Notes: I found Akito and Hatori's relationship fascinating – even if we didn't see much of it in action, the dynamic interested me. Hence my first nervous foray into the Furuba fandom.
Words: 6,082
Canon: Mangaverse.
Pairings: Canon pairings, implied Hatori/Akito.
Warnings: Some sexual content, but it's mild.

healing god, or thereabouts

The dragon came fifth.

That is, he arrived behind the rat and its oxen carriage, with the tiger and rabbit nearby in grand succession. It should not have been the case: nobody expected the mighty ruler of the skies to fare anywhere other than first, not least of all God himself.

And the dragon was questioned for it, prodded and poked by curious creatures, all wondering how it was possible for such a fearsome beast to be so slow. The dragon said nothing – a dignified silence, accompanied by a knowing little smile – and instead stretched his wings in response, which at least managed to convince the smaller things to leave him quite alone.

"You should consider becoming a doctor," was what his father said – and that had been that.

Eight years old and already sombre, the idea of entering the medical profession had appealed to Hatori Sohma. It wasn't the usual dream eight year old boys adopted (the one he sat next to in Geography wanted to become a baseball star, for example, and Shigure was already entertaining ideas of emulating the books he'd pilfered from the older students), but medicine had seemed obvious for Hatori. Natural.

It was already his self-appointed duty to mind Ayame, and his peers knew him to be dependable. He'd earned a reputation for it: the boy who never cried, never flinched at the sight of blood. He could scrape his knees to ribbons without pausing to grimace, and he would even patch the girls up with makeshift bandages whenever their elbows struck tarmac.

(The dangers of getting too close to girls didn't occur to him, not until later. His largest embarrassment – and he never really lost it – concerned the dream of most eight year old boys to become a dragon, because he was closer than any of his peers but yet, still woefully far.)

So when they told him to become a doctor, he toyed contentedly with the thought – and on the night he woke up crying for the first time in his life, the thought settled inside him and solidified there, a duty, an obligation of care.

God would be here soon, he knew, because he'd been told so by a dream. Such was the currency God worked with, so he, nearly-nine, sobbing rivers of tears against his hands in the dark, took the weight of the world onto his undeveloped shoulders.

He would be the one to care for them.

"You might want to take these later. I would recommend having something to eat before you do, though I understand if you're in no mood for dinner."

The pillbox looks meek where it rests upon Akito's dresser, as though it knows its chances of being discarded along with the trash later are high. Hatori watches Akito's expression slip from one of displeasure to one of disdain, her gaze set on the pillbox to begin with, then wandering to the rest of her bedroom.

A Western room with Western furniture; she doesn't like any of it, but Hatori has Western ideals when he treats his patients. It wouldn't do to place a sickly girl on a lowered bed so near the floor.

He is no pale shadow of a doctor; she makes herself sick. He's aware there's nothing wrong with her most of the time, and it only amuses her that her pet dragon comes running whenever she calls – but now is not one of those occasions.

He knows because she's being even more troublesome than usual.

"I'm not going to take anything you give me."

"I'm your doctor," he says. By now, it's an instinctive response.

"A doctor who would prefer to see the back of me."

"That's not true." He shifts in his chair, seated ankle-on-knee by her bedside. Once comfortable, he raises a finger, gesturing to the pillbox he'd brought with him earlier. "You told me my last prescription was inefficient, so you'll find this to be a more effective dosage."

"Your word alone doesn't assure me much," Akito says, grasping fistfuls of white, clinical blankets. She draws them up to her waist before tiring of them altogether, and when they gather around her middle, he's simply acting on another instinct by reaching over to begin arranging them for her instead.

"I'm not a child, Hatori."

"I know you're not."

"You tuck them too tightly. I'll get too warm."

"I'll be here to fix it if you do."

Akito stares at him like he's insulted her father. She might be currently pale and prone to coughing – the room certainly smells like the sweat of sickness – but Hatori pauses when she turns her eyes on him, meeting her gaze without daring to move.

He's not bold enough for little rebellions.

"It's late, you know. Extremely. Were you sleeping when I sent the maids to fetch you? Did they wake you up?"

