying chasm of darkness and doubt but twice – she knew: she didn’t even need a textbook to know what this - the rapid palpitation, the pleasurable swell that bloomed like Spring flowers from her stomach and had left the tips of her fingers jolting - was.
“And trusting in you, believing that you’re doing the right thing – even if I may not agree – ”
She paused. He held his breath. Her lips seemed to quiver then, when he stroked languidly against the back of her hand with his thumb.
“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? And that’s why – “ While her tone had been firm and resolute, her unoccupied hand – shaky and trembling, clutching onto whatever flimsy fabric had made up her jacket pocket in a vice-like grip – displayed the complete opposite. “We’re study – “ A bittersweet smile curled upon her lips. She saw it as nothing but a flirtatious remark, or if she were to give him some form of credit (even if it were not well-deserved), then just a witty, bad pick-up line. But in retrospect, there was so much truth to that, wasn’t there? He’s taught her so much – so much more about the way to live her life than her encyclopedias ever could.
It was only about time that she returned the favour.
“We’re partners,” she corrected herself. “And I’ll always want to be here, to help you in your time of need.”
His obsidian-tinted eyes, having been dulled by the viciousness of this cruel, poisonous world, had sparkled – brighter than any star she had seen in what she thinks could be the entire cosmos – when she confessed this. And Makoto had it firmly pinned into the back of her mind, for it was an expression that she had vowed to herself, she’ll always want to see it for as long as she lived.
But if that truly were the case – having experienced two harrowing near-death experiences, and an exhausting, wild roundabout goose chase of love – then why is it that much more difficult now? Why must she remain so guarded? Why is she being this difficult to accept him, to welcome him back in, as things should be?
Her hand falls upon the plastered cast, slung tightly around the left side of her body, and her feet suddenly freeze in place. Because hovering a good distance away, she sees his recognizable silhouette casting back at her from the gigantic glass-pane window situated before her.
She sees nothing – none of the greenery, none of the sunshine. Just him, hands tucked deep into his pockets.
Still there. Still waiting, in absolute foolishness. Still choosing to let her words fall onto deaf ears.
She frowns.
(Then again, when did he ever listen to people, anyway? Such defiance. Such rebellion.
Such laughable irony.)
And her bottom lip trembles.
As quickly as her heavy limbs would allow, she scurries into the private confines of the washroom, closing the door shut behind her as the pitch-black darkness swallows her whole. And it’s a good thing she did, too, because she wouldn’t know how to take it had he been there to witness her crying right then and there.
The problem is – or no, the bigger picture, that is: it’s a lot easier said than done. Because as Makoto learns the difficult way, love, very unfortunately, cannot triumph mistrust.
(Especially not if it snowballed from an entire years’ worth of unwarranted pain.)
And here’s another thing, too. Do people actually think Makoto wants to behave this way? Ann, empathic as she is, questions gently over the older woman’s rather confusing choices, asking, “Didn’t you want to get back with him though?” Futaba, too – having grown rather protective of the one person she could confidently call her older brother – had wondered whether it’s her who’s had the change of heart. Not him.
Of course, Makoto relented, turning away. Because these were things that she couldn’t confess to. And they didn’t push the topic any further, because just one look into her eyes was more than enough to keep their lips closed.
On the outside, she presents herself as frigid and detached, choosing to ignore whatever flinted words they attack her with. But deep down?
Deep down, she loathes herself. She loathes it all – the fear, the extreme cautiousness, and all those pent-up emotions that she tries to justify as safeguarding her fragility, for it could easily shatter again if improperly handled.
When in actuality, she’s scared, because of what she had experienced firsthand: the initial shock that rocked her to the core, when the one person she firmly believed would never cause her harm, had destroyed her crumbling heart. In short, he had told her that he deemed their relationship unsalvageable. And while Makoto knows that she also holds partial blame for how they had ended then –
She can’t bring herself to overcome the nagging suspicion of dread that tugs and pulls at her wearily in this never-ending battle. There are many questions, she thinks with her fist clenched and her unkempt nails digging deep into her palm, her food left untouched: most of which, unfortunately, start with ‘what if’.
What if it happens again?
What if he tires of me?
What if –
What if –
What if –
And more often than not, what-ifs tend to be left unanswered. It’s expected, but it only adds to the trepidation and a continued sense of incompetence that’s egging Makoto on: a continually growing, overwhelming sadness that comes from the sudden realization that perhaps, they’ll never be the same again. And that is starting to transcend into this irritable, terrifying thought of ‘maybe, it’s time to throw in the flag’.
But sometimes, all Makoto probably needs a little push to steer her in the direction. And it comes one day, flitting in five days after her accident, in the form of a hefty fruits basket and – her smile falters when the deliveryman leaves it on her table – a bouquet of lotuses. Her favourite flower.
(Partially, for their naturally pleasing scents.
And mostly because, its unassuming beauty and its ability to persevere through the harshest, most tumultuous of seasons made her reminisce of him and his innate nature to never give up, even when things grew dire.
Kind of like now.)
Makoto enjoys Haru’s companionship. Not necessarily because they’re the same age, making it easier to speak candidly, but because of her friends’ kindness, sweet nature and caring, motherly disposition. And that’s why, when she waltzes in, makes herself comfortable and asks a simple, “How are you?”, Makoto can’t seem to stop herself.
Everything – pours out. Like water gushing out of a dam, words bursting out in long, drawn-out spurts before she draws in a breath. She doesn’t miss the way that Haru eyes her as she speaks: non-judgmental, placid. Showing no sign that she was taking sides.
And at the end of it, she only has one question – a very good one, in retrospect – for her friend.
“Why are you thinking of the worst-case scenarios?”
