Notes: have this totally silly shameless fluffish drabble touken that is the only good thing that has come out of my multiple two-hour commutes this week (AAAAHHHHHHHHH)
Sweetness
How beautiful.
The phrase echoes in her brain as they head home. She and Kaneki are practically dragging themselves and it's a miracle that, after all that, they have energy left to avoid people.
A miracle. Even now that the air is chill, her flesh feels hot and tense, as if her kagune is spread and pulsing beneath her skin. There's a taste in her mouth, too, deep and inextricable. She doesn't know what humans mean when they talk about sweetness but she imagines this could be close. The flavor of being alive. Of racing on the blade of a knife as sharp as kagune, and winning.
So why does she still feel on edge?
Kaneki's head is bowed, and his hand is rubbing the crook of his neck and shoulder where he had her bite him.
"Are you alright?" she asks, and he jumps.
"Oh — yeah."
"Even with…?" She points to where's he's rubbing and he smiles and shows her his palm, fingers spread. The lines of it are red-brown, but dry. He's already healed.
"I'm fine," he says. "Um, are you alright, Touka-chan?"
"Yeah...I think so." Though she's never felt like this before, like she was going to burst out of her skin. That fucking Gourmet. And, even worse —
"That human girl," she mutters, and Kaneki says, "What?"
"I can't believe that some human said something like that to me."
He blinks. "Something like…?"
"That last thing she said."
"That…you're…beautiful?" he says, picking carefully through the syllables. "Is that what you mean?"
She stares at him. What do you think I mean? Her clothing is torn and stained beyond recovery. Blood is congealed in her disheveled hair, and beneath her fingernails, and on her forearms, and in the corner of her mouth. Her gaze is flat, and flickering black.
"To say such a thing just to save your own skin," Touka continues, voice low. And even worse —
To feel something inside of her reaching out for it.
"How stupid," she sighs, adjusting her shirt.
"I don't think she was just trying to save herself," Kaneki says, and she blinks at him.
"What? What other reason would a human have to say something like that?" Her voice is harder than she intends, still bared from the fight, and he swallows.
"I — I don't know," he says, rubbing his chin as he looks away. As he does, he realizes what road they're on, and starts.
"Ah! I didn't realize we were already here. I'll be going this way," he says, pointing and smiling apologetically. "See you later, Touka-chan."
He turns and continues dragging himself off.
"Hey," she calls after him, "don't forget to eat something. You need to replenish your energy."
"Got it," he calls back over his shoulder, and Touka watches him go until he is around a corner and out of sight. She purses her lips, touches her fingertips to her frowning mouth.
Deep, inextricable.
:::
It takes longer to recover than she expects, longer than she's ever experienced. By now her wounds are gone but she still feels off. She's constantly eating, and even when the food is gone she forgets and opens the fridge anyway, only to shove it closed with a scowl. At some point she makes herself some coffee — accidentally spills it — cleans it up, then just stares at what remains in the mug. It soon turns cold without her having drank any of it.
"Onee-chan," Hinami asks, for the dozenth time, "are you alright," and Touka rubs her forehead.
"Yeah. Don't worry about it," she answers, again, "just concentrate on healing that — that bird," and with that she's able to successfully prevent Hina from worriedly following her to Anteiku.
Touka downs a shot of espresso as soon as she gets in. I'm fine.
Absolutely fine. Kaneki passes her an order for a latte and Touka dumps milk into a pitcher, stabs in the thermometer and the steamer with a frothy hiss. Kaneki approaches the espresso machine to start an order himself, and Touka inhales deeply as she feels her heart begin to palpitate. So annoying, how often it's been doing that since the fight. And annoying how close Kaneki is (she rubs her chest, sucks in another deep breath), and how strong he smells, something that grabs and permeates as deep as coffee, that makes her stomach churn as if she hasn't eaten in da —
"Touka-chan!" Kaneki calls, and Touka jerks in shock, still holding the pitcher. It jams against the steamer and hot milk spills all over her hand and she cries out. She lets it go and the pitcher clashes onto the floor, splashing milk over their dark pants.
