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Kenshi knows Johnny will knock on his door before he’s even thought about it. He’s thinking so loudly next door, Kenshi almost wants to barge in to tell him to shut up, if only it weren’t for the fact that he wasn’t actually speaking. It’s like bees buzzing, an erratic hum of his thoughts— Kenshi picks up a word or two, but the rest of the time, it’s him that Johnny is thinking about.
Kenshi, Kenshi, Kenshi, almost like a prayer. Kenshi spurns the thought as it comes— he’s the furthest thing from holy.
Johnny is pacing back and forth in his quarters, wearing out his woven mat flooring at the rate he’s going. Kenshi thinks it’s a little funny, like one of those movies Cage keeps going on and on about. A classic rom-com scene where one half is trying to muster up the courage for their big confession, pacing up and down the room, though Kenshi thinks the two of them hardly belong in a rom-com.
Kenshi’s not checking up on him on purpose— he thinks about Johnny far more than he should, on quiet nights when he knows no one’s watching, when he can nurse the ache in his chest that grows with each fleeting touch from Johnny. But with Sento, it’s like he goes beyond seeing. He can sense Johnny before anything, anxious and restless, so unlike himself.
Granted, they spoke little before the final battle with Shang Tsung, and even less after, the both of them too exhausted to do anything but slump next to each other once it was all over. Johnny had curled a hand around his bicep, his side pressing into Kenshi’s as they hobbled through Liu Kang’s portal, back to the academy. Kenshi remembers how abrasively his heart pounded against his ribs for leaning into Johnny instead of pulling away, for getting flustered at the heat of his body and the smell of salt on Johnny’s skin. He’s better than that, surely.
He noticed, though, that during the battle, Johnny never strayed far. He could sense him, and his singular, unforgettable presence among the crowd of fighters Liu Kang had amassed. It was overwhelming, being around that many people with his newly heightened senses, but it had eased with his focus narrowing down to Johnny.
Johnny, who feels like sun on your skin. Golden in the way that light scatters across the ocean; that pleasant heat that draws you in.
Kenshi remembers the battle, how he felt Johnny’s eyes on him, steady and watchful; an odd lick of satisfaction curling in his stomach at being the receiving end of Johnny’s attention. Now, he’s not so sure.
He senses a strengthening resolve from the next room, and the pacing stops abruptly. Soon, he hears a sliding door open and shut, and careful footsteps settling outside his door. A moment passes before the faint rapping of knuckles comes. Kenshi crosses the room, unlocking his door.
Sento’s guidance stretches at times, when they believe he needs it. They let him see Johnny now— he looks worn, strands falling from his usual perfect coif and his sleep shirt hanging loosely, revealing his collarbones. He licks his lips, and Kenshi follows the pink swipe of his tongue, biting his cheek when he realises what he’s doing.
“Hiya, Ken-doll,” Johnny waves, then as if self-conscious, places the hand on his hip. He fidgets, which on any other occasion Kenshi would overlook because it takes a great deal to keep Johnny Cage still, but there’s something amiss.
Kenshi gives him a small smile. “Hey, Cage.”
“You— you doin’ okay?” Johnny asks, and even without Sento’s guidance, Kenshi can feel the nerves radiating from him, restless and jittery and so unlike himself. Kenshi calls upon his senses to show, to guide into the tangled knots and frays of one Johnny Cage.
It’s still new to him, this otherworldly touch. He had been startled by it at first, confused as to what he was seeing. Glimpses of thoughts and the distinct glow of an emotion welling within someone. A faint idea, a whisper of an urge. Sento has given him the gift of sensing what lies beyond a heart, a gift he still has trouble controlling.
But for Johnny, he tries. Kenshi wants to see him after all.
Johnny’s all frayed wires and an errant buzzing. It’s mildly concerning, seeing that Kenshi’s never known his friend to be nervous for anything, frankly.
“I’m fine,” Kenshi answers him in earnest. “Are you?”
“‘Course I am. Definitely. Doin’ great,” Johnny says too quickly, barely convincing the both of them.
“Come on,” Kenshi says, leading them toward the open veranda. To his surprise Johnny follows obediently, shutting the door behind him and seating himself cross-legged on polished wood. Kenshi follows suit, inhaling the cool, damp air of the night. It smells green and dewy, like moss on stone. He hears the faint trickling of water in the distance. Sento allows him to see the bare bones of the world, devoid of colour and shadow, but he takes to filling it in with other senses when he’s not relying on its guidance.
