cross-posted from ao3. hope u enjoy :)

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In his defense, she is being stubborn.

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"Sit still," Jin tells her, a peeled-off band-aid in his hand. "This one is bleeding a bit."

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Xiaoyu has gathered her hair on one shoulder, allowing him to see the small wound punctured near her nape. It is a shallow cut, barely deep enough to merit his attention, yet it feels like a crack in a glass vase—fragile, threatening to shatter at any moment. He caused this wound; he has to remind himself. He feels her wince as he touches the antiseptic to the cut.

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Their training session at the Mishima dojo had just concluded, the atmosphere thick with the lingering hum of exertion. The late afternoon sunlight streams through the tall windows, long, bright beams spilling across the polished wooden floorboards like molten gold. And she is bathing in it, her skin practically glowing under the warmth.

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With pursed lips, he directs his focus on her wound again, pressing down the band-aid firmly.

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"You're a little out of it today," she says, teasing yet layered with concern. "What's eating you?"

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He would rather not answer that, because even he isn't sure of the answer himself. (He is.) And he's sure she already knows it anyway. "Not enough sleep, I guess." So he responds with a half-truth and a half-lie, the words slipping through as effortlessly as liquid. He sits down on the floor just behind her after he is done applying the band-aid.

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She adjusts her position to face him fully, and there are damp strands of her hair sticking to her cheeks and forehead, the corners of her lips quirked up in a tired but still radiant smile. The sunlight certainly isn't helping, he thinks. He has to squint his eyes a bit to look at her properly, to look at her rummaging through the first-aid kit. "You missed a little bruise on your shoulder."

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His mouth twitches. "I did?"

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"Yeah, let me take care of it for you."

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He watches her reach for a gauze pad and the small bottle of antiseptic. As she starts dabbing at his shoulder, she glances up and meets his gaze, her eyes practically perforating through the veil of his thoughts, but chooses not to say anything further. It almost makes him squirm. Almost. He keeps his attention rooted on her hands, refusing to make eye-contact again.
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It's after Xiaoyu finishes dressing his bruise that she finally speaks up: "Say something, Jin."

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His shoulder tenses slightly at that, but he hopes she misses it. Mistakes it for the antiseptic stinging his skin.

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Unfortunately, her now narrowed eyes indicate she has not. Darn. He coughs weakly behind a loose fist. "So, uh…" His voice trails off, his mind reeling as he scavenges for a safe topic. "How is school?" (He internally groans.)

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"Fine," she answers plainly, clasping the first-aid kit shut. "It's gotten a little lonely without you there though."
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Has it? He looks down, tracing the patterns of the wooden floor absently. "Hard to imagine you feeling lonely. Hirano-san is always with you, isn't she?"
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"She is, but she doesn't walk with me on the way to school and on the way here," she replies. Her hands linger on the closed first-aid kit for a second longer before she places it aside. "Like you did."
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They're millimeters away from breaching the subject he has been averse to discussing with her for weeks. He coughs again, the truth feeling like an anchor in his throat. "Well… You know how it is."
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"I do."

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Jin doesn't question that she does, but a part of him has been expecting her to sound more... upset? Dejected? Actually, scratch that, he's getting ahead of himself again. She has always been quite predictable (or she presents herself as such), never shying away from being vocal about herself (he could see through her lies). But it's times like this that make her seem unsettlingly inscrutable—a far cry from her usual demeanor—and it unnerves him more than he cares to admit. He wonders if he has anything to do with that. Maybe he has rubbed some of his own inscrutability off on her. (She has started shouting chesto during training like him, all things considered.)
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A breeze wafts in the dojo, carrying with it the scent of cherry blossoms that pacifies him for at least a little while. When the silence becomes prolonged, he lightly bites his bottom lip, then says, "I can walk you to school tomorrow, if you'll have me."

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Xiaoyu's expression shifts, a flicker of surprise and mirth fleeting across her face before it gets all too quickly replaced by doubt. "Jin, if you're just doing this out of obligation, then no thanks—"

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"That's not it," he interrupts, more forcefully than he means to. He takes a breath, feeling the weight of her gaze more than ever, as if it could crush him if he's not careful. "I want to. Besides, it's been a while since I left the estate."

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Obligation. The word almost scratches his eardrums as he hears it. Once upon a time, when his grandfather forced upon him the arrangement that he would be training, studying, and living with her, that was how he perceived her. An obligation.

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But of course, over the weeks, or perhaps months, the lines have blurred. He still can't pinpoint exactly when it happened. She has already woven herself seamlessly into his life without him realizing it. And even if he did... he would have let her anyway.

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You've grown fond of her, he recalls his grandfather's words. Along with that cheeky, shit-eating grin that he finds very annoying. Is she still an obligation to you now?