“I’m a Niijima, Haru.” Not to mention, a former ex-tactician and strategist, she tries to explain. And it just comes to her like the back of her own hand. “That’s just what I do.”
But Haru isn’t convinced. Not at all.
(And Makoto, herself, isn’t, either.
Why, of all people, is she choosing Haru to lie to?)
“Is that really it? The way I see it, this is just one of the many reasonings you’re using as a guise for self-protection.”
(Is she wrong?
No.)
Makoto says nothing.
“And you know what, Mako-chan, I don’t deem myself as some expert in these affairs, but I feel – “ The brown-haired young woman shrugs. “It’s your own demons that are holding you back right now. In your eyes, you probably feel as if Ren had wronged you. He did something unforgivable that you can’t even imagine offering him a second chance right now.”
(But, surely, she must be valid in her growing apprehension?)
“Yes. Definitely. You deserve the right to heal on your own accord,” Haru advises kindly. Makoto stares, flabbergasted, at how readable she was, and Haru’s tight-lipped smile seems to widen. “You don’t need to accept his apologies right away. You were hurt. You don’t need to be that kind to him just yet.”
(She exhales, but it’s only a smidge easier.)
“But that being said, and I’m not supposed to say this – “
Makoto draws in a breath sharply. “I’m sorry?”
“Ren-kun is doing everything in his absolute power to make the effort to be here for you. I don’t think anybody else would, really – “
“In what way are you speaking?”
“I would much prefer that he tell you this himself, but let me just say one thing.” Haru folds her elegant hands atop of Makoto’s gauze-wrapped wrist, patting it gently. Yet, such a simple act had filled the wide-eyed woman with the slightest amount of reassurance: a feeling that she had been desperately seeking all this time. “Knowing his strong-headed character, he would never throw away seven years with you as if it were trash. Never again.”
Ren Amamiya is familiar with consequences. Most of the time, he doesn’t ask for it to happen. It’s just that he happens to be there at the wrong place, at the wrong time. Like when Shido had falsely accused him of assault, prompting the inevitable school transfer and the infamous titles that swayed between delinquent, punk, troublemaker - those names sat upon his shoulders like heavy deadweight, wherever he went.
(That, however, was one consequence that he would never regret. He developed strong bonds with people who willingly shared their struggles and victories, met multiple people who would eventually play a pivotal role in his life –
Makoto Niijima, of course, being one of them.)
But this, though.
This, he regrets, because all it took was one sentence. One sentence uttered underneath the roof of a beautiful café (one of her many favourites) nearly one year ago – “Let’s break-up”, he remembers suggesting – had eventually spiraled out of control.
One sentence had lead to torturous months of poor self-control, unjustified anger and constant questions of, "How is she doing?" to an unrelated third party. One sentence lead to a monumental milestone that he had missed. One sentence resulted in a red-headed rebound whom he still feels guilty over hurting, in spite of her empty words - bare of emotion, monotonous at best - that she forgives him. One sentence resulted in a farewell party, where they both feigned smiles, pretended that one night, everything was okay, and shared a short, emotional caress that screamed of an anguished, passionate longing.
One sentence. Dozens of unsent text messages, full of bottled-up words that were only uttered when she teetered dangerously between the fragile borders of life and death.
Literally, it cost him everything. Had the heavens been especially cruel – he shakes his head. He doesn’t want to imagine it.
Thankfully, they hadn’t, but now –
Now is what truly matters.
Upon her awakening, Ren had vowed to make this right.
At least, he tries to make this right in the days that follow. He had hoped to arrive early in the morning when visiting hours start, and only leave when he’s requested – exasperatedly so – by the tending nurse that his presence was no longer welcome. And maybe, Makoto would share a few words privately with the elderly woman, and she – disgruntled, but still tenderhearted – would eventually give the okay – that he could keep her company, to watch her sleep.
He had hoped to busy himself over a boiling-hot stove, day in and day out, preparing heartier meals in comparison to the bland hospital food. She had always preferred his cooking over her own, after all. And whatever she would request – Sojiro’s specialty curry, freshly-brewed coffee, bento boxes that he would painstakingly stay up all night and watch YouTube tutorials on how to create Buchimaru-kun with seaweed, white rice and ham – he would comply.
(And she’d comment as she opened the lid, “Ren, w-why?!”
He already has a perfect rebuttal in mind: “And why wouldn’t I?!”)
He had hoped that to shower her with gifts, too. But knowing Makoto – the least materialistic person to date – it would have to be something non-expensive, but of sentimental value. Maybe he would attempt a knitting project. Something he knows that she would treasure.
And he had hoped that he would be able to accompany her to everything – physical therapy sessions, doctor appointments, slow-paced walks outside in the hospital courtyard as they spoke quietly amongst themselves – to keep her spirits up. To help her combat the loneliness – or perhaps, the advantages? – of having no bedmates. Because he had hoped to be there on the day of her discharge, arms wide open, as they finally, finally embraced and that she would recognize that yes, he’s changed for the better.
But the truth is – the cold, hard truth, that is: none of it happens.
And in fact, what happens is, Makoto welcomes him stiffly. His heart aches when she barely tips her head forward in an acknowledging nod, with her eyes returning to the pages of that heavy textbook that she always lugged around soon after. He attempts conversation, too. Oh, he does –
(“You’re still in recovery, and yet you’re still this diligent. Some things never change do they, Makoto?”
“Mm. I suppose.”)
But there’s little else that he can respond with when the words stop there.
