Heartstrings [Kirishima Ikuya x Reader]

4: 《Livewire》

Ikuya hasn't ever had ideas about what paradise might be like, but laying beside (Y/n) on the hardwood floor of her small apartment feels like it might be it.

The air is tangible with her scent and the words that don't need to be said between them, forming a lullaby that encourages him to close his eyes against the faint moonlight that filters in through her large windows and the city lights that can never be escaped in Tokyo.

"This is nice," he murmurs, and she hums, agreeing.

"Thanks for running an intervention," (Y/n) says softly. "I needed a break. I'm sorry for worrying all of you."

There is a vulnerability in her voice that makes him open his eyes so he can look at her, even if she's avoiding his gaze. It's the effect of the silence that is only broken by the sounds of the city below them and the soft ticking of a clock somewhere in the studio apartment, an openness that results from the fact that it's a little past midnight and the momentary delusion that they are the centers of their universe.

"It's okay," Ikuya whispers, even though it hadn't been when Kisumi had called him in an obviously worked up state because (Y/n) hadn't been answering his calls or messages for a few days now and the boy was worried she might be facing death or something.

He hadn't thought twice about joining the salmon-haired boy in hunting her down, discovering that she'd holed herself up and overworked herself beyond the state of exhaustion because she was in a creative bind and she had no time to be. But while Kisumi had taken his leave after giving her a stern talking to and restocking her fridge with something other than energy drinks and ramen (truly the foods of desperation), Ikuya had taken one look at her and softly asked if she'd like for him to stay.

After all, Ikuya's no stranger to working himself to the bone even when his body is screaming in protest, and he knows how lonely that state of recklessness and despair can be.

It's the first time he has ever seen her without her usual composure, and it's almost like a reminder that she, too, is a human and not some distant dream of his.

"Just- " He pauses. Sighs. "Look after yourself more. Please."

She exhales a laugh; a sad sound that lets him in on just how tired she is. "No promises, Ikuya," she says, "but I'll try."

For the first time, he's the one to initiate contact in reaching for her hand and curling his pinkie finger around hers. He doesn't say anything, and neither does she, but Ikuya catches the twitch of her lips and how much lighter even that barest show of joy makes her seem.

Here, in her space, lying beside her and breathing among the faint sounds of Tokyo, Ikuya feels numb and hypersensitive all at once.

"Is work stressful right now?" he ventures into the silence, his voice reverberating off her walls and echoing in the quiet.

(Y/n) plays with the fraying hem of her oversized T-shirt. "It always is," she admits quietly. "It's just so much worse when I can't produce satisfactory results no matter how hard I try. My brain feels frozen and it scares me because I can't have any drops in the quality of what I'm producing this early on in my career."

It almost feels like a dam is being broken within her, and once the words start, she cannot stop them. Her concerns bewilder him because he has no idea on how to respond, but (Y/n) isn't looking to be consoled. She only wants someone to listen.

And Ikuya loves listening to her, so he lets her speak and empty her heart's contents until she has to break for breath.

"Do you know how hard it was just to get to this point?" she asks in a whisper once she has taken a moment to catch her bearings again. "Iwatobi has little to no musical exposure. Getting into Saotome Academy nearly killed me from the stress of the stupid entrance exam. And I've been competing ever since-- to graduate early, to stay on top during the Masters' course, to make a name for myself in this industry." Her voice cracks, and he can only hold her hand properly, squeezing to remind her that she doesn't have to keep this to herself.