Ashwatthama did not sleep.
He hadn't for most of his life—not truly. The curse had made sure of that. Even in moments of exhaustion, of stillness, there was always pain to keep him company. The constant, festering wound of existence. The festering stink of rot in his skin that no balm could soothe. A thousand years with his body torn from peace, forever denied death. Sleep had always been something he haunted, never something he owned.
But now…Now the silence pressed in differently.
The room was dark, lit only by the pale moonlight seeping through the blinds. Satoshi snored softly beside him, curled up tight, one arm cradling a pillow like a shield. Shirou was motionless beyond him, his breathing even, distant but not cold.
And Ashwatthama lay awake as he stared at the ceiling as if it might offer an answer. It didn't.
The fire on his brow, once a constant burn—a reminder, a punishment, a symbol of everything he had been and everything he had lost—was quiet now. Dimmed to a dull warmth. He could still feel his regeneration, slow but steady. A knife to the gut would heal. A bullet would push itself out. But it wasn't infinite anymore.
He was no longer unkillable. He could age now. He could die.
It should have terrified him. Or freed him. Or enraged him. But instead, all he felt was…Nothing. And that was the part that scared him.
The curse had been a chain, but it was also an identity. It gave him shape, a wall to push against. A reason. A justification. He had been a monster cursed by a god—and so he had permission to be monstrous. To carry his grief and guilt and blood like armor. To hate, endlessly. To rage, because rage meant something.
Now he was rootless. Without pain, his anger had no anchor. Without that fury—what was he? A soldier without a war? A weapon without a wielder?
He remembered Karna's fall. Duryodhana's broken body. His father's stillness. All the ideals crushed into the mud beneath divine wheels. He had told himself that his rage was righteous. That the world had sinned, not him. But now there was no war.
There was a kitchen with herbs drying on the windowsill. A child who asked if he liked dogs. A man who set a place for him at the table and asked for nothing in return.
Ashwatthama clenched his jaw.
Even now, he didn't understand the Satoshi. Kindness like that—it had to be a lie. Or weakness. Or naivety sharpened into a knife, the way some holy men wrapped poison in sugar. But he hadn't seen the trap yet. No leash. No demand. No request for slaughter.
Just rice. And a place to sleep. And a soft voice saying, You can stay if you want to.
Ashwatthama exhaled through his nose. The breath trembled more than he wanted it to. He didn't want to ask for help. He had never needed to. But now, stripped of the curse, stripped of the war, stripped of the pain that had been his shield and weapon and prison, he wasn't sure what remained beneath.
He had sworn, long ago, that he would never let the world pass without raising his voice in objection. That he would rage against the injustice, scream against the silence. That anger was the fuel for change.
But he was so tired and without his rage, without the constant fire burning him from the inside out—what was left?
What if there was nothing?
He would not ask. He couldn't. That final dignity he held close, even if the weight of it choked him. The moment he let go of his anger, he feared the emptiness would swallow him whole.
So he clung to it just a little longer. Just enough to feel real.
In the silence, with only soft breathing beside him and the faint whisper of night wind against the house, Ashwatthama turned his face toward the ceiling and let the world remain unanswered.
So he stayed still. Quiet. Breathing slow.
The bed didn't creak but it felt like it should. Nothing was meant to hold three people this well.
He glanced to his right.
Satoshi slept with the kind of expression only the truly exhausted wore. His face was soft in sleep, the tension smoothed from his brow, his mouth slightly parted. He was facing Ashwatthama, his hands tucked near his chest, the blanket barely clinging to one shoulder. So fragile, so mortal. And still here. Trying.
Ashwatthama studied his face in silence. He'd been summoned as a weapon before—expected it this time, too. Because that would be better than a sex toy. But the Catalog hadn't forced bindings. And Satoshi hadn't tried to own him. No commands. No expectations. Just apologies and nervousness and… food.
Food that tasted like care. Like someone had tried to understand how heat, spice, and softness could stitch the spirit back together.
Ashwatthama had eaten in silence because if he'd spoken then, it might have cracked something in him.
He shifted slightly, only enough to glance over Satoshi's shoulder.