"What the hell?!" she shouts at Kaneki, voice shaking, and he grabs her hand and quickly dunks it underneath a faucet running cold water.
"I-I'm sorry, Touka-chan — you were — the milk was getting too hot, I was calling you, but you weren't listening —"
"Is everything alright?" Yoshimura calls. He peers from the back, brows furrowed, and Touka yanks her hand back from Kaneki's. She waves Yoshimura off awkwardly with both hands, one clutching the other. Water droplets scatter from her drenched sleeves.
"My fault," Kaneki says quickly, rubbing his sleeve beneath his mouth, "I'm sorry."
"We're fine," Touka says, examining her hand. Reddish, and stinging, but not too badly hurt.
"Touka-chan, it seems you haven't been feeling well for a while," Kaneki says. "Are you still weak from the fight?"
She grimaces. "Not you too."
But when Yoshimura suggests she take the rest of the day off, she's somehow too tired to protest. She goes to clean up the spill, but Kaneki has already soaked up most of it with a mop. Under Yoshimura's instruction she changes clothes and retrieves a parcel of food from upstairs, and when she returns down to hang up her apron Kaneki is there, again, already hanging up his.
"I'll walk you back," he says, smiling, and she starts to argue — then stops, rubbing her chest.
"...alright."
He lets her set the pace, and she goes slow, peeling the paper from her meat and nibbling surreptitiously when no one's around. Touka finishes, and is disappointed when her belly still feels buzzy. She tosses the balled-up paper into a garbage bin and sighs, deeply, and the smell of him reaches her again. Coffee. And something else.
"I know you're probably not ready yet," Kaneki says, hands in pockets, "but I've been thinking…that, um, maybe we can continue having fighting practice once in a while."
"Even with all those books you've been reading?"
"It's different against an actual ghoul," Kaneki protests, and Touka considers.
"Yeah," she says. "How about we practice now?"
"Huh? No, it doesn't need to be right now —"
Yes. Right now.
"In reality, you can't choose what condition you'll be in," she points out, opening and closing her hands. All anyone can do is try to listen to themselves, to pursue the weird, pleasant thrum that follows the thought sparring with Kaneki a little. She waves off his further protests and jogs to the edge of the ward, to the slab of abandoned parking garages that is their usual practice arena. More hesitantly than usual, Kaneki takes his stance.
"I really —" he starts, but before he can finish she's on him, faster than even she expects. He bites off his words to defend against her, and then to attack, and in moments they are moving seamlessly — dodging when the other lunges, blocking when the other punches, anticipating blows and predicting counters. Her heart races. Like this, as with their last fight, it's as if she knows him — knows him deeper than words, than hunger, than loneliness.
And every time they clash she can feel, impossibly, that he understands her too — that he can read every racing thought in her mind — that he is closer than anyone, than anything, nearer than instinct. They are as flawless as two wings in flight.
In the flurry their eyes meet, inky and crimson, and something shifts — maybe the wind — the way it sweeps through the garage, the way it hits her with a smell of coffee, and something else — Touka gasps and falters and Kaneki's next strike tips her over and the pavement dashes at her face and —
In a heartbeat Kaneki senses her stumble, and is grabbing her arm — clenching — so hard that it hurts, but not as much as it would have hurt cracking her nose against the cement. She still ends up falling far enough to jam her knee against the ground, and when he lets her go she kneels, panting, all of her exertions catching up with her. She sets her hands on the ground and a drop of sweat spots the dust between them.
Her heart is rushing.
"T-Touka-chan," Kaneki stammers, "are you alright?"
She licks her lips, wipes her mouth. She mutters something into her hand and Kaneki kneels down.
"What did you say?"
"I said," she whispers, "you're right. I feel weak," and for all their coordination moments earlier, this time he isn't prepared for what comes next: her hand reaching up, dusty palm on his cheek, guiding his mouth to hers.
This time, there isn't blood. Instead, he tastes of malted coffee, bitter, and steep. And something else, as he leans in toward her, forehead touching hers — a flavor she can only describe as sweet.