What happens is, Makoto tells him blankly that she already ate when he asks her if she’s hungry. And even when she presses urgently, telling him that he doesn’t have to worry – perhaps as a poor form of damage control, because Ren’s disappointment must’ve manifested (as a furrowed brow, a hurtful flash in his eyes that she catches easily) for her to add such a remark – but he still chooses to pull out the thermos of curry. He fumbles with his words gracelessly though – what a contrast, when he’s supposed to be the one who knew all the wiles and ways when it came to sweet talk – as he tells her that she’ll likely be hungry later and good food shouldn’t be wasted.
(He comes back the next day to a half-full thermos.
Optimistically, he blames it on a potential lack of appetite. Or the lack of seasoning. He tells her that he’ll try again. Again and again, until she finishes the whole thing.
Realistically, though, he takes it back home and eats it himself. His heart fractures a little more each time it happens.)
What happens is, Makoto keeps him out of the loop. Like that afternoon, when he had cancelled yet another mandatory meeting with one of his professors to discuss the final details regarding his thesis, he arrived at the hospital – only to realize that she had already finished her rehabilitation therapy session.
(“Makoto, I have no intentions of sounding demanding but – why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s – not a bother, you know.”
Maybe Ren’s trying to be hopeful, but she sounded as if she had struggled to tell him.)
What happens is, ever since that day since she awoke and they had presumably reconciled, she hasn’t uttered his name once. It’s always either: ‘you’, ‘hello’, ‘he’. Her nurse had smiled welcomingly at Ren initially, commenting, “Why, this must be your boyfriend. How sweet that he comes every day to visit. He’s a keeper, this one is. So make sure you keep him close, okay?”
The discomfort that hovered so, so heavily in the room thereafter is enough to suffocate the both of them.
Makoto doesn’t acknowledge her comments. Ren doesn't know precisely what to say to the resulting silence.
And ever since that day, the nurse doesn’t utter anything when she notices Ren.
And in the present day, here he stands now, watching Makoto trudge down the hallway right after she had snapped at him irritably to leave her alone. She’s independent, yes, so doing something so trivial would be no problem at all.
Crestfallen, his outstretched hand falls limply against his side before tucking it back into his pocket.
Ren is not one to give up. Not known for throwing in the flag.
But at the end of the day, he’s human. And eventually, even the best will crack. Each person has their limit. Their own breaking points.
And for him, he’s reaching the end of the line now. And it’s also why, he’s somewhat relieved that she didn’t have to watch him collapse into the nearest chair sitting next to him, with his face buried in his hands over this beautiful disaster that he singlehandedly created.
Mona points fingers at him. It’s all him, the cat snarls viciously without holding back. Without filter. What did I tell you, Ren? You just had to evade the truth. Play pretend when all it would've taken was a civilized conversation. And now, look what you’ve done. All for pride. All for thinking you were doing things in her best interest when that wasn't what she wanted at all. You screwed this up. And it’s your job to fix it.
Again, Ren thinks in the dead of the night with one arm crossed over his forehead with heavy sighs escaping his lungs, easier said than done.
Ann and Ryuji, on the other hand, seem to be taking his side. Not that there’s much of a ‘side’, really – a more accurate statement would be to say that they didn’t quite understand Makoto’s behaviour. Ryuji concludes brusquely that she’s just playing hot and cold. And with time, she’ll come to her senses eventually.
When that eventually was, though, nobody could be sure.
“Does she tell you anything, Ann?”
“No. She just – shakes her head and tries to change the subject. But you know what, Ren? From what I can see – “ The blonde bit her lip nervously. “She’s hiding her pain.”
More alarmingly, she added in a muted whisper: “And the worst part is, she’s not doing that great of a job with it.”
But despite whatever reassuring words or varying opinions that they bombard him with – falsified promises that time is the cure-all, and other cliché bullshit like that – Ren knows that at the end of the day, there’s nobody to blame but himself.
And even if Ryuji makes audacious (and rather rude) claims of how Makoto’s just being extra difficult and causing more problems in the long run, Ren recognizes that she has all right in the world to behave the way she is. And the fact that she already lets him linger – well, that’s much more than he could ever ask for.
Futaba and Yusuke, in particular, don’t sugar-coat their words. Futaba especially – that gremlin, he tries to laugh off one quiet evening when he sits inside the interior of Leblanc with Sojiro. The older man’s weathered hands are busily polishing his porcelain, tinkering in the backdrop over this and that while listening intently as Ren narrates an anecdote of the feisty orange-haired girl, demanding that he fix this relationship so that her ‘OTP was safe from the clutches of unnecessary angst’.
Sojiro guffaws in a low, rich tenor. “What in the damn blazes is an OTP?”
“Strange, I know. Even I don’t know what it means.”
“That’s my daughter, alright.”
“Indeed,” Ren smirks, but the entertained smile is short-lived. It slips off his face as quickly as it comes. “Takes after her old man and his shenanigans.”
Perhaps Ren had said the wrong thing that struck an unintentional nerve, but Sojiro doesn’t respond, continuing to make light work on the menial duties at hand. It’s eerie, almost, leaving the café interior to be standing in absolute stillness, minus the gentle clinking of china and the light splashes of soapy suds against the basin. Ren had half the heart to apologize for whatever he said that was supposed to be meant as a playful jibe to his past caretaker.
That is, until Sojiro’s voice emerges once again, breaking the pregnant calm. And expectedly, it’s a question that hits Ren where it hurts the most.
“You’re not planning on – giving up, are you?” Uncertainty colours the tone in his voice as he asks, “On your lady?”
The younger man’s eyes widen in realization before reverting to staring at the polished wooden counter. Ah, he thinks, slightly ashamed. So, that’s what he’s referring to.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Having known you for nearly half a decade, and that I am a rather good reader of people – in spite of their previous crimes of heart-stealing right underneath my nose,” Sojiro’s amusement reflects in a wry smile as he spins around on his heel, crossing his lithe arms across his chest. “I’d say so. And you’re slick kid, but you’re not that slick. I can see it on your face from a mile away.” His eyes flicker momentarily to Ren’s bag, left slightly open.
