[ fic ] still breathing (hibari/haru)
Title: Still Breathing.
Author/Artist: seireeii
Rating: T for Teen.
Warnings: None.
Prompt: V-19; Hibari/Haru - Fight - I won't let go.
Word count: 1,289.
Summary: Lean on me, I will hold you up.
still breathing
don’t think about it, just come to me tonight.
.
.
.
Haru isn’t living.
She’s merely surviving, pretending to laugh, cry, and smile for everyone around her. Hibari notices it the moment he walks into the kitchen - she’s washing dishes, a mundane task he expects her to have already finished, considering the entire flock of herbivores have already fluttered back to their training regimens - in the curve of her shoulders as she hovers over the frothy sink with her delicate hands buried underneath the bubbles.
He knows she’s afraid when she starts at the sound of his foot crossing the threshold of the kitchen, and she turns, her brown eyes wide. He knows she never expected him to come into their half of the underground establishment, and under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t, but the vacancy of the pantry in his future self’s pantry left him without much choice.
He meets her eyes, silent, expectant, knowing she wants to ask what he needs, wondering whether or not he has his tonfas with him, searching for Hibird and Roll-
He catches sight of the fear in her eyes and parts his lips to say something, but she pulls her hands back from the bubbling water, and faces him fully.
“Hi-Hibari-san, what are you doing here?” she stutters, backing herself against the edge of the counter. He pushes away from the doorframe, and crosses the room, before sitting down at the small table just in front of her. “Hibari-san?”
“There is no food in the Facility,” he informs her, looking up at her.
Before he can do anything as herbivorous as asking for her to make food for him, she nods - it’s a mechanical action, there’s no emotion, life, or warmth woven into it - and turns toward the pile of clean dishes, avoiding his gaze. He listens to her rattle off a list of foods she can make for him, ones that take less time, others that she thinks he might like, despite not knowing his tastes, and fixes her ponytail before drying off her hands.
He watches her work, notices the subdued curve of her back as she paces back and forth, reaching for ingredients, and mixing them into bowls, and putting them into pots and pans. There’s heat boiling from the stove as Haru chops small pieces of beef into tiny steaks at his request, before boiling up a pot of rice and some pork for herself - he’s surprised she hasn’t eaten yet, despite the fact that she’s in the kitchen.
When she passes him with a plate of chopped hamburger steak, he catches her free hand, and lifts himself to her eyes, watching her reaction with interest. Her face when her eyes meet his in that moment holds no brightness and radiance, as if she’s given it all away those times when she offered the others shards of her light. She’s nothing more than a falling star in his hand, breaking down behind the feigned strength in her eyes.
He takes the plate from her hand, and walks toward the stove, much to the brown-haired girl’s distress. There’s nothing in her voice either; it’s as defeated as the depths of her eyes, as null and void as the expression she gave him moments before.
“Hibari-san, I can cook for you, it’s fine,” she protests, reaching for the plate once more. He looks back at her, and shakes his head.
“You have your own food to worry about,” he replies, pulling the steaks further from her reach. “I’m more than capable of cooking for myself.”
“But-“
His stern glower pierces her without resistance.
He knows there’s more to her than this, this broken doll in front of him.
He wants haru back.
“I sense there’s something troubling you, herbivore,” he says, setting the plate down and reaching for the clamps lying close to the brown-haired girl’s elbow. She widens her eyes as his arm brushes her side, tenses against his touch, but relaxes the instant he takes the clamps from the countertop. “I can feel it, too, so lying to me would be a waste of time.”
“There’s nothing wrong, Hibari-san,” she responds, earning a pointed look. Regardless of his warning, she lies straight through her teeth anyway. He can hear her voice trembling - is she afraid? “I’m perfectly fine.”
He places the steaks down on the pan, one by one, focusing on the sounds and bubbles of grease that rise from the pan the moment the steaks touch it. He can feel her shifting toward him, reaching for the clamps in his right hand. Before she can snatch them from him, he turns back to face her, his eyes narrowed.
“There is something bothering you, Miura Haru,” he answers. Haru blinks. He briefly closes his eyes: “Tell me. You owe me that much.”
Her eyes tremble as she meets his expectant gaze, notices the unintentional openness of his stance, and closes her eyes against the tears, her hands curling to fists at her sides. He watches the walls begin to break down, hears the choked, restrained sobs cough from her lips, feels her entire body rush into the strength of his arms. He staggers a half-step backwards, catches her by the shoulder blades, and steadies himself, before lowering his hands from her.
Finally, she breaks: “I’m so afraid, Hibari-san.”
It doesn’t take much thought to deduce what frightened her.
He doesn’t say anything as she lets her tears go, releases her fear and sadness into the only one who can take it without feeling afraid himself. He knows he’s the only one she can open up to - she’s looked to him for comfort in times of trouble before, sometimes unwittingly doing so - he sets the plate and clamps down, before taking her arms in his hands and holding her up.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispers, lowering his voice to an herbivorous level he never thought he was capable of reaching. She flinches at the sound of it, but relaxes into the unrelenting shape of his body, and cries.
.
.
He’s crossing the room now, finished with his dinner and satisfied with the expression on her face. He rises from the table, and hands the dishes to her, before taking one last sip from his tea cup. She hops toward the sink, filling it back up with water and soap, much to his satisfaction.
He turns toward the door, and she notices the sound of his footfalls pattering across the floor.
“Hibari-san!” she exclaims, lifting her hands from the water and walking toward him.
He stops, gazes back at her expectantly. That fire he fights for returns to her eyes when she meets his azure irises. She grins - the sight of it brings softness to his eyes - and takes his face in soapy, bubbling hands, before lifting herself on her tip-toes to plant a tender kiss on his lips. His eyes widen as her touch registers; his hair is wet, his lips parted and still, his hands frozen at his sides, but he doesn’t push her away.
He reaps the harvest of what he fought so hard for.
She pulls back, looks him in the eyes, and tilts her head, smiling gently now, “Thank you, Hibari-san.”
He pulls back from her, and nods, fixing her with his enthralling cobalt-silver eyes: “Remember what I told you, herbivore.”
She nods.
He closes his eyes, briefly smirks, and starts toward the door once more. She curves her lips up into the shape of a genuine smile, and drops to her knees on the floor, sighing as the door closes just behind him. She presses her fingertips into her lips, and turns back toward the door.
She’s still breathing.
.
end.