#he looks way more better? like in general. his outfit still tacky but its slightly better | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

reneesi · 4 years

Text

i never would have thought // CH.07

WRITTEN PORTION

The clock on the sleek mint green wall of the train station read 10:15. Only 2 minutes had passed since (y/n) had last checked it, never the less at 10:18 her eyes where shifting to read the time once more. (Y/n) wrung her hands together, gaze falling to her feet for what felt like the millionth time. She wasn’t nervous, or more like she wasn’t nervous because of Tsukishima, she was just in a hurry! At least that (y/n) told herself as another wave of fluttering washed through her stomach and up her throat. Her breathing had been weirdly staggered all morning, and though she’d never admit it (y/n) had spent a little too long picking out her outfit. Eventually she had settled on a pastel pink tank top and light wash overalls along with low white socks that had cute lace trimming along the edge. It was simple enough, nothing that seemed as though she had necessarily tried but enough of a difference to elicit an exited “You look really cute today!” from her little cousin Natsu as she was leaving the house.

(Y/n) went through her mental checklist, again, attempting to calm her nerves. If she had forgotten anything she’d have to walk all the way back home to grab it and would probably loose too many daylight hours. Speaking of which she was already falling behind schedule given the fact that Tsukishima had yet to arrive. (Y/n) pulled out her cellphone, reviewing her last three text messages again. It had been nearly half an hour since Tsukishima had sent his simple “Im on my way.” And yet he was no where to be seen.

Sighing, (Y/n) sat on the nearest bench, frustration threatening to consume her. She tried sending another text. She checked the clock once more, 10:20. She sighed.

“This fucker…” she mumbled under her breath, staring at the time on her lock screen. They had agreed on 10 o’clock sharp. Well maybe not “sharp” but it had still been 10-ish as in around 10, not 10 fricking 30. (Y/n) calmed herself yet again, wanting to maintain a positive attitude for the long day that was certainly to come. Five more minutes, she thought. Five more minutes and if he didn’t show she’d call Tsukishima until he picked up the fucking phone.

Five excruciatingly long minutes later, (Y/n) was holding her cellphone to her ear, dial tone ringing its mechanical melody. (Y/n) bit her lip.

“Idiot.” A familiar voice scoffed from behind, as a sideways palm came over her head, hitting her hard enough to elicit an ouch of compliant.

“Why would you call me when I’m right behind you?” He asked, voice even and monotonous as always.

(Y/n) turned to look back at Tsukishima, sending him a glare as she stood.

“Because you’re 25 minutes late!” She accused, pointing an enraged finger at his chest.

“I told you somewhere around 10.” He shrugged, moving past her as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah well I thought that meant maybe 10:05 at the latest? What kind of idiot thinks 10:25 is around 10?! Thats around 10:30 more than anything!” (Y/n)’s voice was rising with every word, “And where are you going?!”

Tsukishima stopped and looked back over his shoulder, not an ounce of readable emotion across his face.

“We’re going to miss our train.” He said evenly, before turning back to walk onwards. (Y/n)’s eyes widened and in a scramble she picked up her backpack and stumbled to catch up, boarding the train just after Tsukishima. Once they had settled into seats right by each other he mumbled quietly.

“You wanted to go to the city right? The train leaves at 10:30 so as long as I was here before then everything is okay, right?”

Rosy pink bloomed over (Y/n)’s cheekbones, her head dropping slightly to hide her face. Suddenly she was too close to Tsukishima.

“Y..yeah.” (Y/n) uttered, embarrassment pricking at the tips of her ears as the nerves in her stomach flared.

