prompt: firsts
summary: the first time she says it back.
"Oh, Hiyori, I love you!"
It doesn't take much to elicit the phrase from him. This time, it's for bringing him one of the extra warm cheesy buns on her way to visit. The favor didn't really take a lot of effort—just a quick stop, five minutes, and a few coins. But he would probably tell her he loved her if she bought him a flyswatter. He would probably tell her he loved her if she attacked him with it.
As he digs into the good-smelling bakery bag, Hiyori mutters something under her breath. He stops devouring for a second, looking up in curiosity.
"Did you say something?"
She flushes.
"I said you need to not eat so quickly. You'll make yourself sick."
"I can't get sick. And I know you didn't say that, because you look like you're lying."
Hiyori starts walking away from him.
"You're hearing things, Yato."
With inhuman speed he seems to materialize right in front of her, setting his hands heavily on her shoulders. Hiyori sometimes wishes he hadn't figured out how to fluster her quite so easily, or that he hadn't discovered the ways he can touch her to cause her breathing to stagger, because he avails himself of these advantages every opportunity he can. This time is no different.
Without meeting his eyes, Hiyori knows his gaze is burning through her. Her ears and cheeks become as hot as one of those extra warm cheesy buns.
"Hiyori. What did you say?"
His voice is low; it makes her shivery. It makes her honest. She gulps. With her voice barely above a whisper, she says:
"I love you…too."
Yato doesn't say anything, and she doesn't dare to look at him—not just yet. Hiyori feels blood flooding her face; if only he would say something. Maybe she should say something. But instead, the long quietness after those small, incriminating words stretches like an unbroken horizon.
Finally, one of his hands comes off her shoulder, and she feels his hot fingers close around her right hand. He lifts it up toward his face, and with the hurricane of her heartbeat pounding inside her ribs, she feels him press his lips to her curved knuckles. Then, turning it over, he kisses her palm. The pressure of his lips on her hand leaves an invisible mark, like the skimming wings of a butterfly.
"Yato—?"
He doesn't answer, but keeps her hand close to his face. She feels his breath on her fingers. And something hot, wet, splashes onto her fingernails. Realizing it's a tear, Hiyori's breath catches, and she has a moment of devastating clarity.
Who has told him these words before? Nora? She's probably said them, and meant them well enough. But she's also a master of manipulation—withholding the sentiment constantly, dangling it just enough out of reach to bring Yato back into the snare of his old life. What about his father? Hiyori doesn't think he's been too free with affection. Otherwise, Yato would not have craved it so violently, so desperately. And his other friends…she knows he deeply trusts Kofuku and Daikoku, but he's never set both of his feet over that line of acquaintanceship. Not like he has with her.
But Hiyori didn't think about any of that when she said it. She didn't think that, maybe, it's the first time he's heard it—really heard it—and after thousands of years of waiting…
Another scalding drop lands. Then one more.
Then he looks at her, and smiles, and if Hiyori had any doubts about saying it before, they're gone now.
She takes a deep breath and starts to say something—probably something silly—but then he drags her into his chest and holds her there, arms locked so closely around her that she almost passes out. His breath tickles her ear.
"Mean it?"
The question is so vulnerable and so young, she could nearly weep. Her face is a little smashed against his shoulder, but she manages to bob it up and down. After a few more seconds, she wheezes through her compressed lungs:
"Yato—air—"
He immediately takes a step back to give her room to inhale, but keeps her held in a half-embrace. When she meets his eyes, they're the clear, winter-blue they've always been. Except for the wetness on her hand, it's hard to imagine he's shed a tear. He says playfully:
"Well, of course you love me. I'm super."
Hiyori snorts, and leans away far enough to tweak his (frustratingly perfect) nose with her right hand.
"Don't get carried away. Just because I love you doesn't mean you get to be cocky."
Her careful emphasis on those three words is not lost on him, just like the unwrinkling of the skin between his eyebrows, and the subtle softening of his shoulders—like the lifting of an invisible weight—is not lost on her.
And then, finally, he looks at her mouth and kisses her there instead. Which, if she's being honest, is the reaction she hoped for ever since she bought that second extra warm cheesy bun. He smells like everything good: like laundry, and fresh bread, and sunrise. And himself.
Because she thinks he wants to hear it one more time—or maybe she just wants to say it one more time—she fits it into the half-seconds when he's not kissing her.
"I love you too."