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It happens when he least expects it.
It's an all too fast, fleeting thing.
It disappears as quickly as it manifests in the first place, yet its presence lingers in his mind for an indefinite amount of time.
It festers and brews under his turmoil of thoughts and sentiments, burrows itself deeper and deeper until he feels his edges start to crack and the heavy burden of grief come crashing down.
It happens when Nene is feeding their newborn, her tender magenta gaze, sluggish yet devastatingly vibrant, appearing almost pink for a fraction of a second.
In those moments, Kou can almost pretend that her face is slightly more angular, sharper and more defined, that the ruddy red of her cheeks is instead pinkish in tone, that her waist-length wavy hair isn't a beige-blond, but rather salmon pink.
A blink later, the illusion fades -and he's back in his warm, elegant home, the lights always on and a pot of camellias by the entrance. His wife, Nene, takes care of their children while he cooks dinner, she hums a soft, idle tune as she swaddles the baby in the delicate, cotton blankets that her in-laws gifted them. She sways and moves to a melody Kou doesn't think he's ever heard before, and judging by the glazed, far-away look in her half-lidded eyes, he knows she'll never be keen on telling him.
Kou doesn't comment on the bedtime stories she murmurs to their young, past the time where she thinks her husband is sleeping and the possibility of him listening is nearing nonexistent. He doesn't say anything when he's pressed up against the wall connecting their bedroom to their children's, heart in his throat as she recounts stories of Hanako the bathroom ghost and of the Seven Wonders of Kamome Gakuen.
Likewise, Nene doesn't opine on Kou's choice to teach their eldest daughter photography. He bases his lessons on the flimsy memories of a past life, of a time in which him and Sousuke spent their afternoons snapping photos in between kisses. He recalls Sousuke's hands over his own as he positions his daughter's own clumsy fingers under the lens, breathes down shaky gulps of air whenever she looks back at him after each successful shutter of the camera -with a smile so wide and bright, it can't help but remind Kou of a love he has spent the worse half of his life mourning.
He's left a shell of himself when the sun-stricken skies dip down into navy blues, when his throat feels unbearably tight and constricting, when Nene rests her head on his shoulder as their youngest child cries in the background of his thoughts.
Kou can't see supernaturals anymore.
Nene can -sees them in the corners of her vision, watches the pink blobs and specks fade into and out of view, oversees the claws and insect-like legs attempting to crawl in through the windows on starless nights.
She holds Kou and grounds him, presses soothing kisses to his hands, and helps him forget the feeling of being exorcised at the hands of your own brother.
Sometimes, he knows that his wife pretends he's someone else.
Someone a tad bit taller, with dark, brown choppy hair and bottomless eyes. A gaze so piercing it could cut right through you with the ease of a butcher's knife or a lumberman's hatchet, an air so thick and stagnant around him that it felt almost impossible to breathe in.
But, to a select few, a look so fond it could reduce a fire's hungry flames to ashes, quell the frigid embrace of winter with the easy crack of a smile, and a kiss so loving it could heal what isn't broken.
He catches her looking up donut recipes when their two older children are at school, when the house is mostly quiet save for their newborn's snores and occasional cries. He knows she visits Akane under the guise of having tea-dates with Aoi, inquires and probes the auburn-haired man on his time as a part-time supernatural and any interactions he might have had with her first love.
First love, because Kou isn't hers.
She isn't his, either.
Love is too broad a term for what they have.
There's little to no way to describe the act of settling for what you have, with giving up the fantasy of obtaining all your heart's desires.
But Kou cares for Nene, and he knows she cares for him.
They complete each other like the clashing of the waves against the shores, receding and solitary before eventually crashing with the golden sands.
When they kiss, there is only the gentle reassurance of having someone who knows the intricacies that make up your being, to understand the memories that tether you to a loved one's blurry picture in your mind.
When nights are particularly cold and unforgiving, Nene's figure on the edge of the bed speaking of missing a love too strongly for one to interject, Kou is left to imagine the touch of someone who does not lay in the same bed as him.
He thinks of a clawed hand and feathery hold, of teeth too sharp to be human's and a stare too eerie to maintain. He envisions the visage of someone who nipped at his skin with total disregard and a torrid lack of shame, who, despite leaving his fingers bloody and engraved with the outline of a monster's teeth, still kissed the blond with a dying human's fervor.
Nene smiles at him again the very next morning, and it's almost like they're a normal, happy family.
Their children are lovely and well-mannered, witty yet kind, brave but naive.
Their oldest is a mirror replica of her mother, with the same doe-like eyes and thick ankles, hair a light blond and skin the subtlest bit tanned.
Their second child has Kou's blue eyes, but Nene's exact shade of hair. He wants to be an exorcist like his uncle.
Their last baby, only a few months old, looks like neither of the two. Akane attributed it to recessive genes, but Kou knows that Nene longs for it to be a sign from something else. (A small part of him yearns for it to be the case, too.)
Their newborn has brown hair and pink eyes.