The two rode in silence for the remainder of the trip, Tsukishima tilting his head to stare away from (y/n) while listening to music though his headphones, and (y/n) sneaking glances every so often at Tsukishima. She argued internally that she was just doing pre-shoot mental plotting. Deciding what poses she’d put him in, what kind of lighting would look good and so on. But it was during these reticent glances that (y/n) noticed Tsukishima’s hair was still damp. A single droplet of water rolled off a strand of shimmering blonde every so often, and with the early light each bead shone like a crystal. Upon further inspection (y/n) concluded he must have taken a shower not long before his departure given the fresh glow of his creamy light skin and the hint of shampoo that hung in the air between them. It was a scent close to laundry detergent and something else she couldn’t quite place, something sharp and intriguing.

(Y/n) felt something strange bubble in her chest, similar to nervousness but different enough to be foreign, and realized she had yet to pull her eyes away. Mentally she thanked the higher powers that Tsukishima had settled down facing away from her and leaned her head back, moving to stare at the ceiling. If not for his position he would have otherwise noticed not only her staring but the hints of pink and red that had failed to leave her face since the beginning of the train ride.

They arrived at the city around 12 PM, (Y/n) complaining loudly at the sheer amount of time “wasted” on the train. She quickly declared their first order of business to be finding a spot with some sort of decent lighting and taking a few preliminary shots to determine the best angles for the shoot. The pair walked around for a while, passing sarcastic jokes and small retorts back and forth. Every time they’d pass a window, on of them would make some sort of judgment call about whatever was being displayed and in the turn the other would jump in to defend said item.

“I just don’t see how you could hate a hat so much! It’s got flowers!” (Y/n) explained, mouth wide and aghast

“It looks tacky.” Tsukishima shrugged, (y/n) shook her head tragically

“Oh Sucky-shima, when will you learn the true beauties of this world.” She sighed drastically, Tsukishima snorted in response

“You’re the one who said that strawberry shortcake looked soggy, which was just factually incorrect.” He threw back, side eyeing (y/n) with a raised brow

“It did not look appetizing.”

“You just have no taste.”

��I don’t dislike strawberry shortcake! There’s just better out there, and I am a person of taste” (Y/n) defended.

“Plus I could probably make a better one.” She finally added, after a long beat of silence. Tsukishima looked like he had something to say but ultimatley didn’t reply, instead he simply rolled his eyes and continued in silence.

Eventually the two came across a fairly empty park and settled into a well lit corner of the greenery. (Y/n)’s camera flickered on and after some button pushes and general adjustments she looked up, half expecting Tsukishima to be in some sort of position. But to nobodies surprise but her own, Tsukishima only stood a couple feet away looking around awkwardly. (Y/n)’s breath caught in her throat as she considered going over and positioning him herself, only to realize that would require touching him which might make things even more awkward than they already where. Because even for all the friendly banter they’d grown to take comfort in, they were still barely good friends and a thick layer of discomfort was very much present between the two.

“H-how do you want me to stand?” Tsukishima asked after one two many moments of silence had passed. It was difficult to tell due to the harsh light and hot weather but (Y/n) could have almost sworn Tsukishima was beginning to develop a soft blush atop his cheeks.

“U-um, why don’t we start with some sitting one! Like on that bench!” (Y/n) pointed, giggling forcibly at the end of her sentence. She cringed inwardly. Tsukishima only nodded, walking over and taking a seat on the bench she had selected.

(Y/n) took a deep breath, it was always weird in the beginning. She always felt awkward at first, so this was no different. All she had to do was get into a groove and she’d be in her element in no time. Then everything would stop feeling so suffocatingly weird.

“Okay, um, don’t move just maybe rest your arms on the top behind you and put that leg over the other, wait not like that I mean-“ (Y/n) blushed, resisting the urge to cover up her face with her hands. Tsukishima looked up at her, confused.

“Just, sorry, just sit however makes you comfortable and try to um relax.” (Y/n) finally sputtered out, sighing as she brought the lens up and squinted. This was going to be harder than she thought.

The first couples shots were tense and really REALLY awkwardly positioned. Tsukishima looked like a broken store mannequin that was being held at gunpoint. But once he noticed (y/n) had started to relax, Tsukishima began joking around again, throwing insults and light criticisms at her in a playful way that felt comforting to their dynamic. Once (Y/n) started laughing again, the ice began to melt and Tsukishima was able to produce a much more normal looking pose. After a half hour of shooting like this (Y/n) stopped and plopped down beside Tsukishima, leaning back into the bench. She began to swiftly click through the images, deleting most of them.