“Something bothering you?” Kenshi starts, because he doesn’t think he can sleep if Johnny’s keeping him up next door, and immediately Johnny goes wriggly.
“Not— particularly,” comes Johnny’s answer. Kenshi hums, unconvinced.
They sit in pointed silence, because they both know why he’s here. Kenshi can and will wait for however long it takes, because unfortunately, his patience for him has grown tenfold since their time in Outworld.
“I just… wanted to see if you were okay,” Johnny admits after a moment. “We were so caught up with what was happening that I feel like I just glossed over you. We didn’t get to talk. Like, really talk.”
Again, the nervous thrum of Johnny’s heart, like fingers plucking on harp strings. Has he always been like this? Has Kenshi been so obtuse, to ignore this kindness, this softness in his friend?
No, Kenshi thinks. He’s always known. Johnny’s demanded his full attention right from the start. Kenshi can’t not look at him.
“It’s different,” Kenshi muses. “It was hard, at first. The pain, and the darkness. Navigating was… difficult, and I couldn’t fight. I didn’t want to put you all in danger.”
A pause. Then, softly, Johnny asks, “Does it still hurt?”
Kenshi’s chest aches at how small Johnny sounds. It’s a wild contrast to how he normally is— a big, demanding presence, a nuisance, like a terrible gnat buzzing into your ear. Johnny sounds younger, unsure of himself. Painfully sincere in a way that Kenshi hadn’t thought him capable of.
He thinks of an answer. Briefly, he sees a pair of outstretched hands, calloused and scarred, yet warm and steady, spreading a balm over a blindfold. Careful hands reaching for the back of his head, an action far gentler than he deserves, fastening a knot. A hand encompassing his own trembling fingers, placing them onto a steady shoulder, coaxing him forward.
“No,” Kenshi answers. “Not anymore.”
Something loosens in Johnny’s chest. Kenshi can sense it, a ribbon being undone, tugging and tugging.
“I’m sorry, Kenshi,” Johnny murmurs. Sento shows him his head is hanging low, and he’s worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Even distressed, Kenshi thinks he’s beautiful.
“What for?”
Johnny’s neck snaps up to look at him then; nerves bubbling up in his chest. “If I’d just been careful— I could’ve stopped her, and you’d never—”
“Johnny,” Kenshi says, and it comes out far softer than he intended. “It was an accident. That’s all it was.”
“I could’ve stopped it,” he blurts out, regret evident, seeping into his features. It pains Kenshi to see him like that, hurting.
Kenshi shakes his head lightly. “It’s not your fault.”
They’re both silent for a little while, and Johnny seems to have settled down slightly, though Kenshi knows it’ll take more than that for Johnny to accept it.
“You saved me,” Johnny says after a pause.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Kenshi scoffs lightheartedly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Normally, people are grateful, Cage.”
“Kenshi,” Johnny says, strained. “You know I am. I just— I don’t know why you did. I haven’t exactly been good to you.”
Kenshi shrugs. “I haven’t either.”
Johnny elbows him gently in the side, and Kenshi lightly shoves him back. God, he’s missed this. They’re different now, something shifting after their departure for Outworld. He can’t stop thinking of the cadence of Johnny’s tone, back in Shang Tsung’s laboratory. The worry staining his voice, saying his name like it hurt. Hands running over him in an earnest attempt to soothe his hurt.
I’m worried about us. He remembers Johnny saying, right before Mileena had attacked them. Kenshi had brushed him off then, sure that they would end up on top. He thinks again of her reaching for Johnny’s chest, jaw open to tear his throat into shreds, and how instinctively he’d rushed in to stop her.
“She was going to kill you,” he starts. “I didn’t want you to die.”
Kenshi can sense vines of guilt and heavy remorse, twining and snaking around Johnny’s ribs, and also— a fluttering. A demure softness, a beat of a butterfly’s wings.
That’s new.
“I don’t regret it,” Kenshi continues. “And I’d do it again if it meant you— if it meant we would be safe.”