"No, actually. I was working."

"Mm." Akito presses a fist to her temple, unconvinced. "And what could you possibly be working on at this hour?"

"I have other patients." He's quick to add, before she can conclude he's being dismissive, "That is, I had records to complete, so I decided while you were resting—"

"I didn't rest." She looks away and he's almost relieved, resuming his work with her sheets. "I was just as miserable as I was when you were here earlier, but at least I didn't have to deal with you fretting over me like a mother hen."

A faint impression of a frown passes over his face. "I'm your—"

"–doctor; yes, I know. You've made that perfectly clear by being just as pointless as every other doctor that's come to see me."

He says nothing. He leans back in his seat, knowing better than to rise to it because that's her way of punishing him. Akito thinks it hurts him when she consults other practitioners, summons second opinions like she's really going to listen to them. It's inevitable that she'll come back to Hatori, the only doctor she can draw out of bed whenever the whim takes her – it's still bothersome.

The logical side of him can accept it, but it's the little nagging voice of his curse that reminds him he's a failure, tells him he can't satisfy God and everything else is trivial.

"Yet," she says, finally. "Yet, I think I'm starting to feel sleepy, now." It's a claim accompanied by a nuzzle against her pillow, pale head tipping towards him, then sinking into fabric. It's not enough to stop the slightest smirk gracing her lips, and she looks at him again to coo, "That must be the effect you have on women."

"I thought you preferred not to be associated with women."

That's something he regrets saying the moment it leaves his mouth, because it prompts Akito into pushing herself upright again, hands pressed flat against the mattress. She is swaying as she sits, but he doesn't reach for her. It's better to let these things subside alone.

"I can't stand you, Hatori," she hisses, and her eyes are on him again as she does. They're all over him, her face contorted while she fights back the urge to cough over her words. "You don't know anything, other than a list of drugs that don't agree with me – because you think you're some sort of martyr, don't you? You get sick satisfaction from masquerading as someone who cares when you've never been devoted to this family like everyone else. You think you're better than us, that you can leave whenever you like and you're just doing us a favour by gracing us with your presence – but you don't know anything and you don't care!"

On the contrary, he knows everything about her.

On the contrary, he can't stop caring.

The urge to cough is still scratching at her throat, sandpaper-sharp, and the effort of deriding him has made her cheeks burn an uneasy scarlet. He stands, then stoops, holding tissues expectantly in front of her mouth while his other hand steadies her shoulder.

He doesn't need to think about it, not any more. Akito is the most integral part of his existence and this, at least, is something he knows to be true: his first thought when he wakes concerns how her condition might have changed overnight, if he's not stiff and sore from sleeping in a chair beside her bed anyway. He arranges his schedule to suit when Akito wants him, and if there's much of a world beyond the Sohma estate, he can't say he's seen it.

It's very possible Akito can't tolerate anyone, but that doesn't change how much her first sentiment stings.

She slaps him away, striking down his offering before dislodging his hand from her shoulder by his wrist. That doesn't manage to sting – either through her sickness or she's not trying hard enough – and besides, it's nothing he isn't used to. He leaves the tissues neatly beside the pillbox, and the sound of rustling fabric makes it no surprise when he turns to find Akito has risen from her bed.

"My apologies," he says. "I should know better than to upset a patient. But you should stop placing yourself under this kind of stress." He bows his head, just a fraction. "I'll leave again, if that will help."

"No," she says, swiftly. "No, I don't want you to leave."

It sickens him that he feels a curious spark of pride.

Silent, Akito circumvents the bed to glide past him like a ghost, her robe little more than deceptively colourful fabric. It's all loosely bunched around her to give her meagre figure the impression of modesty – but she's too thin, porcelain, finespun thread. All her clothes are too big for her and nothing seems grand enough regardless.

(Her slender fingers flex at her sides.)

(He thinks of small white feet and outstretched arms, a girlish voice in his ear crying Hug me, Hatori.)

For all the renovations she's allowed, she insisted on keeping sliding doors, faux-shoji. They overlook the gardens, and a puddle of moonlight splashes over the floor when she pushes the doors apart, to stare at the night through her window.

