The reflection of her eyes on his blade dried his throat. As he struggled to find the words - to fight? Are you sure? - Rosaline watched him, drawing closer, only his sword between them.
Benvolio found his voice between deep breaths. “If you are certain.”
But of course, as she nodded and grinned, her smile’s reflection even brighter, she was. He had no reason to deny her request - Rosaline was his friend, and he wished to protect her, but he understood she also had a grave need to protect herself. So, if he must teach her to ensure her safety - then, he would.
“Shall we begin?” she asks, startling him, for her face was eager and excited. Benvolio shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Today?” He tugged his sword gently out of her hands. “Unfortunately, we need to get you a blade of your own, first.” He sheathed his weapon, reveling in the sound of metal safely tucked away. “But after that - “
His voice drowned in her dark curls, his nose too busy breathing in her scent to breathe anything else. She was small and warm in his arms, but mostly she fit perfectly, and he embraced her tighter. “Thank you,” she whispered into his chest. It tickled his skin, despite the layers, and Benvolio forced himself to separate just slightly.
To separate just enough to smile at her. “For you? Of course.”
im so angry i hate having this shit disorder i dont wanna have fucking fps and i dont wanna have emotional impermanence and i dont wanna have abandonment issues and i dont wanna split and i dont want it i cant handle this anymore
He observes Tetsurou’s dark circles when he comes home from work every night, in turn kissing them all, a silent “i’m glad to be home”. Tetsurou never complains, though. He loves teaching little kids about chemistry and physics and the secrets of the universe. But Kenma knows he likes it best when he’s wearing a pair of ratty old sweats, eating popcorn and laughing at really bad movies with the rest of them. And he always brings back leftover candy from school.
He observes Keiji’s mouth, a slight droop of lips indicating his discomfort at having to work overtime at the hospital. Keiji never complains, though. He loves helping people. But Kenma knows he likes it best when he’s at home, absorbed in a good book, his head on one of their laps, enjoying one of the quieter moments with the rest of them. And he always brings back flowers that remind him of them.
He observes Koutarou from a distance, a star shining almost too bright to look at directly. But he sees the sagging of his shoulders, an indication of self doubt and dejection. Koutarou doesn’t complain about it, though. He loves playing volleyball and he knows his students look up to their coach, a figure of strength and resilience. But Kenma knows that no matter how spirited Koutarou might appear to his students, he likes it best when he is sitting under the blankets with the rest of them, late at night, talking about the latest ghost story he’s heard from his students, an act that always always leads to cuddling. And he always hugs them all so hard, lifting them off their feet and planting a kiss with a plop on their cheeks.
Where does Kenma find himself in this equation? How does he show his love, when he can’t even say the words “i love you”? Maybe he doesn’t have to.