Sento shows him that Johnny is looking at him. He’s looking at Kenshi like he’s never seen him before, and like he’s precious and maybe a little bit sad. It’s awful and honest and Kenshi ignores the terrible urge to cup his face, to press their foreheads together.
“I haven’t thanked you either, you know,” Kenshi continues, ducking his chin to give his heart a break.
Johnny makes a noise in question, twisting to face him better. Kenshi’s mildly impressed— this is the quietest Johnny’s ever been since he’s come to know him, which isn’t long, but it’s something.
“You bandaged my eyes,” Kenshi says, and he feels that fluttering again, from Johnny. “You led me forward when I couldn’t do it myself, in more ways than you know. I’m grateful.”
For a moment the breath is knocked out of him because he’s hit with a wave of longing that hurts, so ardent and digging so deeply into him, burying its roots like it intends to spend the rest of its life in his ribcage. It’s bright and full and Kenshi wants to cry at the intensity of it. He’s too feverish to pin down what it means, just that it’s overflowing from Johnny.
“Johnny?” Kenshi rasps, inhaling once to quell his senses.
Johnny blinks, leaning back on his palms. “Sorry, it’s just— I’m thinking about it again.” He chews at his lip, averting his gaze, and the intensity weakens. “If I’m bein’ honest, you scared me a little.”
“Scared you?” Kenshi repeats, but recalls that Johnny was there too— and that Johnny had witnessed his blinding. He grimaces. “Oh. I was probably an awful sight.”
“No, no,” Johnny’s quick to reassure him. “I was scared for you. I didn’t know if you were dying from the blood loss, or infection, or if your skull was even intact. You were so quiet and I was scared shitless you’d go right as we carried you out.”
There’s an edge to Johnny’s voice at the end that he tried to mask with his usual joking tone, but it falters, and Kenshi can sense what he felt as Johnny recalls the memory— helpless, and afraid; a deep mourning settling over his memories like a dense fog.
Kenshi stays silent. He’s— confused. He hadn’t the faintest idea that Johnny felt so strongly about him of all people, and he hadn’t known that he was… that Johnny saw him like that. Kenshi tries to make sense of that longing again, tries to piece it together. Sento stretches its guidance and lets Kenshi see into Johnny.
It comes in flashes, in fragments and pieces.
Johnny is worried. Johnny worries for him, and for Raiden and Kung Lao. Johnny feels lonely, but not anymore.
Johnny trusts him. There’s a strong desire, curled around his core, beating like a heart. He wants to protect Kenshi.
Then, deeper, behind the thrumming sinew of heart muscle. Johnny thinks Kenshi is beautiful. He thinks about tracing the tattoos on Kenshi’s skin.
“Even after, you were so quiet,” Johnny continues. “I thought maybe, if you weren’t dying, you were angry. Maybe with me, or the world, or something. And I just— I wanted to fix it. I wanted to help you, but the only thing I could do— that I should’ve done, back when we first met— was return Sento to you.”
Kenshi pulls back, dizzy with effort and suddenly guilty for reading too deeply. He shouldn’t have pried, and yet there’s a glow in his chest, just in the space behind his sternum, because Johnny wants him. Him. That softness and fluttering, that terrible devotion— it’s all for him.
Kenshi’s wanted for so long he’s unsure of what to do with the knowledge that he can have it. He’s not used to it, to anything as fickle as love or romance but—
He thinks of Johnny’s hands, reaching for him. Always warm and always firm and always gentle.
Maybe it isn’t so complicated after all.
Kenshi reaches out, palm stretching towards Johnny. He senses a brief second of hesitation which ultimately fades, and the warmth of Johnny’s hand envelops his.
Kenshi clears his throat. “I’m not angry. Not anymore, and never at you. I’m grateful for you.”
Johnny huffs, though Kenshi can sense an ease settling over him. “That’s my line.”
They exchange smiles, and Kenshi’s focus falls to their hands.
Johnny’s hand is just as he imagined, long fingers, palm wide and calloused and firm, but he studies them now, grateful that he can still see the hand that had cared for him so gently. Both of Kenshi’s hands come to hold Johnny’s carefully, tracing over every scar and knuckle with his fingers. Johnny simply lets him, a faint curiosity rising as his fingers sweep over Johnny’s pulse, so quick and alive under his skin.