“What was the point of that if you’re just gonna delete them?” Tsukishima asked, furrowing his brows in annoyance “Now I’m gonna have to do all that work again.”

“Relax, that wasn’t the actual shoot. I was getting some test shots to see what exactly I wanted and also what you’d be comfortable doing.” (Y/n) explained, pausing on an image of Tsukishima with his head back, a smile barely visible but never the less present. She smiled to herself, moving on to the next picture without deleting it.

“Since clearly you don’t like to smile for the camera we’re gonna do a stylized phtoshoot so your facial expression doesn’t hinder the process.” She continued, emphasizing the last bit in a sarcastic tone.

Tsukishima rolled his eyes,

“Whatever, let’s just get this over with.” He sighed, melting back to lay against the bench in a half seated half slipping off sort of way.

The next couple hours were long, to say the least. (Y/n) barked orders from afar at an increasingly annoyed Tsukishima, as the day grew hotter and brighter forcing the pair to change the spot they had settled into. The stances Tsukishima took only really worked half the time, since he was mostly too tense or couldn’t figure out the desired posing from (y/n)’s words alone. Regardless, (Y/n) refused to go over and physically put him in position in fear of accidentally ruining the easy atmosphere they had finally achieved. And as they trudged on, the heat began to wear them down, gathering sticky sweat across their foreheads which dripped down to their chests which fueled their matching exhaustion.

Eventually Tsukishima came to a halt

“Okay, enough.” He ran a hand across his forehead “We need to take a break.”

(Y/n) considered arguing but as she felt another bead of sweat roll down the back of neck she decided that maybe just this once, she’d have to listen to Tsukishima.

“This shit is no joke, now I understand why people get payed to do it.” Tsukishima huffed, collapsing back onto the bench they had initially sat in, which had now come to be in the shade. (Y/n) tossed him a water bottle from her backpack and sat beside him, popping the cap off and guzzling the cold down her throat. The refreshment of the cool liquid was unparalleled, and as she drank (Y/n) felt streams of water slipping down her chin. She exhaled, wiping at the wetness with the back of her hand.

“Yeah, it usually isn’t this hot though.” She remarked, shooting Tsukishima a look of apology before leaning back to let her head fall off the edge of the bench.

“Had Tsukishima been blushing just now? No, it had to be the heat.” She pondered internally, staring up and enjoying the way the tree’s leaves moved in soft tandem with the wind, streams of light breaking through the shrubbery.

“You said you needed something interesting, right?” Tsukishima asked a few minutes later

“For the photoshoot?” (Y/n) asked, pulling herself back up to sit upright while turning to look over at Tsukishima

“Yeah, I had an idea.” He began

(Y/n) tilted her head expectantly.

“What if we used the water, from the water bottle? You could probably create a cool effect with that right?” He suggested, holding up his half empty water bottle. (Y/n) narrowed her eyes, thinking for a moment

“That… could actually work.” She pipped up, energy returning in a burst “Wait! I think I have an idea.”

(Y/n) scooped up her camera, fiddling with the settings as she looked around for a spot to shoot. In the blur of excitement she took a hold of Tsukishima’s wrist and dragged him into position.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, jeez.” He grumbled clearly annoyed, not attempting to pull his hand away despite this. (Y/n) released his hand and began adjusting his shirt, and it was then that she realized just how touchy she’d suddenly become. She peeked up at him and this time he was definitely blushing. Her own cheeks flared and (Y/n) jumped back, vision hazy with embarrassment.

“S-sorry! I didn’t even-“

“It’s fine.” Tsukishima scoffed, looking away to avoiding her eyes “It’s just part of the job right?” He shrugged, feigning indifference that was clearly contradicted by the red on his face.