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(No. Not anymore.

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... right?)

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He would be lying if he denied it—the way Xiaoyu carries herself can be so... daring. Maybe it's the confident set of her jaw, or the impetuous glint in her eye, or the easy smile on her lips that never really leaves. She could flirt with danger even if it's right in front of her face without flinching. (It's what brought her here in the first place.) He doesn't doubt her skills—he would never—but there's a fine line between confidence and recklessness, and she dances on it with a careless grace that both intrigues and scares him shitless.

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But then again, he supposes some of that is just… innate to her. It's not like there is anything he can do about it.

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He doesn't know when the sun has begun to set, because it is now reflecting her face in yellows and oranges that remind him of the flickering of fire. Suddenly, something in his stomach churns and he swallows, opting to watch the walls instead.
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She fails to notice this, however. "Okay," she sighs, arms crossed over her chest. She tilts her head just enough to catch the light almost perfectly. "But you better buy me some meat buns at the convenience store tomorrow."

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He raises an eyebrow, making a face as he mumbles, "Glutton."

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"Hey, I'm training hard here," she retorts with a playful tinge in her smile. "A girl's got to eat to keep up with your—what did you call it?—torturous regimen now that you've stopped attending classes to prioritize the tournament."

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Her giggles echo, yet his heart stills. "Right. The tournament." He had hoped she wouldn't bring that up, but at this point, hoping for anything seems like wishful thinking.

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You know it's too dangerous for her, grandfather!

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If the girl wants to participate, then let her! She knows whatshe has signed up for, boy... But do you?

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After a brief hesitation, Jin decides to stand up. "Listen, Xiao... about that."

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He sees her subtle change in posture, expression flipping from frisky to mildly bemused, and the twinkle in her eye dulls just a fraction.

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She follows him, curiosity blooming like wildflowers in spring as she leans forward. "What about it?" she asks. "Are you finally admitting that I can kick your sorry butt?"

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Under any other circumstances, he would have scoffed, tossed her a witty remark, and poked at her bravado. But today, the weight of what he wants to say hangs heavy on his tongue, as if it's a boulder that threatens to pull him under. He knows she will not like what he is about to tell her, knows it will only hurt her. She might stay mad at him for days, weeks even—if he lets the words spill out. In spite of this, he feels the need to be honest, although honesty right now is a poison eroding his throat. His only choices are either to risk her safety or risk what they have built together for the past year, and that thought pierces him more than any physical wound ever could.

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He tried, god,he did try. Whatever the hell has formed between them—this unspoken attachment that is now close to fraying at the edges—it wasn't his intention. Never was. Nobody has given him the protocol for navigating emotions so tangled, especially those tied to someone as fiercely spirited as the girl standing before him. So he is left with no clear path, left with nothing but the raw, encompassing desire to keep her safe, at all costs. No matter the costs.

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Because he can't risk this. Not again. Not this time. He just can't.

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(If that thing also got to her...)

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He doesn't respond to her teasing jibe, eyes hardened with a solemnity that feels all too foreign and familiar at once, daring the silence to stretch in the air until it suffocates them both. He gives her a minute to interpret it, to decipher the turmoil swirling beneath his skin. He trusts her enough to read him like an open book anyway.

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Coincidentally, though, as the sunlight begins to wane, she does just that. The warmth in her smile fades slowly, and she fixes him with a newfound gravity in her gaze, jaw tightening as she moves closer. The shadows lengthen, the walls grow dimmer. He forces himself to keep his eyes steady.

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Xiaoyu's voice trembles slightly when she speaks again, searching his face for the answer she already suspects.

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"... You don't want me in there, do you?"

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He sighs deeply.

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Forgive me. "I don't."

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He lets his words suspend between them, a chasm wide enough to consume the vivacity that had danced in her eyes just moments before. There is no remaining light left, literally and metaphorically, as the dusk drapes its long and dark cloak while his ears catch the faint clapping of thunderclouds rolling in from the horizon. He waits for her reaction, already bracing himself for her to scream, cuss, and hell, maybe even slap him, but what unfurls instead is her own unresponsiveness. Her feet stay rooted on her spot as if the ground itself has conspired to hold her back.

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She doesn't hide the hurt that morphs into her features though. She makes that very clear.

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"You think I can't handle it?" she challenges eventually, angry, defiant, vulnerable—all three bubbling on the surface. "You think I can't hold on my own in that tournament? Even after the year I've spent training with you?"

