11-04-2024, 12:08 AM
Kiyohito let her words settle, feeling the echo of them in the quiet space between them. I only live the best way I can. It was a simple statement, but one he could feel the weight of, like stones piled deliberately over an open wound. He knew that kind of acceptance—knew what it meant to bear something quietly, not because you believed you deserved it, but because it was required to keep moving forward. And he could see that same resolve in her, in the straightness of her spine, in the careful, controlled rhythm of her breathing.
What struck him most, though, was the loneliness of it. She carried herself like a soldier on a battlefield she had chosen, but that didn’t mean she deserved to be there alone. She had a brother, yes, but from the guarded way she spoke, it seemed even he could not reach into this quiet darkness she’d wrapped around herself.
Kiyohito felt the faintest ache in his chest, a strange, unwelcome softness that he wasn’t sure he knew how to give voice to. It was as though he were standing at the edge of something vast and unspoken, and he understood, with a quiet certainty, that to step forward would be to cross a line that neither of them had acknowledged yet.
But he wanted to.
“You carry it well, Eidolon,” he said softly, his voice low, just enough to bridge the space between them without intruding. “And if you say it is a burden you must bear, then I will respect that.” He paused, weighing his words carefully, unwilling to offer platitudes she would see right through. He did not think she was not a woman who would welcome pity, nor would she accept comfort that felt hollow.
But he could offer her something real, something quiet, something that cost him nothing but that it cost everything.
“Even so,” he continued, his gaze steady as his voice, “if ever there comes a time when it is too heavy, you do not have to carry it alone. I may not be able to ease your obligation”—the word came out heavier than he’d intended, as if it were a physical weight between them—“but I can be here while you bear this weight, if only for a time.”
There was a long silence, and he realized he was holding his breath, waiting for her response, uncertain if he’d gone too far. Her stillness was a warning in itself—she was considering his words, perhaps surprised that he’d even offered them. It was not in his nature to reach out like this, to let anyone close enough to see beyond the shield of his Yakuza stoicism. But he wanted her to know, in his own way, that she was not as isolated as she believed.
Kiyohito shifted, feeling the need to fill the silence before it grew too fragile. “I don’t pretend to understand the path you’ve chosen, or the burden of this… vow you keep. But I do know that sometimes the simplest things can be a comfort. A moment of quiet, a place where no judgment reaches.” He gestured subtly to the small space around them, the dim warmth of this room where even the hum of the city felt distant, muted. “If you find yourself in need of that, you are always welcome here. No questions, no debts, no convincing—only what you wish to share.”
The warmth of the tea between his hands grounded him, keeping him steady even as his pulse thrummed with the risk he was taking. He was, in essence, inviting her into his life in a way he had never invited anyone before. But Kiyohito understood the value of gestures unspoken; a hand offered without expectation. It was a lesson his oyabun had taught him, one of the few memories he held onto with something close to fondness.
His gaze softened, though he fought to keep it controlled, respectful. He would not insult her by laying his heart bare—it was too soon, and besides, he wasn’t sure she could accept it. But he could give her this much, the silent assurance that he would be here, should she ever need it, but it was a boon to them both, for he was just as alone.
What struck him most, though, was the loneliness of it. She carried herself like a soldier on a battlefield she had chosen, but that didn’t mean she deserved to be there alone. She had a brother, yes, but from the guarded way she spoke, it seemed even he could not reach into this quiet darkness she’d wrapped around herself.
Kiyohito felt the faintest ache in his chest, a strange, unwelcome softness that he wasn’t sure he knew how to give voice to. It was as though he were standing at the edge of something vast and unspoken, and he understood, with a quiet certainty, that to step forward would be to cross a line that neither of them had acknowledged yet.
But he wanted to.
“You carry it well, Eidolon,” he said softly, his voice low, just enough to bridge the space between them without intruding. “And if you say it is a burden you must bear, then I will respect that.” He paused, weighing his words carefully, unwilling to offer platitudes she would see right through. He did not think she was not a woman who would welcome pity, nor would she accept comfort that felt hollow.
But he could offer her something real, something quiet, something that cost him nothing but that it cost everything.
“Even so,” he continued, his gaze steady as his voice, “if ever there comes a time when it is too heavy, you do not have to carry it alone. I may not be able to ease your obligation”—the word came out heavier than he’d intended, as if it were a physical weight between them—“but I can be here while you bear this weight, if only for a time.”
There was a long silence, and he realized he was holding his breath, waiting for her response, uncertain if he’d gone too far. Her stillness was a warning in itself—she was considering his words, perhaps surprised that he’d even offered them. It was not in his nature to reach out like this, to let anyone close enough to see beyond the shield of his Yakuza stoicism. But he wanted her to know, in his own way, that she was not as isolated as she believed.
Kiyohito shifted, feeling the need to fill the silence before it grew too fragile. “I don’t pretend to understand the path you’ve chosen, or the burden of this… vow you keep. But I do know that sometimes the simplest things can be a comfort. A moment of quiet, a place where no judgment reaches.” He gestured subtly to the small space around them, the dim warmth of this room where even the hum of the city felt distant, muted. “If you find yourself in need of that, you are always welcome here. No questions, no debts, no convincing—only what you wish to share.”
The warmth of the tea between his hands grounded him, keeping him steady even as his pulse thrummed with the risk he was taking. He was, in essence, inviting her into his life in a way he had never invited anyone before. But Kiyohito understood the value of gestures unspoken; a hand offered without expectation. It was a lesson his oyabun had taught him, one of the few memories he held onto with something close to fondness.
His gaze softened, though he fought to keep it controlled, respectful. He would not insult her by laying his heart bare—it was too soon, and besides, he wasn’t sure she could accept it. But he could give her this much, the silent assurance that he would be here, should she ever need it, but it was a boon to them both, for he was just as alone.