The pane of glass is tall and wide. She is not, and it threatens to engulf her; he entertains the notion she'll grow transparent once she's sick enough, the transition of solid into nothing more than smoke. In his mind's eye, he can reach for her: he can rake his fingers through the wisps of her body and inhale every word she spits out as tangible pips.

But she must've stood up too quickly earlier. Her figure sways, first – and then it falls.

Or perhaps she falls because she knows Hatori's arms are already there to catch her, arms that can't hold most other women in the way they can hold Akito. He lifts her like she's weightless without noticing he'd even stepped forward, but that's just something he's learnt. Akito is integral, his most important thing.

(She made it clear long ago that her doctor's embrace is only for her, another piece of territory she's claimed from her inner circle because Kana is – Kana was, was a fleeting fancy, the smoke he couldn't catch.)

(Akito decided that. She carved out any hopes for otherwise, then carved out his sight for good measure.)

"You're going to bed," Hatori murmurs, daring to make it sound like an order while she comes over limp. She dangles from his arms without resistance, narrowed black eyes regarding him with a kind of surprise he can't name.

Then, she tips back her head with a coquettish little smile. Then, she questions him quietly.

"Are you coming with me?"

He'd been so scared to hold her, once.

Finally nine but not physically an adult (much to his chagrin), he was still the most trusted of the elder cursed trio, so it seemed natural he'd get to cradle his newly-born God in his arms. A privilege, according to his mother.

An obligation, according to Akito's.

But Hatori never cared for letting others determine his opinions, and he'd been so wrapped up in the gravity of the moment that he hadn't noticed the maids tittering over how serious that little boy was, when it came to holding a pudgy little baby for the first time.

They thought he was nervous because he didn't want to drop her, but they wouldn't understand. They couldn't understand. They weren't bound by blood and bond to the pink, squirming thing that had entered the Sohma house so innocently, unknowingly unique.

Hatori had felt a tug in his chest, too young to grasp something that would grow to define him. He would feel it again when Yuki pleaded with Tori-san not to send his friends away – and again as it burned a hole through his chest when Momiji asked if he could stay with Ha'ari for a while, now he couldn't stay with his mother.

The child had reached for him, soft head seeking out his heartbeat. Only vaguely aware of Ren's jealous watch, he'd smiled, something he rarely offered at the best of times. The infant was pliant in his hold, and he didn't fully understand why a sweet-tempered little girl would have such a masculine name – Akito, harsh and sharp.

Five fat fingers had pressed against his cheek, nonsense fluttering from her mouth, while he observed and half-waited like he was going to receive commands. Akito only looked at him expectantly, hand tracing his jaw, his cheek, until she felt the need to wrap those fingers of hers around his longer patch of hair.

It made her giggle. Hatori took it as a gesture of magnitude.

I'm here, he thought, communicating through reverent silence while Akito absent-mindedly kicked her legs. I'm here. I'll look after you. I'm not going to leave you.

We've all been waiting for you.

Citing Akito as his motivation for smoking would perhaps be unfair, but there's a reason he reaches for his lighter whenever the chance arises. It's not a vice she prevents him from having – and he knows why, well aware that the scent of burning barley reminds her fondly of a certain dog.

Still, he prefers not to smoke around her. Not only is it unprofessional; it's disrespectful, by his personal code of conduct. He always steps outside to burn away a little more of his health, but there's not much he can do during the rare times Akito resolves to go with him.

Hatori doesn't look at her, or attempt to make conversation. He leans back into the shadows across the porch, adjusting his cigarette, while she sits in the light before him with her knees drawn up to her chest.

"It's cold today."

The sound of small talk nearly takes him by surprise.

"Yes," he says, wary. "It's wisest to wrap up well until January's over."

His suggestion is deliberate; her clothing is flimsy and still insufficient. It's been a while, now, since her last bout of illness, but his words make her straighten up all the same. He watches her move, the fabric draped around her shoulders dipping into the pale valley of her back.

"I'm not stupid. I'll dress appropriately when I go somewhere."

"Is there somewhere you're thinking of going?"

"Do you want to escort me?"