Even for someone who’s seen the worst and the best of the world – from the painful, traumatic death of a loved one, to the euphoria of watching his adoptive daughter emerge from her protective shell – Sojiro can’t deny the slight sour sting that attacks his heart when Ren removes the thermos and mumbles, “She told me to stop bringing food. It’s another evening of potatoes and curry for me, I suppose.”
“You look damn exhausted, kid.”
Exhausted? Exhausted isn’t even a fair assessment.
Ren is emotionally spent.
Unsure of what else he can do, having tried and tried again. Trying tirelessly; trying endlessly. And even when Mona – having seen his most pitiful state – urges him to sleep so that he can mull over this another day, closing his eyes does nothing. Means nothing, because his problems continue to chase him within his active subconscious, in the form of Makoto doing the unthinkable: slapping him away, nipping at him with frosty words that she has no need for worthless pieces of garbage like himself. Telling him needlessly cruel things, with steely glints that seem too painfully real. And when he awakes in the middle of the night – drenched in cold sweat – the aching, dull throb that plunges into his heart is just another sickening reminder of the wretched reality that awaits him.
And inevitably – even if he knows he shouldn’t dwell on meaningless dreams – it can’t be helped. He’s starting to believe that these things will come true.
One day.
Some day.
And that prospect - leaves him petrified. Convinces him that death would be better than life itself.
“You know, Ren, a relationship is a two-way street,” Boss says softly. “And I’m not saying that you’re not blameless, because my God, you were an absolute fool to let such a gem go back then. But that being said, that loudmouthed Ryuji is right.”
Ren’s head straightens as Boss continues to speak.
“Whatever Makoto needs to work through on her own, you can’t do much. Whether that’s her coming to terms, gauging what it means to trust you again, or what have you, you just can’t push her to have to accept you right away, when there’s an entire years’ worth of hurt that she’s trying to overcome. That’s why it’s integral that you show her how you’ve changed. You can’t run away just when things get slightly tougher than usual – “
The young man stills as he processed Boss’s words. It’s funny that he’s only hearing this now because wasn’t that – the evasion, the pretending, the cowardly attempts at escapism because he had absolutely no ounce of reckless bravery to confront his issues head-on – what landed him at this stage in the first place? His fingers unconsciously tighten against his own cup, red-hot fury flaring from within – not directed at anyone in particular, but himself.
It seems, no matter how he attempts to change his bad habits, those flaws will always continue to haunt him, one way or another.
“I get that. But some days – “ His throat clenches, and he closes his eyes, letting his mind wander back to those moments: moments where Makoto had physically flinched, recoiling at the lightest of touches when his hand brushed against hers; moments where her eyes looked at him with an unreadable expression nesting within them, lacking even the slightest flicker of love that he would do anything in the world to see again, and everything in between that had made him question whether these were the tell-tale signs of fading emotions. “What I mean to say is, when we were separated, this rift didn’t seem so distinct. But now – ?”
Now, that emptiness feels like a chasm. A divided, crushing crevice that seemed to grow more prevalent with each passing day.
“How can you? How do you find the will to keep going if everything done feels fruitless? And how can I be certain that what I’m doing is right, when there’s a chance that – “
He pauses, swallowing back unshed, watery eyes –
“That I’ll never be able to mend that gap that I created. And that Makoto won’t forgive me?”
(Or, that she chooses to move on from this chapter of her life. And I’m no longer welcomed.)
And for someone who typically emits a commanding, confident presence, Ren’s voice – for once – sounds incredibly small and quiet. Wavering in absolute anxiety, like he was an easily frightened child.
But knowing Boss, it always seems as if he had the correct words to say.
“Well, if she pushes, then you just need to grasp on harder,” his caretaker explains, almost forcefully. “Because what I’ve learned in the past is, if you deem her worth it, you will do everything in your power to show her that you deserve that second chance.”
Ren smiles, bittersweet and poignant. “Speaking from experience, are you?”
“Now, that’s none of your damn business,” the older man snaps, but it’s with a much more tender, wistful heart when he redirects his eyes to the younger man sitting at the counter. There was something in the boy that reminded Sojiro of his younger self. Maybe it’s in his mannerisms, showing that he was on the verge of stupidly choosing silence over action back in the day. And with all things considered, what the boy and that girl had.
Sojiro’s throat clenches when he thinks back to that day from just a few weeks ago. Him, freezing in absolute shock, bursting out of Leblanc in a frenzy. What they have is irreplaceable. And he couldn’t bear to see Ren suffer through an unfortunate end when they've both survived through the worst.
So, without saying much more, he just clasps a supportive hand against Ren’s shoulder and squeezes.
“The bottom line is, a love that’s worthwhile won’t be easy. But you’ll be thankful that you didn’t throw in the flag when you could’ve. You’ll be glad when – some years down the road – you can give her a long look in the eyes and tell her sincerely that you’re glad you rode out the waves together.”
In retrospect, this was just one storm amongst the many that they’ve weathered through. Because now that he’s thinking about it – God, how much pain did they – no, how much pain did he put her through? He sits, absolutely still with his elbows resting on his messy desk, sifting through his memories. One by one.
No question. It was her. Always her.
Her, the only one in this universe, who had willfully accepted him and his past for who he was, bonding over their shared inadequacies and secretive burdens that he never thought he could disclose.
Her, who – defying sleep, defying the fatigue – continued to stand strong, and did everything in her power to rescue him to help prove his innocence with a lighter sentence.