Shirou—the first husband, apparently—was half-curled toward Satoshi. Somewhere in the night, his body had drifted closer, until one arm now rested just shy of Satoshi's waist, his breath warm and steady across the back of his neck. A few more inches and it would've been a full embrace.
Ashwatthama snorted softly.
"Not pretty, huh?" he thought.
Shirou might not have Satoshi's so-called "type," but the man radiated calm like a hearthfire. Dangerous calm, like a blade sheathed—but warm nonetheless. No wonder Satoshi trusted him.
The faintest flicker of something twisted in Ashwatthama's chest. Not quite envy. Not quite longing. Just… ache.
He looked back at the ceiling, feeling the pull of his thoughts again. He could leave. The Company hadn't forced a shackle on him. He could walk out that door and vanish into the night—start fresh. It wouldn't be the first time.
But then what?
He'd seen the look in Satoshi's eyes. That stubborn light. That need to save things, even when he was shaking. The man had summoned him not to fight—but to give him a second chance. A family, even if Ashwatthama didn't believe he deserved one.
And somehow… it was harder to walk away from that than it was from war.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and listened to the quiet breathing around him.
He didn't decide anything, but he stayed.
And for tonight, that was enough.
.
The house was still, but Ashwatthama knew the moment something shifted.
It started as a whisper of feet on tile, barely audible. Then the door creaked open with the quiet care only a child could manage while trying not to wake anyone.
Ashwatthama didn't move.
He lay on his side, eyes half-lidded, gaze already trained on the doorway when Riley appeared. She stood there, silhouetted by the hallway nightlight, Ralts cradled against her chest and her oversized pajama sleeves nearly swallowing her hands.
Her face was red. Puffy.
Nightmare.
She hesitated in the doorway, rubbing one eye. Her gaze flicked across the room and paused when she saw him—not with fear, but with uncertainty. She hadn't forgotten he was here. She just hadn't expected him to be awake.
Ashwatthama held her gaze, unmoving. Then gave her the smallest of nods.
Permission.
Satoshi didn't wake and Ashwatthama didn't move, didn't breathe too loud—but he wasn't alone in his awareness. He felt it when Shirou's eyes cracked open, just barely, the subtle shift of his breath slowing with sudden focus. A soldier's instinct—trained to wake on tension.
But permision was the only thing Riley needed as she padded forward on bare feet and rounded the bed to Satoshi's side. She paused once, glancing between him and Shirou, whose arm had lazily slipped around Satoshi's middle in the night.
Then, with a child's simple logic, she wriggled herself in between them—curling against Satoshi's back and pulling the blanket over her head like a shield. Ralts nestled into the space between Shirou's shoulder and the pillow without protest.
Satoshi stirred fully then, sleep still tugging at his limbs but not enough to keep him unaware. His eyes opened groggily as he turned to his back to settle her better. His eyes opened groggily just as Riley tucked her head beneath his chin and on top of his arm, while Ralts floated up to settle by his shoulder. Satoshi made a quiet sound—a breath of acknowledgment—as Shirou's arm adjusted to accommodate the new addition, so it lay on top of Riley and his hand could rest on Satoshi's belly.
Ashwatthama watched it all in silence.
He should've felt like an outsider. A weapon among the fragile. A stranger in a room full of warmth he didn't ask for. Instead… he felt warm. Like maybe, for a moment, he belonged at the edge of this strange little constellation.
However, just as Ashwatthama was about to close his eyes, as if remembering something important in his half-conscious state, Satoshi turned his head.
His gaze locked with Ashwatthama's.
The demigod hadn't shifted. But he knew the moment their eyes met, Satoshi saw through the stillness—knew he was awake. And then, in the strangest, most disarming act possible, Satoshi reached out across the blankets and curled one hand around Ashwatthama's wrist. Not tugging. Not forceful. Just warm and present.
His voice was slurred with sleep, barely above a whisper. "Go to sleep…"
The grip loosened slightly—but not all the way. And just like that, he was out, breathing slow and even, hand still resting against Ashwatthama's wrist like an anchor made of warmth and stubborn affection.
Ashwatthama stared at the ceiling. Then at the hand. Then at the sleeping man, flanked by a girl and a swordsman, both of whom had accepted his presence with quiet grace.
He closed his eyes.
Not to watch. Not to guard.
Maybe… just maybe…
To rest.
.
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