He isn't sure how to take that question. She's speaking softly and he's never expecting that – she might be irritated at the idea of him thinking she needs a guardian, or she might simply be curious.

"If you'd like me to," he finally settles on saying, taking another uneasy drag.

"You're always telling me it's not a good idea to travel alone."

"I can't give you orders."

"That's never stopped you trying." Sleek black hair brushes against her shoulder as she leans her head to one side, before she glances back to look at him. She moves like a cat; it's a wonder she hates the real thing so much. "I think I'd like to visit Yuki. If he won't come to me, I should go to him and make him acknowledge what an inconvenience he's being."

Something sinks in Hatori's stomach, but it doesn't register on his face. These things never do. Instead, he keeps vacant and quiet, emitting smoke from parted lips until he's ready to speak again.

"That shouldn't be your responsibility. He should be the one to come here – I can collect him, if you like."

He knows he isn't thinking of Akito. He's thinking of Yuki. That boy hates him, yet even so, Hatori feels uneasy at the prospect of letting Akito arrive uninvited like she has any right to invade his new home, Shigure's home.

Even if she does have every right by the rules of their family, these are the little rebellions he's capable of.

If Akito knows her doctor has ulterior motives, she doesn't show it. Instead, she looks thoughtful, body slowly twisting towards him while she speaks.

"No good. That would be too easy for him. He should be summoned and I'll count it as a test – even the disgusting creature he lives with is more likely to visit me, these days."

"Do you mean Tohru?"

"Kyo," Akito corrects, and he hears the smile in her voice as she goes on, "but I see you, too, think of that girl when disgusting things are mentioned."

That's not exactly the light Hatori sees Tohru in, the girl who'd been so eager to feed him like his approval really meant something.

But he keeps mute – not agreeing, yet not defending, either.

"I see." Akito turns away from him, leaning back on outstretched arms. "You're just like the rest of them. You like her, don't you? You must prefer her to me."

"I never see her." He breathes smoke into the air, eyes half-mast. "I don't know too much about her, but I suppose she saves me the effort of attending to those boys."

"So you must be fond of her. I suppose that's to be expected." Akito lowers her voice, a malicious afterthought. "That's the sort of girl you like."

Hatori stubs his cigarette out against the wall behind him. He does it to avoid regarding her with confusion, because that would only prompt her to elaborate...

...but she does so anyway, and she does it with a smirk.

"I'm right, aren't I? You're only after stupid girls. Too stupid to realise you make people miserable. Too stupid to do anything other than smile while you defile them with that odious touch – it makes me sick."

It occurs to Hatori that he should probably be offended, but if anything, this is a topic that simply makes him uncomfortable. He wonders, briefly, if Akito is thinking of Kana while she speaks. Kana, who he was so hesitant to kiss, let alone feel with his own undeserving hands. He wonders what that makes Akito.

"When you're ready," he says, simply, "I'll fetch Yuki."

Akito emits an almost aristocratic scoff. Trying to interpret it will only end badly, and he's just about to suggest they think about heading back inside when she lifts one hand, gracefully, to place it on the space beside her.

It's an invitation to sit down.

He slides the spent cigarette back into the carton it came from, as he always does. Disposing of them in people's gardens is inappropriate, be it Akito's or otherwise, and once he's tucked the carton itself away, he begins dutifully moving towards her.

She's such a lithe thing that he feels cumbersome sinking beside her, cross-legged and mildly bewildered, only able to smell the smoke on his clothing. She says nothing, hardly acknowledging him, until a crinkle in her nose tells him she's noticed his scent.

"What is that?" she demands, and he opens his mouth to point out the obvious when she asks a question that takes him aback. "Are you wearing cologne, Hatori?"

He'd hardly expected that to be the thing she disapproves of.

"I... Yes. I am."

"Why? Who would you wear a thing like that for?"

"Nobody in particular," he says, and it's not a lie. "It simply feels appropriate when I'm spending my time around the sick. They're hardly fond of ventilation."

She mutters something – he's Western – and that's not a lie, either. Pensioners on the bus would move away from him for it, but meeting outsiders is no regular occurrence. There's only stiff air and silence around the house of Sohma.

