Three [Eustass Kid × Reader]

Sixteen

The man scowls a little and tilts his head. You watch his sky blue eyes since those are the only ones that can express how he feels.

"You're bleeding, fafafa," he laughs, leaning down. You shiver and look away, his shoulders drop. "Sit down."

"What?"

"If I don't close the wound, it'll get infected," he answers, struggling to hold back his chuckle. You watch him for a few seconds, trying to measure your chances. You still know nothing about this man, but he's right. You need help. "Sit down and pull up your shirt."

You clench your fists and do as he said. As he crouches opposite you, the thick waves of blond hair fall forward.

He places the large scythes over the grass. He doesn't see you as a threat, and you understand why, in your current state.

You watch as he pulls out a box from his kimono, then leans down and looks at you.

You are glaring at his face, unable to move, wondering how the blue eyes can stay so deep and serious over the wicked grin.

As you understand what he waits for, you grit your teeth and unfold the rough binding around your torso.

The man examines the injury for a second before turning back to you.

"Arrow?" he chuckles, and you nod silently.

He opens the box and pulls out a threaded needle. Somehow he manages to keep his hands steady, even while laughing endlessly.

You feel your heart beating faster as you can't understand what is happening. His hair reminds you of the child you saw in Kid's past, but nothing else seems to be the same.

He said Killer always wears a mask and would never take it down. If he ate a Smile, can it be enough reason?

And even if it's him, would he believe my story?

Maybe if I can find Kid in my past and show him. But I can't reveal that he's important to me if this man isn't Killer. I can't let the enemy know, or it'll become a weakness. If they capture me again, they'll hurt Kid to make me talk.

You flinch when the needle goes through the edge of the wound, and he stops.

"If you keep moving, I'll screw it up, fafafa," he says. You feel a tug at your heartstring as you see how the corner of his mouth twitches as he tries to take control of the laughter. "I'm not a doctor."

"I'm sorry."

The man shakes his head slightly and leans forward, even more, to see the wound better. You close your eyes to resist the pain, your nails tensing against your thigh.

You feel his breath reaching your stomach from the distance, like a weak waft.

He finishes in a few minutes and secures the thread, then cuts it with the long scythe.

You think that he has to be a great fighter if he handles his weapon with such precision even at subtle movements.

"You're good at this," you say.

He shrugs and nods, so you turn around. The man starts working on the other side of the wound, you try to keep still despite the pain.

He stops for a moment and collects your hair, throwing it over your shoulder so it won't bother him.

"I had someone who always needed stitches," he laughs with a softer voice. You scowl, and your hand twitches.

Can it be?

Your mind is running circles around the same thoughts as you try to decide what to do. If you can trust him or not. You don't dare to ask the most simple and crucial question.