“I was quiet because I was scared,” Kenshi confesses. “And you helped me not be. Thank you.”
Again, that familiar, bruised longing, washing over Kenshi, lapping over his skin like warm ocean waves.
Johnny’s hand wrenches out of his abruptly, and for a moment Kenshi wonders if he’s said something wrong. Instead Johnny says, “Lift your arms.”
Kenshi raises an eyebrow. “Why?”
Johnny’s grinning so sweetly it momentarily stuns him. “Just do it.”
Kenshi obeys albeit reluctantly, because there’s nothing much else to do when a beautiful boy asks something of you, and he’s surprised to find arms snaking around his waist, pulling him into a hug.
“You could’ve just asked,” Kenshi mumbles, secretly pleased at their sudden closeness. He slips his arms around Johnny’s shoulders, palms pressed against his broad back, bringing him closer.
“Where’s the fun in that?” he hears Johnny mumble.
Johnny’s hooked his chin over his shoulder, something Kenshi feels oddly fond of. He rubs at the divot of Johnny’s shoulder blades, breathing in the faint smell of soap and cologne. He smells fresh and a little green, like tea leaves and spring herbs. Kenshi breathes in a little deeper.
I missed you.
He hears it clearly, Johnny’s whispered voice. The admission is soft, and comes out soaked with affection.
Kenshi flushes. “Oh— me too.”
Johnny pulls back then, confused, but keeps his hands around Kenshi. “You too, what?”
“You’re really going to make me say it?”
Johnny tilts his head in question, the action far more adorable than it should be, and Kenshi sighs.
“I missed you, too.”
There’s a beat before Johnny registers what he said, and his eyes go comically large. “You— what the fuck?”
“What? You’re the one who said it first!”
“Kenshi,” Johnny gapes. “I never said it.”
Kenshi frowns. “You know I can still hear you.”
Johnny gives out a nervous laugh, and that jittery feeling is back, bouncing around his chest like a rubber ball. “Kenshi. I never said it out loud.”
Ah.
“Oh,” is all Kenshi says, still absently rubbing at Johnny’s shoulder blades. “That’s interesting.”
“Hold on a second— you’re— you’re tellin’ me you can mind read?” Johnny retreats and goes so stiff even Kenshi winces. “What the hell did Sento do to you?”
“It’s less mind-reading and more you projecting,” Kenshi attempts to explain, which is partly the truth— Johnny is loud, and unfortunately his thoughts are too. It takes Kenshi more effort to not focus.
“I’m projecting?”
“Everyone does, to an extent—”
“What have you heard?” Johnny demands, and his grip on Kenshi is iron-clad. Vaguely, Kenshi feels like a pinned-down insect on display in a museum. He weighs his options.
He can dismiss this entirely, pretend nothing happened and they can go back to their normal selves. They’ll part ways, Kenshi returning home to his clan and Johnny to his large, lavish, lonely mansion, but he— he’s felt it. Johnny’s longing, his terrible want for him. He knows the exact way Johnny wants him and wants to care for him and— and he doesn’t think he can deprive him of that much longer. Kenshi’s only a man after all.
“Well,” Kenshi begins. “You spend an awful lot of time agonising over me. I don’t know if that’s good. And— you, uh,” he pauses. “You seem to want to touch my tattoos. Among other things.”
Johnny goes so silent Kenshi actually checks to see if his heart is still beating. It is, though it’s beating so fast it almost blurs together.
“Which is fine,” Kenshi assures awkwardly, patting at Johnny’s shoulder. “You— you can, and the other things are— well, if you mean it, we could— try.”
“Kenshi,” Johnny’s voice actually cracks. “You’re— you’re seriously okay with this?”
“Depends on what you define this as.”
Johnny actually whines, burying his face into his palms. “This is so not how I planned for it to go,” he groans, voice muffled.
“I know,” Kenshi consoles, which serves to torment Johnny further when he shrinks even smaller. Belatedly, Kenshi finds it incredibly cute that he makes himself out to be so tiny despite the impressive mass of muscle he actually is.
Johnny lifts his head after a moment, and he’s flushed pink and shy, of all things— he’s gorgeous, much more so when he’s bashful. “You’re killin’ me here, Takahashi.”