No matter how grating she might find it, his musk doesn't stop her from shifting any closer. She leans elegantly against his side, splaying a nonchalant hand across his knee; she owns him, after all. She is warm enough for the lull in conversation to feel almost comfortable, even if her nails are digging into his skin through the fabric of his trousers.

A huff ghosts over his neck. She tells him, simply, "You stink."

Mumbled apologies leave his mouth via reflex, because he's grown accustomed to comments from her in a similar vein. Yet there's something so childish about it that makes him pause to consider it, the fact her grievances could extend to any number of things: he hasn't cured her, can't make the curse go away with all the medicine in the world... but she chooses his aftershave, focuses her vitriol on something so trivial while curling up beside him anyway.

It makes him laugh. He can't stop himself, though he certainly tries, pressing his shirt cuff against his mouth as the reserved stream of amusement makes itself known. He's never really laughed like it was something intended for anyone's ears but his own.

Akito still hears it, glare so unwavering that it registers on his skin. He tenses when she doesn't immediately pull away from him, outraged and indignant; instead, her voice lowers, dangerously so.

"Hatori," she says, her first warning. She shakes his arm when he doesn't regain composure like a shot, hissing again, "Hatori!"

And then he stops.

That's the kind of effect Akito has, his meek laughter subsiding to be replaced by a curt bow of his head. Be respectful, subservient; that's the key around a childish little God.

"That was improper," he says, for the little good it will do him. "I'm sorry."

There should be a slap. There should be four wet stripes of blood on his cheek. Instead, there's a nod, a tightened grip on his arm, and she looks away from her doctor to observe the deserted courtyard.

"You should be. I think I'll see how the New Year preparations are coming along, so I'd prefer not having you embarrass me along with the rest." Her head makes its way onto his shoulder. "You, of all people, I'd expect to behave."

He can't think of what to say to that. So he says nothing at all, and she's shameless in dragging her head down to rest it in his lap.

Kureno and Shigure were her primary playmates – at least, they were until Yuki was born. Hatori was turning thirteen when she turned five, so the divide in age that made her cousins prone to humouring her made him, responsible boy, prone to minding her in an imitation of his father.

Before her own father died, she was... different. A healthy, normal child, even if the art of addressing her as a male took a while to perfect when she gave no other signals that she was one. In turn, it took her a while to get used to him, to the point where she could envelop his leg with a girlish giggle whenever she caught him reading alone somewhere on the vast family estate.

Approaching Hatori scared her at first: he knew it, and so did everyone else. Her mother seemed to take delight in nudging her towards the quiet boy she found so frightening, but he'd simply assumed it was a policy of tough love, a desire to make the future head of the family braver.

"You don't have to be scared of me," he told her, with his dull eyes and inexpressive mouth. "I'm not really much of a dragon."

That put her at ease, hiding a shy grin behind her oversized sleeves.

She had laughed, something intended for nobody's ears but her own. His pitiful Zodiac manifestation was something the Sohma family loved to mock by now – or rather, the boys mocked it.

"You're a cute dragon," she'd said. Such was a response typical of the girls.

He had been told he'd feel a connection to her, something incessantly pulsing with every thud of his heart. His soul would sing with it, but it wasn't until that moment – insignificant, mundane – that he truly understood, could feel a part of him awaken only to be instantly put at ease.

He wasn't the dragon he was supposed to be, but the next god-in-line didn't seem to mind. Humbled (and rendered humiliatingly speechless by a child), he'd bashfully smiled and she'd smiled back.

Akito grew, as all children grow, until she was no longer so prone to giggling. Perhaps that had ended the day her father died, but he was so busy becoming a doctor while his own parents faded into the ether, leaving him nothing more than an empty house he chose to stay living in alone.

The promise of medical experience drew him to her again, the main house summoning him whenever Akito developed some kind of ailment. Aiding her taught him; he found himself shamefully delighted when the new head of the family got sick.

It was then that she changed. It was then that he learnt her inside out.