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"That's not it," he repeats, since it is all he can muster, although he knows it falls short against her accusation. "I just can't stand the thought of you throwing yourself in danger out there. I know what you're capable of, but some of those participants could kill you."
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"Then let me face them," she nearly shouts, and the fire in her tone ignites a spark of frustration within him, except he would never dare show it to her. She doesn't get it. "I've trained for this, Jin. You think you're being noble by doing this, but I'm not someone who needs to be protected. I'm not weak!"

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"I know. I know that better than anyone else—"

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"Then why are you insinuating otherwise!?"
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That causes him to pause, the sharpness he hears straight from her lips cutting deeper than he had anticipated.
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Is he really being noble? He almost wants to laugh. He is far from that. He is not being noble; he is being a coward. A cowardly man trapped in a cage of his own making, with no idea how to break free.
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Jin has lost count of how many nights he has stayed up late in this very dojo, tiring himself to the bone in hopes the nightmares plaguing his sleep would finally relent. He gets nightmares because of course he does. It's always the same: the unbearable heat nearly scorching his skin, the corrosion of acrid smoke in his lungs, and his mother's voice swallowed by it all. Her screams still ring in his ears as he feels his consciousness gradually slipping from his fingers, consumed by a boiling mix of rage and helplessness that threatens to drown him. He had failed once, and he would be damned if he had to withstand that kind of agony again.
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(Standing here, at the brunt of Xiaoyu's rising resentment, he refuses to admit it, even within himself, that his seemingly selfless concern stems from a deep, selfish fear as well. This fear isn't just for her safety, but also a desperate need to assuage his own gnawing guilt. She is everything he wishes to protect, yet the irony is virtually stifling—by doing so, he only renders her strength irrelevant.)
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"I don't—" she continues, then falters, evidently cracking under pressure. "I don't need you to protect me." There is a tremor in her voice, a subtle, unmistakable quiver that is all but enough to make his heart ache with regret. "If I step in that ring just to get knocked down anyway, then that's my choice. Not yours."
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I know, he wants to say, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His lips are pressed together, keep the guard up, a thin line of restraint barely holding back the torrent that's close to breaking free. He can't look her in the eyes right now; he just doesn't have it in him. Because if he does, he knows he will only be met with the hurt, the disappointment, the reflection of his fears mirrored back at him, and it's enough to shatter him completely.
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He has always been bad with confrontations, especially when it's her.
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"Say something, Jin!"

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He draws a shaky breath, resolve wavering.
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"No," he mutters, finally, almost lost amidst the frizzling tension. "I don't have anything else to say that you would want to hear."
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Xiaoyu's eyes widen, as if her disbelief has taken a physical form. Judging by that reaction, she must have expected more from him, a plea perhaps, or another argument to test her conviction.
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She is stubborn, he thinks again. She is being stubborn.
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… But what does that make him?
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"Fine," she snaps, looking torn between shouting at him again and walking away entirely. Before long, she opts for the latter. He doesn't miss the subtlest telltale sign of her tears. "If you won't say anything, then I guess we're done here."
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With an abrupt turn, she steps back, making a beeline towards the entrance of the dojo. He watches her go, doesn't even stop her, that is, until he hears again the boom of thunder from the skies, accompanied by the now torrential rain beating against the rooftop. It's like the heavens themselves are simultaneously echoing her frustration and the storm of his anxieties. How fitting. (Not.)
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"Xiao, wait—"
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"Save it!" she shouts, pausing at the doorway to spare him a final, furious glare. "You don't get to make my decisions for me, Kazama. No one does."
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As the doors swing to close behind her, she throws one last parting shot over her shoulder. "And stop calling me that."
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The dojo shuts with a finality that nearly makes him flinch. He stands motionless, her words repeating over and over in his head, blending in with the sound of the rain that seems to increase in volume. The result leaves him in a silence that is both deafening and painfully, harrowingly familiar.
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He considers following after her, then discards it immediately once the possibility of her response—of the look in her eyes that would send him crumbling again—settles in like needles on his skin. Instead, he grapples with the weight of her absence, struck by the sheer hollowness that stabs into him. It doesn't fade even when he closes his eyes.
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You fucked up, is all he can tell himself, bitterly, raking his fingers through his messy bangs. You fucked it up this time.
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He really should head back to the main house too, take a shower, get some rest, but the inevitable prospect of facing everyone there—her, in particular—makes him hesitate. His grandfather is bound to notice something is amiss, and the servants are notorious for running their mouths over the tiniest speck of gossip.
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He's too mentally drained to deal with any of that right now. So, despite the remorse continuing to claw at his chest, he pushes it aside, just for a moment. He can worry about Xiaoyu again later, when he's had a chance to clear his head. If he even can, after what just transpired.
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After a couple of minutes, he decides to move across the room and pick up a wooden training dummy.
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Outside, the thunderclouds crackle relentlessly.

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