Both Arata and Shoto are lying on one of the twin beds in their room, catching their breaths after their pillow fight. The room is a mess of scattered feathers and pillows, remnants of their lighthearted battle.
Eventually, Arata pushes herself up, her jet black hair a wild mess, and stretches a hand toward Shoto. He eyes it warily for a moment before taking it.
Her eyebrow arches at his obvious hesitation as she pull him to his feet, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. "What? The Great Shoto-san has won the battle of the pillows."
"Don't blame me for being cautious after all those sneak attacks you pulled," he says, brushing off a few feathers off his sleeve. "Besides, you don't exactly look like someone who lost."
"That's because I didn't."
"But I scored more points. I won."
"Oh yes, you won the pillow fight, but I won the war."
Arata's cryptic answer doesn't make any sense to him. Even more so when a wide grin splits her face, showing cute dimples on her cheeks instead of an answer to his confusion. "War? What war?"
The evening sun bathes the room, illuminating Arata's bright green eyes in a golden hue as she regards him with a soft expression. "Well, Shoto-san… You laughed," she says after a moment, her tone wistful. "A lot."
"Yeah?" Shoto tilts his head slightly. "Is that surprising?"
"It's just… it's been a while." Arata hands him a cup of water, which he takes with a small nod of thanks. "The last time I saw you laugh—like, really laugh—was before we got into that fight with those villains."
Shoto takes a slow sip from the cup, processing her words. "Why is that important?" he asks, curiosity teetering on the edge of his tone.
"That night of the fight… It was over so fast for me," Arata sighs, her eyes falling to the cup in her hands. She traces the rim with her fingertip, staring at her reflection inside. "But for you, it wasn't. I had already known this before, but… listening to your side in the police interview this morning, um, really put things into perspective."
Shoto's jaw tightens, and he lowers the cup. Those memories, the ones he's been trying to shove aside, come rushing back.
For the last two days, he tries to keep those memories tucked at the corner of his mind. He was forced to dig them out for the police interview this morning, but he has spent the past hours pushing them back in again. As deep as he could bury them, so they wouldn't surface to the forefront.
After all, what use are memories that only remind him of his own helplessness?
──────────
"Ara!"
Her form grew smaller by the second, vanishing into the chaos, and panic gripped Shoto. Desperation surged as he hurled ice into the sky, chasing after that taunting blur.
"Get back here!" he snarled at the flying demon, teeth chattering against each other. "Release her!"
"Give up, Brat!" Nobu gloated, tone dripping with sadistic glee. "She's going to get the mindfuck of her life!"
──────────
Of almost losing her and being powerless to prevent it?
──────────
"I was... so scared, Shoto-san..."
Her hand clamped his shirt with whatever remained from her energy, Shoto could feel it quaking around his waist. So full of anguish, so fragile. The tremor dwarfed the small body in his arms, crushing it under utter ache, both visible and invisible. Although he only could see the former, his blood was seething when his eyes committed the condition she was in to memory.
Unkempt dark hair framing her swollen face. Blood crusts sheathing her bare feet. Torn-up, tattered sleeves. The nasty bruises they disclose. Straps hanging past her blemished shoulders. Cuts here and there all over her disheveled, bloody dress, a silent witness of her harrowing struggle.
Damn it! Where was he?
──────────
Arata's eyes widen at the sharp clack of his cup against the nightstand, the sound too harsh, too loud, yet it fails to drown out the noise inside his head.
"Everything is over now. There's no point in dwelling on it."
Those words are meant to dismiss her concern, but they fall flat, hollow even to his own ears. He's not sure who he's trying to convince—her or himself.
Because the truth is, he remembers too well—the way she flickered out like a candle, her body sagging in his arms like a dead weight.
As if her life had been sucked dry. By the demon.
In that moment, fear coiled around him like a vice, tightening until he could scarcely breathe. He knelt there, paralyzed in the pungent pool of blood soaking through his pants. His mind took a deep dive into visions of a future without her, all bleak and grim.
Then, against his chest, she stirred—just a small movement, a tiny breath, followed by the faintest of snores. In that instant, it felt as though the world had shifted beneath him, and the overwhelming rush of relief left him almost shaking.