(“I forgive you.”)
Her, who quietly offered protection and solace through their many trials and tribulations in her own unorthodox ways. She wasn't particularly expressive when it came to verbal words - those were quite seldom, really - but she never lacked, even when she confessed - absolutely mortified - that she wished to do better because he could easily feel it. During their tenure as Phantom Thieves; during their short-lived months as classmates –
(“But you need to stop shouldering all the burdens on your own, okay? I want to support you, especially when you’re hurting.”)
And as a pair of lovers, too, Ren recalls with a smile as he glanced downwards at the many envelopes that were addressed to his hometown. Yellowing pages of letters, written in typewriter-like font, for the months that had them separated.
(Because it was like she said.
“A little distance won’t matter, right?”)
And now, now that she’s the one who’s hurting: how in the damning hell could he have even contemplated the possibility of conceding to defeat when she, herself, had learned to withstand through everything valiantly, all on her own? She didn’t have to stay behind. She didn’t have to send him packages upon packages. Letters upon letters that expressed how much she wished for him to be there. She didn’t have to provide unconditional support – and naturally, there were instances where she reprimanded him for certain life choices, but through it all, it’s always been her. Silently standing behind him, letting him do what he perceived to be best.
Most certainly, she didn’t have to continue loving him. But she does. Flaws, faults, and all. The nurse may have called him a keeper. But in all honesty, she is. And this wasn’t something that he should be questioning with self-doubt.
And that’s why, Ren vows to himself with a renewed sense of purpose as he tucks all thirteen pages back into a hidden compartment in his desk, he isn’t – no, he won’t quit. If their shaky foundation of trust needs to be rebuilt, he’ll do exactly that. If time was what she needed, he’ll give her that. Whatever it takes. However long it may require.
And he’ll do it over, and over again. Go to the ends of the world – and beyond that, if he must.
(“Sensei. May I have a word?"
"Amamiya-san, before anything, please let me say my spiel. I look very highly upon you. You’re one of my best students. You’re on track in terms of finishing your degree by the end of this month, granted that you pass your final examinations and your thesis defense. And as per our discussions, I've already had my mind set on taking you under my wing as a prospective graduate student come next Fall. And you know how I am: I don't revoke my words. And especially not for you, because I have no doubts that you will excel."
“Thank you. I’m also aware.”
“Well then. Forgive me for being excessively blunt. I’m assured you’re not simple-minded and have thought through your decisions carefully. But, I need to ask: you do understand what my words are alluding to?”
“I do.”
“So, why? Why choose now to take a leave of absence?”
And to that, all he says is, “The work can wait.")
Because Makoto Niijima is everything.
It's just that simple.
The thing about Makoto is, despite her sharp tongue and rough, no-nonsense exterior that she is often required to uphold, her heart is just as soft and tender as it’s always been. It’s the very reason as to why she continues to cry over sappy Japanese dramas, why her heartstrings tug at any anecdote Ann narrates of Ryuji surprising her with flowers or her favourite desserts for once without her direction –
And it’s also why she asks him, “Hey. Aren’t you writing your exams soon?”
When he returns her inquisitive gaze with a wide-eyed, startling gaze, it nearly pulls her lips together into a small smile. But the most she’ll allow for now is a tense quirk in the jaw when he responds, just as quiet, “Hmm? I’m sorry?”
The fact is, he’s been here every single day. And it had caught her off guard initially because it baffles her: how? How does he find it within himself to treat her with so much kindness when her actions were most undeserving of it? Had they been in opposing positions, she would've run for her life with her tail between her legs at the merest sign of struggle.
Not him, though. Of course, never him.
Logically, she deems it his relentlessly dedicated nature, as it just describes the very type of person that he is: always thinking of others before prioritizing himself. But there's a part of her that tells her otherwise: a part that slowly, eventually flushes into utmost relief as the days pass in a hazy blur. Because whenever he promised, "I'll be back tomorrow, so get some rest", he remained true to his words. And even for the most iron-hearted of them all, she couldn't help but let the faintest of smiles mistakenly slip onto her face when she catches a glimpse of his recognizable glasses glinting behind the entryway into her room.
(Maybe it's not that much of a mistake, after all, considering that she finds herself anticipating the moment when the hour and minute hands align at where she wanted.)
It becomes routine: a punctual arrival at ten - with his presence remaining, all the way until five or six. Ryuji crudely calls it the most boring full-time job ever (“And he’s not even gettin’ paid to sit here, Makoto! Who wants that?!”), but Makoto –
Makoto finds it endearing. Silly, yes, because Ryuji is right and surely, there has to be something much more entertaining to do in the hustle and bustle of Tokyo than just watching her lay idle - but the more time had progressed, the more it made her reminisce of sweeter, kinder experiences that she had nearly forgotten from all that wasted time, wallowing in her own shortcomings of being distrustful and pessimistic. She recalls experiences of shared lunches, where his face would literally light up upon tasting new, foreign coffees and he would urge her to take a sip; experiences of carefree adolescence, where he helped live out her hidden, secretive fantasies of a J-Drama lead, like throwing away their umbrellas in the middle of a thunderous rainstorm (much to her chagrin) to physically sweep her off her feet into a tantalizing, intimate dance underneath a blanket of grey. Times of comfortable silence, full of the subtlest of interactions that made her lament over the relationship they once shared.
She misses that. Thinks fondly, wistfully of then.