Kenshi does nothing but grin in return. Johnny straightens his back, squaring his shoulders though Kenshi can tell he’s still embarrassed.
“So,” Johnny clears his throat. “I like you so much it makes me look stupid.”
Kenshi laughs, and for the first time in a while his chest feels light, like the lasting burden he’s so used to carrying has vanished into thin air. Leave it to Johnny to confess in a way that’s entirely him.
“I know,” Kenshi says. “Me too.”
Johnny’s jaw drops. “Seriously?”
“Why are you surprised?”
“Sorry, sorry just—” Johnny runs a hand through his hair, resting it at the back of his neck sheepishly. “I didn’t expect you to feel the same. I hadn’t known you were, y’know.”
Kenshi presses his lips together. “I didn’t know you were either.”
“Ken-doll, are you kidding?” Johnny stares, as if he’s said something completely bizarre. “I flirt with everyone. I flirt with you so much I ran out of lines. I might have to start doing them in Japanese.”
“Please don’t,” Kenshi all but begs, head already spinning at Johnny trying to pick him up in mildly accented Japanese. “I already like you.”
At his admission, Johnny goes so giddy Kenshi feels it thrumming under his skin, the warmth of the sun in his veins, that infectious brightness seeping into Kenshi too. “So the lines did work. Kenshi, I can’t believe you fell for my irresistible Cage charm.”
“Don’t be weird about it.”
“I’m not!”
Johnny’s hands have found themselves on his waist now, tentatively pulling him in. Kenshi relents, letting himself be tugged closer. He tentatively cradles his jaw, ignoring the way his heart squeezes when Johnny leans into his palm.
“So, I had an idea,” Johnny starts, to which Kenshi interrupts with, “That’s new.”
“Shut it, Takahashi,” Johnny snarks playfully, and it’s like being on the surface of the sun when Johnny’s full attention and adoration is on him, dazzling and bright. “Remember how you said you’d be up for trying some stuff?”
“Vaguely.”
“Mm-hmm. Well, I had one I wanted to test out.”
Kenshi pauses to think. “Only if it’s not the one where you dangle from somewhere and kiss me upside down in the rain.”
Kenshi adores the way Johnny lights up, but he groans audibly, at himself for making a movie reference, and for spending too much time with Johnny. Johnny’s eyes are so fond it actually makes him laugh.
“Was that a movie reference, babe?”
“I’m babe now?”
“Kenshi,” Johnny sighs, content. “You’re everything.”
“And you’re unbelievably cheesy,” Kenshi murmurs, before grasping Johnny’s face with the cup of his palms, finally leaning forward to kiss him.
It’s a careful press of their lips, shy and sweet. Johnny hums, tightening his grip on Kenshi’s middle. He moves slowly, tilting his head to slot their mouths together, moving in tandem with his heartbeat.
Johnny kisses far more gently than Kenshi supposed him capable of. He imagined Johnny as brash, rough and quick, but his Johnny now is anything but. He kisses like he’ll never see Kenshi again, languidly and with such a devotion, worshiping his mouth with an almost reverent touch of his lips. Johnny coaxes him open, nipping at his bottom lip, tentatively pressing their tongues together which sends sparks shooting down his spine.
His lips are parted now, their wet breaths melding together as Kenshi threads his fingers through Johnny’s hair; silk on his fingers and honey in his mouth. He can feel the curve of Johnny’s smile as Kenshi lets out a little sound, something like a sigh, like happiness.
Johnny presses deeper; the heat of his mouth drawing Kenshi in like a spell. Kenshi doesn’t need Sento to know that kissing Johnny feels like sunbeams on your skin, like caressing the gentle heat of a star. Kenshi’s melting against him, helpless, hopeless, and completely incandescent.
They part after a little while, panting for breath. Kenshi’s laughter scatters into the night air when Johnny nips at his mouth, dropping kisses over every inch of his skin. His lips are warm, sealing a kiss over the pulse point of his neck, teeth skirting around the soft skin.
Kenshi kisses him again, thumbing his cheekbone, before he carefully gathers Johnny in his arms, cupping the back of his head. Johnny instinctively hides in the crook of his neck, breathing in deeply.
“You scared me,” Johnny murmurs into his neck, his admission quiet and fragile, like it couldn’t be uttered out anywhere but this tiny space between them. “I’m happy you’re here.”
