When I'm With Them, I'm Free

Chapter Twenty-Four: Is This Love, Too?

almost a week after completing the chapter i decided to delete a big chunk of it because i didn't feel satisfied with the result.

school started a few days ago ans even though i am doing online once again, its still a lot of work. so updates might be a bit slower (this one is an example LMAO i'm sorry) i'm busy a lot more than i was this summer and don't have a lot of free time. and as much as i like writing, i cannot spend all of my free time on it.

ALSO, even though i am still working on this fic, i have begun to work on another one. so far its pretty promising that i will be able to write enough that i will want to finish it. i don't want to speak too soon because i literally have hundreds of ideas in my google drive that haven't been touched, but so far this is the farthest that i have gotten with anything since i started this fic 10 months ago. 10 months ago from yesterday AHHHH. anyway, watch out for that if you're interested enough and like OC fics (from the same fandom as this one) :))

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Things felt awkward after the kiss. It was hard to look at Shoto without living the moment he pressed his lips against your own, inhaling in a deep breath as if the mutual touch sent needles into his spine.

Maybe you had only become hyper-aware of the not-yet familiar touch, or perhaps it was the act of change. A large part of you was sure a barrier had dropped, allowing new feelings and desires to rise like bile in your throat, touching your poor taste buds and forcing the clarity of that longing into your bones.

While you weren't sure what blockage had been opened, or what had poked enough holes that the dam broke and water rushed over your mind, but something told you it was the kiss. The mention was only a whisper, a brushing of the wind against your face. But it was still there, and palpable enough that the nerves in your body sparked in the slightest, questioning if the fear that resided in your stomach had always been as timid.

As you wander aimlessly around the dorm the following day, you wondered if part of you—a stupid part, a careless part—convinced yourself that all would be well, that you and Shoto would never be like your parents, and that you all would live beside another until you were both old and unable to do anything but cherish the early days. Of course, you knew you weren't your father nor your mother, as well as you were aware that Shoto wasn't them either, but it would be stupid to not fear at all. People pit against others easily, anger and fear cause irrationality which only destroys the things that were carefully built. Hate can grow from a misunderstanding like a fire fueled by oxygen, continuously growing until it was too big to stop.

A part of you was still scared of fighting and never coming back from it. A part of you was terrified of turning into the monster you remember your father shape-shifting into, slashing and cutting and killing and mindlessly ruining. You were afraid of seeing Shoto transform into the dangerous being that murdered your mother with the same damn ax that sat in a heap of trash, unused for years.

Laying out your feelings in the hospital, confessing all your truths like they were sins wasn't enough to destroy the bubbling fear inside of you. The war wasn't enough to squeeze all your dismay out of your pores like squishing the water out of a wet rag.

So, for the first time in weeks, it was almost difficult to look at Shoto. And you hated it.

You knew that at some point in the two days that passed quickly—like they didn't even exist at all—Shoto must have caught on. Maybe it was when he came into your dorm unannounced and you hadn't smiled and called him a goof. Maybe it was when he was talking to you and accidentally leaned in unintentionally, but you still took a step away from him, as if you had been stabbed and your body was reacting to the releasing feeling of your gushing blood. Or maybe it was when you all sat in the commons room one night, watching a horror movie in the dark; when you and Shoto sat by each other on the couch, his fingers begging to intertwine with yours before you brought your hands to your lap because too many people were around and your scars were fresh.