Nowadays, though, he doesn't try to force stilted, awkward conversations with her. He only responds when asked a question - or perhaps, a more accurate statement would be to say, responding without having her to vocalize her discomfort. Maybe he's being cautious, she thinks, wanting her to warm up to his presence first before gauging what the next step should be - but terrible habits often die hard, and this - the act of pouring glasses of water as soon as she clears her throat; adjusting the window blinds when she raises a hand to shield her eyes from the glare without any verbal instruction - makes her laugh amusedly, makes her eyes twinkle.
Always the methodical, observant one, he is.
Basic questions are asked - such as her wellbeing, the appointments, the bland-tasting food - but eventually, the humdrum of small talk fades into light background noise full of the leafing of pages through notebooks or the rhythmic clacking of an overused, noisy keyboard. She studies, too, but it's nothing about the numerous laws, regulations, or ethical principles that she's forced to drill into her brain.
Rather, it's the young man sitting adjacent to her.
She studies him intently - the lines that crease his face has her wondering whether he sleeps well; the angled, pronounced jawline with sunken cheeks that makes her question concerningly whether he eats in a timely manner; the utmost focus and concentration that he displays that urges her to help him with whatever the task is, and the wanton desire to run the pad of her thumb across his furrowed brows because he's much too good-looking to have a permanent crease etched in the middle of his face. But, her clumsy tendency to slip up gets the best of her.
He notices, and often, what conspires is playfully teasing banter.
("I didn't know that my face was that captivating, Makoto. Something catch your eye?"
"N-nothing in particular."
"You can stare longer, too, you know. If you wish."
"W-what was that?!"
"Only kidding.")
Her prideful self would've been less than amused. Although recently, she finds herself admitting that yes, she misses this too.
But there's something strange about today, though. Today is somehow - different, and Makoto's inquisitiveness is too much for her to bear.
Well, at least, it's what she considers her interest nothing more but mere curiosity.
(But put it another way, and perhaps, it's her way of showing care.
One baby step at a time.)
"I'm just wondering, you know," Makoto continues quietly. All the while, Ren doesn't speak, prompting her to continue with small, near-imperceptible nods. "I - worry about your studies. So, how have you been keeping up recently?" Her mind is a scrambled mess of words - because, on one hand, she had intentions of keeping her responses as neutral as possible, but that being said -
(It's him.
How can she not remember?)
Ren closes his book shut. "And our Miss Student Council President strikes again." And because it's him, too, Makoto should've expected it: his ability to twist her words into a mischievous, impish joke, just for the sake of riling her up and sparking some form of reaction, because his sharp wittiness only thrived off them. Surprisingly, it works though, and she rolls her eyes, scoffing lightly.
"Come now. You know that's not what I meant."
"Oh, I know," he says. "I'm well aware."
"So, as I was saying - " Makoto presses, folding her hands together into a near-nervous hold. "How are things? Weren't you thinking of applying to graduate school?"
"I think - " Ren drawls smoothly, his writing utensils now left forgotten on the side of her bed. And somehow, Makoto finds herself inching as close as the four-poster would allow. "I think it's probably better to ask how things were."
It takes her one second to register his words, and another to fully comprehend the subliminal message in his words. But even so, it catches her off guard as it echoes in her mind. Were?
She blinks, her eyelids aflutter.
"Past tense?"
"I - took a leave of absence, so. To answer your question, Makoto, I'm not graduating anymore."
She thinks it could be a prank. A harmless jest amongst the many that he's cracked during their brief conversations. But when his eyes are staring this deep - so incredibly deep, to the point that it penetrates past her soul - Makoto knows that this isn't a laughing matter anymore. The charming, carefree persona is gone; he is absolutely serious.
"B-but - " Her tongue is tied, her dried lips are babbling incoherently, her mind is on the verge of short-circuiting (or, it probably already has). "Wouldn't that push you back? And didn't that one professor already plan to take you in too?"
He nods. "He did. I declined."
And she sinks back into the headboard weakly, her shoulders colliding with the wood loudly. "Can I ask - wh -?"
Why?
And it is then, that it hits her. Her mind suddenly flickers back to the hint of sweetness that was concealed within Haru's smile, followed by a hollow echo of her supporting words that ultimately moved Makoto to try to be less standoffish. So that, she realizes, at last, was what Haru was referring to. Why hadn't she learned to tie the pieces together? Stupid, stupid, stupid - she should've seen this coming. Should've anticipated this. And yet, the revelation manages to shock her to the very core when she realizes the extent of his sacrifice. He - he had forfeited so much potential in his future. If she recalls his complaints from merely one year ago, that stingy professor never extended offers to just anyone. And to have Ren, his most prized pupil, turn it down, in favour of a leave of absence that Makoto absolutely thinks is unnecessary.
Yet, he did. For her - no, their sake.
She clamps down hard onto her bottom lip to keep herself from crying out, drawing the bitter tang of blood that seeps into the inner crevice of her mouth. But it doesn't proceed any further: there's a rock-hard lump trapped in the base of her throat that makes the simplest of tasks, like speaking, swallowing back tears, difficult to speak. Makes her words - intended to reprimand him for such senselessness, such ridiculous irrationality - dissolve into nothing but a single, curious question.
"Why?"
And even though, she already had an idea of what his answer would be, she asks, anyway.
(Because admittedly, she yearns to hear it.)
"Well, it's you."
He explains this so simply. Like it was no big deal that he had just shelved a plethora of career opportunities for a mere simpleton like herself because if she were speaking honestly, she doesn't consider herself as anything worthwhile - but very clearly, he has second thoughts. And there is absolutely no denying the firm steadiness in the timbre of his words, showing his conviction to his choices that he firmly believes makes the most rational sense.
But most importantly, it finally, finally put into perspective how much he had cared.
"I don't think that needs more of an explanation, right, Makoto?"
And indeed, Makoto thinks weakly as he helps adjust her pillows, it doesn't.
