kunikida/reader.
note: for -trashcandy, my queen and kunikida simp. lowkey flangst/hurt+comfort, this thing manifested itself into a violet evergarden au-
Leiden was the capital of Leidenschaftlich, a wonderful country with no doubt, even in the throes of a post-war situation.
But Leiden also meant to suffer.
And suffer you would, even if no one could have anticipated it at that time, even if he told you about how his ideals were for his friends' safety, even if-
Even if there was something beneath his calculated feelings that told him you didn't deserve that. Not at all.
One of Kunikida's ideals in his notebook included the quick, proper, and accurate execution of every task the Auto Memory Dolls, the ones carrying letters from one place to the other, and ordinary office workers came across. That, logically, included the rule to not let themselves be distracted by anything that could be a potential risk or hazard to their life.
He was well aware of the fact some people might view him as prim and in a marriage with his work, but he only wanted his people to be safe, and that was the sole way he knew of to let them feel protected and loved.
The blonde thought of those things once again as he propped a hand onto your desk, interrupting your fast tapping and diligent way of working. “How's it going?“, he asked, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I heard your client has a pretty shy attitude and a peculiar way of writing.“
You smiled up at him and patted the side of the typewriter. “You mean the raccoon boy? Yeah, you're right, but I find him quite intriguing for exactly those reasons, you see? His language is full of flowery descriptions, but he never overdoes it, and his view on love is magical, to say the least...“
When you caught him blinking rapidly, his mouth slightly open, you flailed your hands with a small, nervous laugh, telling him to not worry, and got back to work, giving him no chance to reply.
Exactly six minutes later, he flopped down in his chair, devoid from the usual, careful grace, and ran a hand through his hair. All he wanted to say was-
He just never saw you so passionate before. He didn't even know you all that well, at least not on such an intimate level as the others around you, and a tiny voice in the back of his head told him to change that, before it's late. He's never paid much attention to your kindness up until a few months ago, which caused a small, heated-up sense of shame to flare up in chest; he was sure that he could lessen that feeling with each passing day he spent with you.
It was too late, just a few days later.
What should have been a simple delivery of the finished letter to your client turned out to be the exact opposite on your way home.
As soon as the traces of a dreadfully familiar smell hit your nostrils, you took a few steps back to see plumes of thick smoke rising above the rooftops. Fire. A fucking fire.
Hastily rounding a few more corners, pushing against the loud, panicked, screaming crowd, you saw the source of everything. The burning, dissolving construct of an orphanage, and you've never been angrier in your life than in that moment.
You ran.
You ran and rescued as many children as you could and won the fight, but you lost the war.
You didn't regret a thing.
You couldn't regret it, even when you saw how guilt-stricken and empty Kunikida looked, the first time he managed to visit you, sunken into the plastic chair beside your bed.
(Of course, there was a silent, cruel twist of hurt in your heart, the second you caught a glimpse of him.
It was the visceral kind of hurt, the one that could only run as deep because of love. Infatuation. Adoration.
You loved him.)
He loved you as well. Even though he lost you- a part of you- in that orphanage, even though there were endless waves of stark white bandages wrapped around one side of your head, cascading down your right shoulder, arm, part of your torso, and leg. Irredeemable injuries, and he couldn't heal them, no matter how hard he tried.
He couldn't save you.
It made no sense to him anymore. His ideals didn't make sense. If they were cut out to protect and comfort his friends and ultimately failed, what purpose was there for him in life? What was his meaning if he only ended up letting everyone down, regardless of the countless safety nets he put his trust into?
And if he created those nets, the only logical response was -
“Stop that,“ you rasped out, sitting up gradually to not irritate the various stitches and patches of sensitive skin. “I've known you long enough to know what's going through your head.“
He exhaled shakily, pushing his glasses up as a means to conceal the tears building at the corners of his eyes. “Maybe that's why you should quit trusting me,“ he muttered, voice raspy and sounding like the grief he bottled up were tiny glass shards pinpricking his throat.
You set out to smash that bottle sometime in this conversation, no matter how much pain it could bring him. He had to let it out, and god, maybe that'd hurt even more than the fire licking at your skin.
For now though, you reached out and took his hand with a short sigh, not missing the way he tensed up at your touch. As if you could burn him to ashes just by staring at him, just from the thousands of thousands of suns blazing in your eye.
“You forgot to take one thing into account when you planned your ideals,“ you whispered, thumb running over the ridges of his bruised, dry knuckles. “The willingness of man to sacrifice themselves. Empathy that rises beyond the boundaries. The few people who don't need to be saved, because they'll never regret to have defended the front for others. So, please... don't beat yourself up over it. There's nothing you could have done to rewrite the course of action.“
“I should have come with you,“ the blonde choked out after a few seconds. “I should have taken that job instead of you. I should have been the one in that house.“
You shook your head, murmuring quiet hushes over and over, and turn his face to you, tracing the line of his jaw with your bandaged fingers. “I would have insisted to accompany you, because I enjoy being where you are. I would have pushed you away from the fire, because I'd have wanted to make sure you were with the other people, safe and sound. I wouldn't have changed a thing, ideals or not. Which means that this... it's not your fault. It never was, and it never will be.“
You could see that he didn't believe you, at least not fully, at least not yet. That would take some time, and it was possible that his path to self-forgiveness would be longer and rockier than your road to recovery.
But that was okay. You'd wait at the intersection where your paths met, and take his hand to hold him up the rest of the way. You'd hold his universe up, just like he did.
never in my entire life have i come around to write for kunikida until now so i sincerely apologize if i didn't capture his professionalism/epiphany/existential idealistic crisis that well -
OTHERWISE THAN THAT
i hope you enjoy this, gin bby <3