Arata opens her mouth to speak, then hesitates, as if sensing the tension radiating from him. "I just… wanted to say that I'm glad to see you happy again, Shoto-san. After everything."
Happy? Is he?
Shoto didn't lose Arata. But for a moment back then, he thought he had. And that feeling… lingers. In the darkest corner in him.
Somewhere even her pillow sword cannot reach.
Can someone with that kind of dread buried inside them be truly happy? He's not sure.
Shoto shoves the feeling down—a skill he's practiced for a long time—and gives her a stiff nod. "Thanks."
The awkwardness of his response hangs in the air. All the leftover playful atmosphere from their pillow fight disperses. Shoto turns his back, reaching for the scattered pillows on the floor, concentrating on what he can gather—unlike his composure.
The room falls into a thick silence with the faint hum of the air conditioner and the soft rustles of the pillows as the only noise. Arata watches him, her hands gripping her cup as she wrestles with her thoughts.
It's always this way, isn't it? Every time his side of this topic comes up, Shoto has consistently brushed it aside.
The only time she has managed to hear his perspective was during the police interview. Even then, it looked like that he had to soldier through it.
His voice had been detached, almost cold, when he began recounting the events. She assumed he was okay, that he had come to terms with everything that had happened. But then, his voice wavered. Then again.
Her gaze flicked up, catching the brief flicker in grey-cyan before he quickly looked away. And in that moment, she realized how wrong she had been.
Shoto was—is—not okay. Not at all.
But… why? What hurts you?
Until now, she still can't figure out what's wrong for the life of her.
If you have your way, you'll just keep quiet and shoulder the burden by yourself, won't you, Shoto-san?
So Arata makes a decision, although she's not sure what to say or do. She only knows she wants to reach him, to bridge the gap that separates them.
With a soft clink, she sets her cup down and rises. Slowly, quietly, she moves toward Shoto. Her bare feet pad across the carpet as she closes the distance between them. Shoto is still focused on the pillows, stacking them on his mattress, hands fluffing them with a precision that seems almost mechanical.
It's only when she's right behind him that he pauses.
For a moment, Arata hesitates. She nearly reconsiders it, until her eyes locked on the slight slump in his shoulders—so different from his usual upright, composed posture. Steeling herself, she inhales deeply, steps forward, and gently wraps her arms around his waist.
"Sh— Shoto-san…"
She can feel his muscles tense under her touch, his entire body going rigid with surprise. His hands freeze mid-motion, the pillow in his grip forgotten as he stands there, still as a statue.
She waits, half-expecting him to pull away, to retreat even further behind his walls, like the mice she tried to befriend in the underground with a piece of cheese. But he doesn't. So she clings to him a little tighter, hoping—praying—that he won't.
"… Ara?"
"I— I'm here, okay?" Arata hopes her voice doesn't tremble as much as she feels. "I don't really know what… what's bothering you, Shoto-san… but, if— if you ever want to talk, I'll listen."
"…"
"You've done a lot for me, and I can't thank you enough. You fought for me. You kept me going when I thought I couldn't. And th— that promise we made about cold soba… It gave me something to hold onto, something to look forward to. And you were right, this isn't the last time we will see each other."
"…"
Shoto stands there, still not moving, but Arata can sense that he's listening. She presses her forehead more firmly against his back, pouring all that she can't articulate into the touch. She breathes out.
"So if there's anything I can do to make you feel better, no matter how small or big it is… tell me, okay? I'll be here for you, Shoto-san."
Her heart throbs loudly, each beat a drum in the quiet room. She waits for him to say something—anything. But as the seconds drag on, the quiet becomes more and more suffocating.
Maybe you pushed him too far, her mind accuses. Maybe you should've left it alone.
His silence is an enigma to her, like a void that sucks all that remains from her earlier confidence away. She wants to kick herself for pulling something like this.
You're making him uncomfortable, Arata. Stop this madness before it gets really awkward between you two.
"S— Sorry…" Arata stammers, her voice breaking as she pulls away and turns around, unable to face him. "I didn't mean to— I mean I meant to, but you might not— I shouldn't have…"