She bound her chest, though she ate erratically to prevent developing much of one to begin with. She clawed at herself when blood first broke between her legs, until he'd done his awkward best to reassure her by telling her it was natural when wombs were involved, consulting his medical books and their stiff diagrams. He taught her the things her mother should have, and he did it primly, firm-voiced but red-faced.

Akito was a woman when she was around him. That's how he accepted it. He began to realise why he'd cried so miserably the night he dreamt of her.

The house is still with the hush of orchestrated abandonment, maids and other servants all banished until breakfast. It's dark outside – a wan moon, nearly starless – but he can still see enough of her to know this is a terrible idea. A mistake. One made far too often already.

He wants to scold her when she gets like this, untameable moods that hang over her for the rest of the day. He imagines quite a few of his fellow Juunishi would really like to scold her.

She writhes where she rests, uncaring, the tangled sheets of her makeshift nest beckoning him towards the space she cannot occupy. She'll always be small, see. Maybe it's normal that he'd want to fill the rest of her mattress.

He traces the white arch of her foot when she offers it to him, finding himself kneeling before her like it's his natural state.

She fancies herself as the queen of their menagerie, seeking her newest mate; there is a part of him that watches, disgusted, while the rest of him swells with humbled pride at being picked – at least for the night. Perhaps it will be Kureno tomorrow, or whoever's convenient, but it is surely an honour to be deemed a worthy bedfellow by a God.

"Hatori," she says, his name something ethereal when it's her teeth it's ground between. And he's never heard anyone say his name like that, Kana only ever accepting his advances like it was a duty – maybe his touch really is the odious kind.

He knows it's cold, anyway; clinical.

Akito says his name again so slowly, breathlessly, sliding onto her knees with a delicate arch of her back. When she says it again, she feeds it directly into his ear, five slender fingers pulling him closer by his tie.

"Hatori."

Hey, Hatori—

Hug me, Hatori—

That little girl is back in his mind's eye while he tries to pretend she isn't. Akito became a woman, in the way time demands, but she doesn't want to live like it.

In the now, the contemptible present, she slides her arms around his neck, lets him roam the body he usually just skims: medical necessities, routine examinations. He hates himself for it but this is absolution, the divine idea of forgiveness. It's an honour when she pushes the long hair back from his face to say he'll never find anyone else who understands him like this, and it's nearly more than he can stand when her lips deign to brush against the corner of his mouth – but nothing more.

A day will break, sometime in the future: it's not yet close but it isn't far, either.

He will watch the sun shoo the moon away, longing to find something poetic in the moment. He won't, obviously, sipping morning tea while pondering what on Earth it is about sunrises that makes poets so eager to record them.

It's all right – he will never be a man of art, but it will take him a while to realise that's just who he is. Mayuko will be due to visit later for lunch, and she'll tell him all about the book she's reading so he'll dutifully take an interest, but he'll zone out once she tells him it isn't a crime thriller.

The phone will ring just as he's stretching his legs across his porch – the porch of a house that won't be anywhere near the Sohma estate, a smaller home in some district of Tokyo – and he will rise to his feet, padding back indoors to answer it. He will be able to guess who's calling at this hour.

Ayame's voice will come as both a comfort and a nuisance, wholly turning into the latter as he moves on from his cheerful greeting to a demand for Hatori's company. He'll ask if Hatori's free to drive him to Yokohama to for a festival – a trip usually made with Shigure – and Hatori will be suspicious, wondering why he's suddenly being asked to attend something Ayame knows he has no interest in.

Shigure is with Akito, Ayame will say. They are very much in love, or so Shigure decided, and she'll be wearing the short dresses and kitten heels she never indicated a desire to wear before. At the mention of them together, Hatori will expect to feel something, but just as he felt nothing for the sunrise, nothing is destined to come. No jealousy. No happiness, though. No little tug in his chest.

(He will let Ayame ramble on about extortionate train fares, and he'll think about the letter Akito will send him later, asking meekly if he's really sure she's better now.)

In the end, he'll have to decline Ayame's offer. Another reason Mayuko is coming over is so they can discuss travel arrangements for their next excursion abroad: he'll long to see Germany, and she'll be more inclined towards Italy, but either way, they'll end up going to Europe together.

He will hang up the phone.