It's you.
Two words.
And certainly, it did more than speak volumes.
"Hey. Um, Ren?"
"Yes?"
"...Actually, nevermind."
It's been a while. Perhaps long overdue, and now that he's departed for the evening and she's left to ruminate over this on her own devices, she now recognizes that it was an absolutely unnecessary punishment.
But even so, Makoto can't help but relish in the gentile delicateness in the way that his name comfortably leaves the tip of her tongue. And when she closes her eyes, letting darkness and fatigue from the day's events swarm over her sleepily, she allows herself a brief moment to break into a smile. A wide, broad grin that spans ear-to-ear, lasting the entire night. Her nurse was surprised when she walked in the next morning, to say the least, but when she cheekily probed over what's gotten her favourite patient in such a good mood, Makoto refuses to spill anything.
Not in fear of being mocked or teased mercilessly if anybody were to find out, no.
Rather, it's the first time in a long while that her life, and by extension, her heart, finally feels colourful, whole and complete again. The vibrancy and happiness that she assumed that she had permanently lost to the throes of heartbreak, of a love that she thought would've died out like flickering candlelight flame - is no longer missing. It's returned, and it was all because of him -
No, she pauses.
Ren. All thanks to Ren.
And forgive her for being a tad bit selfish, for she wanted to preserve this moment to herself for just a minute longer.
Eventually, they make it to the start of December. And while the courtyard lawns glisten with the early morning frost that coats the grass in a shimmering blanket of white, Tokyo is blessed with ample amounts of sunlight that gradually thaws out the iced crystals into moist dew drops. But it seems that the beaming Winter sun does more than that, because its effects on Makoto are remarkably profound as well.
Because eventually, the guarded, protective smokescreen of stony gazes and frigid responses melts away. Scornful glances and distant demeanors make their gradual return to undeniable, familiar chemistry, comprised of lighthearted push-and-pull interactions and a rekindled fondness. Normalcy, as she often likes saying. And her kind, infectious smile returns, put on full display on most occasions. Ren's heart, in turn, always liquefied into soft, malleable putty upon seeing it.
It happens when Makoto invites him to accompany her to one of her appointments with the occupational therapist. He was a well-built, burly man: toned muscle rippling across his chest, longing to burst out of his many dress shirts that looked one size too small for his physique. And when his beady eyes had lingered on Ren - the young man making a pitiful reminder in the back of his mind to actually start lifting weights again - he, contrary to his rather intimidating presence, had grinned. Almost knowingly, as if harbouring some deep, dark secret that Makoto disclosed about him. Ren, in spite of his composed self, had mumbled quick, snippy prayers to the heavens above, hoping that whatever it was, it wasn't anything terribly humiliating.
He was proven wrong, ultimately, when the therapist questioned, "Your boyfriend?"
And Makoto, dare he believed his ears, replied with a leveled tone, "Something like that. Well, yes. I would say so."
Ren rode out the ecstatic highs of such a modest statement in a dizzy dream-like daze, while Makoto watched on from afar, shoulders heaving in delight.
It also happens when one day - near the end of chilly, wet November - the whole gang arrives for a visit. Futaba rushes in, wasting no time in elbowing Ren painfully in the ribs to force him to move so she can get 'first dibs' on Makoto's embrace. Ann and Haru follow suit, marveling in what the model calls Makoto's recovery glow upon seeing her. She looks - great. Not even, Ann claims, wonderful. Healthy. Happier, too.
(Ren likes to think that he had some form of a contribution to that.)
Yusuke and Ryuji end up trudging in disdainfully, their arms laden down with convenience store snacks. And it's primarily idle small talk here and there, with Ann changing the topic at hand, apologizing that they weren't able to drop by as often with their ever-busy schedules.
"We definitely ought to see you more often," Ann had crooned then, wrapping her thin arm around Ryuji's shoulders to pull him close.
The rambunctious blonde had nodded in agreement, stating, "Gotta be hella lonely in here, ain't it?"
"Sometimes, but at the very least, I'm recovering and I should be discharged fairly soon. That's all that matters. And besides," Makoto said, but she paused briefly for a moment. And her gaze had flickered towards Ren, lingering for just a fraction of a second before she added serenely, "Ren is here too."
And upon hearing this, the overly-dramatic, brash ex-Phantom Thieves of Hearts - but primarily Ryuji and Futaba, pesky scamps - had singlehandedly created the loudest, most magnified uproar in the history of mankind, screaming shrilly - with Futaba tearing up, concerningly so - "IT'S HAPPENED! RENKOTO IS BACK!"
"O-okay, but p-portmanteau aside!" Makoto chided, waving her arms frantically. She shot him a glare - reminding him of her dangerous stares whenever she caught the taller, lithe man focusing on anything else but his assignments - stating, "Ren, some assistance would be much appreciated right now!"
To which, he playfully evaded Futaba's grubby hands and reached his own forward, ruffling her hair into a tousled mess.
"Nope. Not a chance."
But perhaps, the pivotal point - or, what Ren considers to be the most significant turn of events:
It was Makoto who had suggested it. Going for a brief stroll, she said lightly, would nourish both the body and the mind. And plus, given the beautiful weather that they've been so fortunate to have lately, it would seem like an absolute waste to remained trapped within the stuffy square confines like a prisoner.
"Sure. I can use a stretch. Just us two?"
"No, Ren. Let's ask my neighbour from next door to accompany us."
"I don't think he can," he said, before adding cheekily, "And nor would I permit that."
She smiled, then.