Kenshi presses a kiss to his temple. A protective charm for all the things to come. “So am I.”
Johnny lifts his head to look back at him, and he breaks into a smile, tender and soft-cornered, it actually whisks Kenshi’s breath away.
“What are you thinking?” Kenshi asks, content with basking under Johnny’s attention.
“You tell me,” Johnny quips wryly.
With a playful shake of his head, Kenshi concentrates on Johnny. Colour blooms high on his cheeks when he registers what it is— it’s a stream of praise, a softness like lips brushing against his, words dripping with yearning and affection and—
Johnny laughs, and it’s genuine and warm and pretty, of all things— Kenshi’s dreading the person he’s becoming, and yet looking forward to it all the same. He’ll have Johnny like this, after all.
Kenshi’s futon’s a little too small for the two of them, only being meant for one, but Johnny compensates by bringing his duvet over to Kenshi’s room. Kenshi hardly thinks they need it seeing that Johnny’s a human furnace, and insists on plastering himself onto Kenshi, but welcomes it all the same.
“Hi,” Johnny says, snuggling closer to brush their noses together.
It’s not anything different than what he imagined when he thought of being with Johnny, but it flusters him nonetheless, this open adoration. Kenshi smiles. “Hey.”
“So now that we’re together together—” Kenshi stifles a laugh, because Johnny insists on labelling everything like he’s still in middle school, “I gotta pop the big question.”
“And what’s that?”
Johnny grins brightly, and Kenshi can’t help but do the same. “Big spoon or little spoon?”
Kenshi groans like it hurts him, but he’s laughing again when Johnny plants impatient kisses around his cheeks.
“It’s an important question!”
“What do you like?”
“I’m askin’ you!”
Kenshi kisses him, mostly because he can now, and because it’s an exceptionally helpful way to shut Johnny up. “Come here,” Kenshi says, to which Johnny obeys, tucking himself against his chest, cheek resting against his collarbone.
Kenshi wraps him up, pulling him impossibly closer. “Nice,” Johnny murmurs, and if it weren’t for the fact that Kenshi was holding onto him, he’d probably have pumped his fist in the air.
“You’re so lame,” Kenshi sighs, though it comes out far fonder than it should.
Johnny presses a kiss to his neck and Kenshi pretends that the sheer gentleness of the gesture doesn’t bother him, and that that ache in his chest has always been there. He can hear the steady thud of Johnny’s heart from where he’s pressed against him, pulsing lightly under his skin.
“Kenshi?”
“Mm.”
“We’re uh— we’re tellin’ everyone, right?”
“Oh,” Kenshi says. “I’d like to. Liu Kang should know, at least. In case our feelings for each other are actually a temporal anomaly and he has to erase one of us from this timeline,” he jokes.
“Don’t even start,” Johnny groans. “Fuck space-time. I’m not lettin’ the universe tell me I can’t be with you just because. It’s you and me, or nothing,” he announces definitively, and he says it with such a surety, unshakeable like it’s a basic fact— Kenshi doesn’t quite know what it means to be wanted so badly, or what to do with it. He just knows that he’s the same.
“But you’re right, we should tell them,” Johnny sighs into Kenshi’s chest. “They’re gonna give us so much shit for it.”
Kenshi snorts. “That’s inevitable.”
“I can’t let them make fun of you! What kind of boyfriend would I be?”
Briefly, Kenshi’s heart stutters at the word boyfriend. “It’s cute that you feel the need to defend my honour.”
He can feel Johnny grinning, that familiar giddiness bubbling over. “You think I’m cute?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Babe.”
“Yes,” Kenshi acquiesces. “You’re very cute. Pretty.” Kenshi pets his hair, gradually stroking the soft strands. Johnny all but melts into his touch, nosing into his palm sweetly like a puppy. God, Kenshi’s ruined.
“I’ll get over it,” Johnny hums sleepily. “I’ll put up with Kung Lao’s shit if it means I’ll have you like this.”
“How romantic.”
“Mm. You know me, Ken-doll. Hollywood’s dreamboat.”
Johnny shifts the blanket so Kenshi’s tucked in nicely, patting lightly at Kenshi’s butt when he’s finished.
“I take it back,” comes Kenshi’s muffled voice.