After walking away from the desk it lies upon, he will return to his tea and observe a morning-blue sky. There still won't be any poetry engraved across the clouds but, with aloof being who he is, it will be another day of autonomy he'll scarcely know what to do with.

Without fanfare, without realising he's doing it, he'll shake the past from his shoulders like cobwebs.

In the now he's familiar with, there's a morning where he wakes up disorientated, nose nestled into a warmth that most definitely isn't his pillow, yearning arms satisfied by the soft weight of something in their grasp. His good eye is buried in black so it takes a moment for the other to adjust, finding a face amidst the kaleidoscope of blindness-colour.

Akito is with him, and only Akito; his thoughts consist of nothing other than her while he reluctantly staggers out of dreaming. She, not yet awake, shifts between his arms, face pressed against his shirt. Her hands clutch at him; her calf is draped over his thigh.

He recalls perching beside her on the bed when she'd told him to, and he knows he accepted it when she promptly clambered on top of him. He doesn't remember falling asleep – that's to be expected, he supposes, but the unusual part is the fact Akito allowed it, let him sleep beside her when she's usually so adamant that he's a pathetic caricature of a man. He belongs in vacant rooms and empty beds, one side of them just as cold and uncharted as his disposition.

She's more like herself when she's sleeping, unable to talk, transcending violence. At least, she's more like the girl she was when Hatori liked her, when he felt protective in place of pitying.

Now he gives that tug in his chest to Kisa, to Momiji, to Tohru and the rest. It makes Akito jealous. She doesn't want every other part of Hatori when she can't have that, but it's not something he can offer her when she's wide awake.

There is something noble about her when she's in the midst of keen observation, smiling from her window while she sees straight through every visitor she gets. The ancients' wisdom lies within her gaze, curious islands and mythologies contained there – but when her eyes are closed, she looks her age.

Young. Pretty.

Surprising even himself, Hatori smiles against her hair, and it's the first smile he's mustered for quite some time. His mouth is there, and the union of opportunity with impulse leads him into kissing her forehead – slowly, savouring the whole bitter process.

Maybe he hates her. He feels almost validated when she cries, and he's never felt like that about anybody.

She doesn't stir – she doesn't react whatsoever – but it's satisfying to know he's done it, as he eases his head away. How sickened she'd be if she'd been awake, slashing at her skin and his in retaliation for having his kiss bestowed upon her, disgusting and cold like ice. It would repulse her, Hatori daring to treat his owner-by-blood like a cherished thing. Daring, rather, to defile her.

Not that it's going to matter soon.

He doesn't know what's coming, as he counts every breath of hers to skim over his collar. Though the end of empire is something Akito dreads, she doesn't know it's inevitable, either. Empires fall, in the end, and her career in furnishing them will end too when her family are liberated, but for now, this, the sort of rebellion he can attain – this is enough.

When the banquet was in full swing, with those in attendance merrymaking and drinking their fill, God took the dragon aside.

God was a jealous being, or so it seemed, and he clutched at the comfort of the dragon's wide wings, accepting their shelter from the eyes of those around them. He scowled, discontent that the dragon hadn't raced to his side immediately.

The dragon gestured to the food surrounding them, plate after plate of rich meats and crop yields. He told God, politely, that the humans beyond the hill were starving in an era of drought, and the dragon had simply paused in his journey to bring them rain down from the clouds.

It was an explanation God disliked. He sunk his nails into the dragon's flesh, dug out blood and more while demanding to know:

"Do you hate me?"

"Would you lie to me?"

"Didn't you want to see me?"

"I did want to see you," the dragon insisted. "But I have to help when I can; it's in my nature."

God relaxed, though he wasn't convinced. He took back his hands from the dragon who never complained, who never so much as flinched at the sight of blood.

"But you don't hate me?"

"I could never."

"And you'll come back to me?"

"I will."

"You'll come back every time?"

The dragon paused, and this he contemplated. God was feeble, God was weak; these were qualities the dragon's presence could soothe, or at least disguise. There was nothing like conviction, but he was always going to answer one way alone.

"Of course; how could I leave you? Gracious God, I have nowhere else to go."

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