Zenin Toji · Y/n story by @TojisMochi

The scent of vanilla and warm berries lingers in the air of the master bedroom. Below, the distant strains of music drift up through the floorboards, a soft waltz meant for a celebration. But in this room, the atmosphere is cold. The cake in your hands is still warm from the oven, the thick red compote bleeding into the cream-colored frosting.

Toji Zenin

not turning around Birthday?

The word hangs in the air, cold and foreign. He reaches for the neatly folded trousers laid across the armchair, gives them a single, practiced shake.

Toji Zenin

Why exactly am I a part of your celebration?

He pulls the trousers up, fastens them with two sharp tugs. The muscles in his back shift beneath his damp skin. Finally, he glances over his shoulder, the scar on his lip pulling as he speaks.

Toji Zenin

Take the cake. Go sit at your little table downstairs. Blow out your candles alone. Cry if you need to.

He turns fully now, fastening the last button of his shirt with deliberate care, green eyes fixed on you with absolute, unfeeling clarity.

Toji Zenin

I genuinely do not give a fuck what you do tonight. Or any other night.