When they left, their arms were crossed. Hands clutching steaming-hot beverages to keep themselves warm as they braved through the howling winds that attacked their bones. There were periodical silences every now and then - sans the crunching of gravel underneath their feet - but Makoto actually tries, asking about what he had planned for the immediate future; what he originally planned to study post-graduation. She even wanted to listen to his excessively long, drawn-out thesis defense -
("Maybe - I can help you prepare. If you wanted."
"For next March, Makoto? Really? You're helping me three months in advance?"
"B-better to be safe than sorry, right?!"
"Hmm. Yes. I suppose you're right.")
That brought forth, not only a lighthearted, rumbling chuckle, but Makoto's hand forward - now emptied of her compostable cup - clumsily bumping into his before he linked his pinky loosely around hers.
And when they returned, their hands were no longer wound by two digits; rather, tightly intertwined. Hers, especially, was hiding deep within his coat pocket, trapped in between his nimble, long fingers and the soft, warming linen. They looked funny, certainly, but Makoto made no remarks to let go then. Even after they had ascended to her floor. Even after passing the pediatric ward, where one nosy child watched them in innocent wonderment, yelling excitably, "They're in love!" And even after arriving at the entrance to her room.
So, Ren doesn't, letting the comforting heat seep into his skin.
Somedays, it still baffles him because it's not as if there's one defining moment that he can pinpoint that had lead to such a profound change. But really, it's not as if it really mattered anymore.
Not when he had whirled around to look at her, and she responds - not through her eyes, but through her disarming touch. He senses the lightest of squeezes caressing his own. Almost as if it were trying to transmit the message that at long last, everything's alright.
As it should be.
Makoto has never been the type to do well when it came to expressing vulnerability. Likely because, growing up without a father figure, she always thought it was in her best interests to put on the dauntless mask of a stable, goal-oriented, and strong-willed individual who had no weaknesses, only strengths. Just like him. Always thought that she had to be just as composed and ruthless, like her older sister, who was the epitome of such traits, especially in the judgmental eyes of the lawcourts.
But there are some days, like today, for example, where her sister had taken precious time off her busy schedule to drop by for a long, overdue visit and - after some time shared in quietude, with the older woman expertly peeling oranges for her to snack on - states plainly, without any pretense, "I appreciate him for loving you so much, you know. It reassures me that you'll be taken care of", that Makoto considers it acceptable to vocalize the deepest desires of her heart to territory that she had once considered forbidden.
And so, she smiles knowingly. Letting her guard down in front of the very woman that she had never anticipated - at least, not in a million years - to be capable of sharing such an intimate conversation like this. It's a terrifying foreign experience, Makoto thinks as she clamps her sweaty hands together, which both shocks and scares her all at once -
But ultimately, it leaves her relieved when she exhales and - with gentle confidence - tells the older woman, "I know."
Even without looking into the tired eyes of her visitor, Makoto can hear the subtle joy radiating in her pitch when she replies, strangely strangled:
"Then, make sure you tell him that."
There's a sea of people who gather on the day of her discharge, crowding the hallway waiting anxiously in the hallway to escort her to a celebratory party for her recovery. Ryuji and Ann are present, with the leggy model chatting with Eiko over her current fashion ventures; as is Futaba and Yusuke, the overly animated girl hopping up and down with a certain catty feline mewling at her to stop giving him unwarranted nausea. She catches a glimpse of Sojiro, sulking behind the shadows, wearing his trademark fedora and a ghost of a smile. And Sae - Sae is choosing to be here today, as well. She sees them through the blinds, hears their footsteps resound from behind the closed door, listens to their quiet, excited buzzing. It takes her back to three months ago. Three months prior, where she had anxiously departed for a foreign future, bidding farewell to familiarity, stepping into a world of the unknown.
But this time:
"Hey."
This time, it's the physical manifestation of her future coming to her, bursting forward with a beautiful, breathtaking smile that catches her breath. Not as a figment of her imagination, which gave her phantasmal visions of blurry silhouettes chasing after the shinkansen - it's his whole being. His entire self. Ren, the only person that she sees amongst those who have faded into nothing but obscure, peach-coloured blurs within the periphery of her cloudy, wet eyes, with his arms open wide.
"Welcome back."
And Makoto, behaving uncharacteristically brash and bold, wastes no time in rushing forth, clinging to him. Like her life had depended on it.
They had promised not to weep. Not to cry. But here she is, letting a steady stream of tears trickle soundlessly and fall onto the ground as she molded into his chest. Ren's hands expertly, carefully guides her towards his waist, in which she subconsciously wraps harder. Tighter. Familiarizing and reintroducing herself to the rough curves and rigid lines of his bony limbs that were a stark contrast to his hugs that always lingered with hints of warm-roasted love and pure affection. It's an embrace that she had longed for and missed, but it didn't take long to become accustomed to his touch once again, because when they collided, Makoto felt as if she had traversed through time.
Back to a time when she was seventeen-years-old, with her heart delicately aflutter.
Seventeen, completely inexperienced. Seventeen, naively, blissfully, giddily in love.
(Seventeen, and absolutely happy.)
"I never said this, Makoto, but - " He swallows, almost in nervousness. "I'm sorry."
And of course, because Makoto still needs to retain a semblance of dignity and pride, she says nothing that would betray her tears. Chooses to shake her head instead, vigorously so. Because it's not necessary anymore. Not needed. And Ren - Ren only sighs, positioning his chin just above the crown of her head.
And they remained like that. Staying like that, until her tears were reduced to nothing more than light, shining streaks crisscrossing her cheeks, and her heart finally, finally found the solace that she had been desperately looking for all this time.
"You cried, didn't you?"
"Um. Well, is it that obvious?"
"Well. I'm not going to tease you for it."
"...Really now?"
"Yes. Because, truth be told, I did, too."