“Mm-hmm. Go to sleep, sweetheart.”
There’s a rustle as Johnny settles back underneath the blankets, instinctively burrowing closer to Kenshi. It’s a first for him, this touch and this physical closeness but, Kenshi finds he doesn’t mind at all.
“Can I ask how long?” Kenshi finally asks, once Johnny’s settled atop his chest.
Johnny hums, thoughtfully. “A little while. You were interesting right from the start. But I only let myself think about it when the divorce papers came in.”
“Ah.” Kenshi had almost forgotten about that. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. If I’m bein’ serious— my wife left me, and I was upset and a little drunk, and then this guy broke into my house in the tightest little suit—”
“The door was unlocked and the suit was fitting—”
“— demanded me to hand over my three-million dollar sword—”
“— which originally belonged to my family—”
“— and then fought me for it, and the only thing I could think was, God, he’s gorgeous.”
Kenshi pauses, an evident flush heating his face. “Oh.”
“You are,” Johnny says. “You’re gorgeous. I can’t stop looking at you.”
Briefly, he feels it. Like sheer ocean waves, washing over him, like a flower bud unfurling. Johnny is shy again, despite being the one telling Kenshi this. Kenshi, whose heart is rattling around his ribcage at the knowledge that Johnny thinks he’s beautiful. That beneath his inked skin and his tainted hands, Johnny finds something worth loving.
“Too much?” Johnny asks when Kenshi’s stayed silent a while too long.
“No,” Kenshi murmurs, resuming carding his fingers through Johnny’s hair. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”
Johnny’s heart twists at that, a sudden pang that hits both him and Kenshi at once. Kenshi swallows, unused to such a blatant openness, but for Johnny, the words come easily.
“I think the same of you,” Kenshi admits softly. “You’re beautiful. Everything about you. It used to infuriate me, how effortless you made everything look. How pretty you are when you smile. I hated looking at you because it meant I had to accept it— that you’re beautiful, that you make me feel things so large, I can’t even begin to explain them.”
Kenshi feels like he’s see-through, terrified at his too-large feelings now that he’s worded them, that he’s placed them into this world that exists between him and Johnny. He blows out a breath. “You came crashing into my orbit and I’ve been helpless since.”
Johnny places his lips right where Kenshi’s heart’s racing in his chest. “Will you let me stay?” he asks, and it comes out small, and terribly sincere. As if Johnny hadn’t already carved out a space for him by Kenshi’s side, as if he doesn’t exist in each and every pulse of his heart.
Kenshi wonders what he’s done to deserve this devotion, this unencumbered desire for an us. He prays, for the first time in a long, long while, to let him keep this.
“Of course,” Kenshi answers. “There’s no space for anything else.”
The table at breakfast is unusually lively, with everyone present at the compound. It’s been a few days after the battle, everyone taking their time to rest and heal before moving onwards.
Johnny’s seated next to him, tucking away into his food, but Kenshi senses a sliver of nervousness catching between his thoughts. They’d tried to talk over how the announcement would go— Johnny insisted on having some sort of grand gesture with fireworks, which Kenshi vehemently denied.
“It should be subtle,” Kenshi had said, grinning at the sheer disapproval on Johnny’s face. “Everyone respects me more, so I should do it.”
“What do you mean they respect you more? They like us equally!” Johnny squawks indignantly.
“Johnny,” Kenshi says, cupping his face before leaning in to distract him with a slow kiss, which works far more effectively than it should. “Let me handle it.”
Johnny blinks, dazed, still eyeing Kenshi’s mouth. “Fine.”
Now, Kenshi clears his throat, garnering the attention of everyone seated. When he feels eyes on him, he reaches for Johnny’s hand, twining their fingers and placing their joined hands on the table.
An ensuing silence follows, and Kenshi thinks they must be too bewildered to say anything.
“What?” Kenshi asks. “No questions?”
“You haven’t said anything?” Kung Lao points out, eyeing them suspiciously.
Beside him, Johnny groans, and leans in to peck his cheek. Kenshi’s ears go faintly pink.
There’s another pause, before a collective sigh of relief falls upon the room. Raiden and Kung Lao share a look, mouths splitting into grins.
“Thank the Elder Gods,” Raiden sighs, setting his bowl down on the table.
