It had been almost three weeks.
Twenty days since he'd arrived in this quiet corner of Nebraska.
Twenty days since he'd appeared in a kitchen, still in armor, prepared for a trap—and instead found a man making soup, a child laughing in a garden, and another warrior who simply raised an eyebrow before offering him a shirt.
Twenty days of domesticity and Ashwatthama didn't know what to make of it.
He sat now on the porch, morning breeze tugging at the hem of his shirt. The garden was just ahead—small, fenced, scattered with wildflowers Riley and Ralts insisted on protecting like sacred relics. He could hear their giggling now, distant and bright.
He'd expected... punishment. Retribution. Purpose, at the very least. A mission. A chain. Some test of loyalty.
Not this.
Not warmth.
Not Satoshi, humming off-key in the kitchen, apron tied messily around his waist as he made breakfast. Not Shirou, grumbling without bite as he was conscripted into chopping vegetables. Not Riley, running up to him in the mornings like he'd always been there, part of the family.
The lack of expectation terrified him more than any order because they didn't demand anything of him. They didn't even ask for nothing more than what he was willing to give.
"Help out around the house if you want," Satoshi had said with a soft smile, that first morning. "But if you don't, that's okay too. Just… live. Eat. Rest. Be."
Be.
What did that even mean, to someone like him?
He did the chores anyway, because he needed something to do. Fixed a fence, mowed the yard, scrubbed the bathroom until it sparkled. It was easier than sitting still. Easier than thawing. Because that's what this place was doing to him.
It was thawing him.
Each night, they all climbed into the same bed—out of practicality, sure, but also out of habit now. Riley curled up on one side or the other, usually between Satoshi and Shirou. Ralts, on top of someone's stomach like a tiny sentry.
Shirou always ended up draped around Satoshi.
And Satoshi?
He let them.
He made space and ometimes even reached back when he thought no one noticed, just to brush fingertips against someone's arm. Anchor himself. Share the warmth.
Ashwatthama had woken once, sometime after midnight in that first week, with Satoshi's hand resting gently on his chest. Not possessive. Not intimate. Just there, present.
It had felt… safe.
And that terrified him, because nothing this good lasted. Nothing this kind stayed.
He tried to ignore him after that, to just play the part when they were in front of Riley, but—he couldn't. Not for long.
Ashwatthama clenched his fists on his knees now and stared down at the morning sun creeping across the grass. The light was too gentle. The laughter too real.
The part of him that had survived too many wars, too much betrayal, whispered: Don't trust this.
But the part that looked at Satoshi—bright-eyed, rambling, terrible liar with warm hands and honest food—whispered back: Maybe this time…
He didn't finish the thought. Didn't dare.
.
It had been five days since the social worker visit, twenty five days since he came here. The kitchen smelled like rice and miso and something sweet Satoshi was experimenting with.
Ashwatthama lingered at the threshold again, like he always did—half in, half out. Always close enough to help, never close enough to belong.
Until today.
He cleared his throat, stepped forward. "Need a hand?"
Satoshi glanced up from the pot he was stirring, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. "Sure! Could you peel those potatoes?"
Ashwatthama stared at them like they might bite him.
"I'll show you," Satoshi said gently, already moving, already smiling. Not condescending. Not mocking. Just… patient.
Too patient.
Ashwatthama listened, hands moving slower than necessary as he mimicked what he was shown. The rhythm was clumsy at first, but Satoshi didn't rush him. Didn't comment when the first one was too uneven. Just quietly corrected him and kept talking about different textures of potatoes like it was the most important lesson in the world.
No disappointment.
No clipped instructions or barking criticism.
Just warmth.
And for a moment—just a flicker—Ashwatthama wondered what life might have looked like if he'd grown up with this kind of kindness. If someone had looked at him not as a weapon or a god's punishment, but as a man who could cook dinner.
Ashwatthama had fought gods.
And this, somehow, unnerved him more.
He didn't say anything about it, though.
Didn't let it show.
.
The day after offering to help with the cooking, sleep came later than usual.
He drifted off beside them, as always. Their usual pattern: Shirou on one side, Satoshi between. Riley and Ralts had gone to their own room tonight, content and well-fed, so it was just the three of them in the massive bed.
But the nightmares returned.
He didn't trash. He didn't shout.
It happened like it usually did whenever he had one. The same slow, boiling dread that twisted his gut and left sweat beading at his brow. He blinked, his fists clenched under the blanket as the room swam in memories that hadn't even happened in this world. He woke up fully—quiet and tense—and rubbed a hand over his face.
He didn't want to wake them. Didn't want them to see how broken he really was.
