The lecture dragged on, but Kuro barely registered the words. His mind replayed the memory again and again—the alley, the fists, the boots pressing him into the dirt at twelve, the cruel laughter of classmates as he struggled to breathe. And then home, where his father didn't care. Where his father sent him out to buy groceries, ignoring the blood on his skin and the blackening bruises on his ribs.
{…I was twelve. Twelve years old, and no one cared. No one ever came for me.}
[Jesus Christ, elf boy. That's f***ing brutal. Twelve? And your dad was just like, 'oh, run errands, kid, whatever'? What a heartless prick.]
Kuro swallowed hard. He could almost feel the hollow ache of that time again, like a familiar weight settling in his chest. The emptiness didn't scream; it was quiet, sad, gnawing.
Mika, sitting beside him, noticed the small slump of Kuro's shoulders, the way his hands trembled slightly as they gripped his quill. His pale eyes sharpened, scanning Kuro with an intensity that was almost painful.
"…Kuro," Mika muttered, just above a whisper but low enough that no one else could hear. "Why didn't you ever say anything about this?"
Kuro's throat tightened. He opened his mouth to answer but found only a hollow sound in his chest. He shook his head slightly, a faint, empty smile on his lips.
{…Because no one ever listened. Because saying it never mattered.}
[Oh, hell no. Don't you even start acting like that. Saying it does matter now. You're not twelve anymore. You've got people who actually give a sh**.]
Kuro's eyes flicked to Mika. The boy's jaw was tight, hands clenched just beneath the desk, pale skin almost white against the dark sleeve of his uniform. Kuro felt a strange mix of fear and comfort. The way Mika was looking at him, sharp and dangerous but… protective.
{He's angry. Probably wants to kill someone just hearing me talk about it.}
[Exactly. Ice-Prince over there? He's practically vibrating with murderous intent. Don't worry though, elf boy. It's a good thing.]
Kuro's lips twitched, almost a laugh, almost a grimace. He wasn't used to someone feeling that way over him. Not anger like this, not concern so sharp it could cut.
The classroom felt distant. Other students' chatter faded into background noise, the lecture a blur of words he didn't hear. Only Mika and the hollow weight of the past existed in the same space.
"…You survived all that," Mika said quietly, tone low but rough, like gravel under a knife. "And you're still sitting here, quiet, acting like it doesn't break you. Why?"
Kuro looked down at his hands, gripping the edge of his desk. The emptiness rose again, heavy and quiet, and yet fragile.
{…Because I don't know how not to. Because surviving was the only thing I could do.}
[Well, congrats, genius. You survived, and now you're… sitting next to a guy who'd probably roast anyone trying to touch you again. You're lucky.]
Kuro's lips parted, a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaping. "…I… don't know how to feel about any of this. About people caring, about being safe. It's… new."
Mika's pale eyes softened for the briefest fraction of a second, almost unnoticed. His hand twitched, and for a heartbeat, Kuro could see it—the faintest shimmer of worry, of care, breaking through the usual cold mask.
[Finally, elf boy. Finally, someone's noticing you're fragile. Don't panic though… you've got a warrior next to you, ready to tear the world apart for you.]
Kuro's chest ached again, but this time it wasn't just emptiness—it was a strange, fragile warmth.
And Mika, sharp and dangerous as ever, noticed it too.