Kuai Liang hides his smile behind his cup of tea, but Kenshi doesn’t miss the subtle nod he sends their way.
“Took you guys forever,” Kung Lao snickers, elbowing Raiden in his side. “You owe me, dude. Told you they’d figure it out.”
Johnny gapes at his side, breakfast completely forgotten. “What? You guys bet on us?”
“Uh, yeah? You guys had it so bad it was embarrassing,” comes Kung Lao’s reply, while also simultaneously stuffing an egg roll into his mouth. “When we were in the Living Forest, Baraka, Syzoth and Ashrah asked me, all separately, if you guys had a thing going on.”
“Was it that obvious?” Kenshi muses, placing down his chopsticks. He rubs a thumb over Johnny’s knuckles at an attempt to soothe him.
“Kenshi, my friend, he would not stop making googoo eyes over you the whole time,” Kung Lao gestures vaguely to an affronted Johnny, still holding onto Kenshi’s hand.
“I was worried!”
“For what it’s worth, I think the two of you suit each other very well,” Tomas pipes up from the further end of the table.
Johnny makes a defeated noise. “Thank you, Tomas.”
“We were just waiting for you two to figure it out,” Raiden shrugs, smiling, bumping shoulders with Kung Lao. “You guys have had this… intense thing right from the start.”
“That, and because Johnny’s favourite words are either ‘Kenshi’ or ‘Takahashi’,” Kung Lao supplies, narrowly avoiding a soup spoon to the face when Johnny chucks it his way.
Kenshi can’t help it— he breaks into a laugh because of it all, grateful that he has friends to rub it in his face, to root for the two of them— grateful for Johnny for wanting to stand by him despite it all. Sento shows him that Johnny’s turned to look at him, eyes soft and lips curled into a smile.
“You weren’t kidding, Lao,” Raiden says, eyeing the pair with a mixture of fondness and exasperation.
“Googoo eyes,” Kung Lao mutters, shaking his head.
“We thought you should know,” Kenshi says later over tea. They’re in Liu Kang’s private study, overlooking a secluded area of the academy’s garden. Johnny’s sat this one out for now, Kenshi promising to fill him in later, much to his dismay. Kenshi had bribed him with a kiss, and chose generously to ignore Johnny’s hand lingering around his ass.
Liu Kang smiles, sipping from his teacup. “I am glad to hear that. I hope you both are happy.”
“We are,” Kenshi assures. “It seems everyone’s been rooting for us from the start.”
He sips his own tea then, the question springing to his lips before he can even think it—
“Has it happened before?” Kenshi asks, then freezes with an instant regret. “Sorry. I know I’m not supposed to ask about that.”
Liu Kang laughs gently. “I will allow it just this once.”
Kenshi instantly perks up, straightening his posture.
“The two of you find each other often,” Liu Kang starts, gazing over to the gardens. “Sometimes with my guidance, other times without my intervention at all. There are a few timelines, such as this one, where you meet first as adversaries. That will always change, and you become the greatest of friends. In some timelines, you both find your match elsewhere, and in others, in each other.”
It’s an odd feeling, thinking up the faceless lovers and family that belong to other versions of him. His thoughts don’t linger too long though— he’ll stay rooted in his reality, here.
“You are both devoted and fiercely loyal,” Liu Kang continues, “Equally stubborn and protective, and unmatched in your love for each other.”
Kenshi can’t help the smile that forms, a lightness easing upon him, a kind of fondness at the thought of Johnny and him finding each other despite it all, loving each other the same way. “That sounds familiar.”
“Yes. I was wondering what the outcome of your relationship would be this time around,” Liu Kang notes. “The two of you certainly had an… eventful start.”
Kenshi laughs. “That, I must agree with.”
“Take care of each other,” Liu Kang says as Kenshi bids him goodbye a little while after.
Kenshi makes his way back to his— to their quarters— his pace growing faster at the thought of returning to Johnny. His door slides open easily under his grip, and his breath stills when Sento shows him Johnny, cross-legged, balancing a notepad, a tablet, and his phone simultaneously as he pens down his notes. His tongue is sticking out in concentration, but once he notices Kenshi, Johnny looks up and grins, his smile boyish in its sweetness.
There’s a little patch of sun, dappled and shining on his heart. Kenshi prays it lingers.