He should close his eyes, but the pounding in his chest wouldn't stop.
His eyes drifted toward Satoshi—Warmth. Steady. Real—breathing softly, face pressed into the pillow. Shirou beside him, curled protectively around his back. And Ashwatthama couldn't stop himself. Before he could think better of it, before he could remind himself that he didn't deserve comfort—
He turned—slowly, deliberately—until he was facing Satoshi. Not touching. Just near. Watching him breathe.
The warmth radiating off him was almost unbearable, but… necessary. He was still trying to make sense of the heat blooming in his chest when Shirou stirred, cracking one eye open and squinting at him with groggy suspicion. He shifted in the dark, lifting his head slightly. His eyes met Ashwatthama's, a flash of sharp silver beneath sleepy lashes.
A pause. Then a glare. Bleary. Mildly annoyed, but not angry. He didn't say anything—just glared with the kind of sleepy annoyance only Shirou could manage before he flopped back down and tugged the blanket higher.
Ashwatthama nearly left at that. He didn't belong here.
However, Satoshi shifted, murmuring something soft—half a name—and blinked awake.
"…Ash?" he murmured when he noticed him awake, voice barely a whisper.
Ashwatthama wanted to back away and disappear, but before he could, Satoshi—without hesitation—extended an arm, sleepily looping it around one of Ashwatthama's.
No questions. No fuss. Just acceptance.
And warmth.
So much goddamn warmth.
Ashwatthama stared at the ceiling for a long time after that.
Ashwatthama didn't realize when his body relaxed and curled around Satoshi or when sleep pulled him under again with Satoshi was nestled between them, one hand on Shirou's arm and the other still loosely holding his.
And for the first time in years, Ashwatthama hadn't dreamt of fire or screaming or death.
Only breath.
Only warmth.
Only the soft weight of a second chance.
.
Ashwatthama woke slowly, for once without tension thrumming through his spine. No memory of screaming. No blood behind his eyelids. Just... warmth.
His arm was pinned under something soft. No, not something. Satoshi.
The man was curled toward him, face peaceful save for a faint crease on his brow and the soft shimmer of sweat on his temple. His golden-brown hair stuck to his skin, and the arm he'd wrapped around Ashwatthama last night still held firm.
He hadn't let go even in discomfort. Even as his body clearly protested from the two furnaces beside him, he stayed asleep—steadfast, stubborn, his hand loosely gripped around Ashwatthama's forearm.
It was too much. Too close and too easy to get used to.
Ashwatthama could have pulled away. Should have. But instead he stayed. Let himself watch every small breath Satoshi took and every twitch of his lashes. The faint, uneven flush across his cheeks from all the body heat pressing against him.
He'll push us off the moment he wakes, Ashwatthama told himself. He has to. But the grip on his arm only shifted slightly. Not away. Just... adjusting. Accepting.
On Satoshi's other side, Shirou was curled like a second shadow—draped against his back, one arm slung across his waist with natural familiarity. Possessive, even asleep.
Ashwatthama eyed the way Shirou's fingers twitched slightly, like reaffirming his hold.
Then, against his better judgment, Ashwatthama moved closer.
Just a breath.
Just enough to press his arm to Satoshi's back... near where Shirou's hand rested.
Their arms didn't quite touch. But almost.
Let him notice, Ashwatthama thought with dark amusement.
And he did.
Shirou stirred. Eyes opening. Slits of silver narrowing as they landed on him over Satoshi's shoulder.
They glared. Not with rage. Not even with challenge.
Just… tired warning.
Ashwatthama smiled. All teeth. Silent as a dagger.
He pressed a little closer.
One of his hands found the back of Satoshi's head, fingers brushing softly through his damp hair—calming the heat, maybe. He let his chin lower, forehead resting near the crown of Satoshi's skull.
Shirou's arm tightened around Satoshi's waist in answer, pulling him flush. His face almost buried into Satoshi's neck now—dangerously close. His lips hovered just a shade too near to skin.
Ashwatthama raised an eyebrow. His smile deepened.
So that's how it was.
Satoshi, for all his dreaming, was caught in the middle of a silent war.
A breathless one.
One fought with glances and touches and stolen stillness, not blades.
For now.
Ashwatthama closed his eyes again, hand still threaded lightly into Satoshi's hair.
If this was the battlefield now? He didn't mind losing a skirmish or two. So long as he got to stay.
.
.
.
I'm getting to old to study, work, and move to a new house, on top of writing of course. Oh well. Happy Birthday to me, I guess?
Also, if you want to support me and read chapters ahead, go to my p@treon: JorieDS