(Y/n) bonked herself internally, he was probably so embarrassed and uncomfortable. She stood farther away but positioned him physically none the less, making sure to only touch him if absolutely necessary. As she set up the exact shot she wanted, (Y/n) mumbled little apologies in between, biting her cheek to calm the raging nervousness at the pit of her stomach that only worsened with every touch.

Eventually they were able to get a picture that (y/n) deemed presentable and the pair moved on to the rest of the portfolio, since the major piece had been accomplished. The two first years ended up staying out until the sun began to set, partially because they kept pausing to banter in between each click of the shutter but mostly because (y/n) couldn’t help but to stop and stare through the lens every so often, making some snarky remark to hide the way her breath caught behind the camera.

Orange light swallowed the tile and columns all around, painting the empty train station (Y/n) and Tsukishima had come sit in in a soft gold hue. The sound of wind and far away trains whirred in the distance and the weather had cooled to a comfortable warmth, the kind felt by a fireplace in the dead of winter when snow falls on eyelashes and the air smells like sugar cookies. A gentle warm, like that of a blanket.

The sticky sweet vanilla dripped onto the floor beneath her and (y/n) licked at her ice cream bar, hoping to catch the next drop with her tongue instead.

“Thanks for helping me out today.” (Y/n) finally mumbled, eyes fixated on the barely visable pink tinted clouds that lay in the far away sky. She could feel Tsukishima next to her, radiating subtle warmth which was sort of strange since he was always so cold, not just to her but to everyone. It was hard not to think so much about him, when he was only centimeters away.

(Y/n)’s mind wandered back to her slip up and suddenly she remembered the feel of his wrist in her hand, and another wave of hot brushed over her face. His skin had been… soft. She peeked over at his hand, the free one that lay in the space between them and wasn’t holding up an ice cream bar. She’d never really been one to pay attention to such trivial details, but now that she knew what his skin felt like, (y/n) couldn’t help but wonder if his hands were just as soft.. how his long slender fingers would feel wrapped around her own.. what his palm would feel like against her cheek-

“Yeah, no problem.” His response was like a snap back to reality, and although Tsukishima hadn’t noticed the way (y/n) had been staring longingly at his hand her blush still deepened as she lowered her gaze back to her feet.

In the end, (y/n) got ice cream on her overalls and a pestering poke to the cheek from Tsukishima.

“Don’t zone out while you’re eating ice cream, idiot.” He’d sneered, causing (y/n) to slap his hand away in protest. The two had argued back and forth before eventually boarding the train and much like that morning, had rode home in silence. When they had arrived back home, there had been only a slight pause on Tsukishima’s part before the two had exchanged goodbyes and parted ways. In that moment before their departures, Tsukishima had looked confused, almost as if he’d been trying to figure out his next play in a long game of chess, but a look like that only had a lifespan of about 5 seconds on a face like Tsukishima’s. (Y/n) sighed in exasperation, throwing her head back to stare at the stars as she walked, she never could read Tsukishima… So what the hell had he been thinking?

CH.07 II you owe me

A/N: Hi, i am SO SORRY! I really was trying to stick to the uploading schedule and then i just got absolutely hit by life. Last weekend was kind of really crazy and i knew i had a big chapter planned so i didn’t wanna sacrifice the chapter in order to release something earlier :/ Then yesterday I was still trying to finish up this chapter and it kind of all snowballed together. To stay on schedule Im gonna double upload wednesday since i still owe you guys another chapter. I hope this one sort of makes up for the lateness, since this is the first REALLY long one in terms of ss and writing! Again, i’m really REALLY SORRY :(( But i hope you guys enjoy!!!

The picture of Tsukishima from the photoshoot with the water bottle is FANART and nOT MINE, it belongs to @unico_ts on twitter!! All credit is her’s!! Go check her out, her fanart is DIVINE <3

previous I next

MASTERLIST

Tagslist: @domtamaki @kodzu-ken @clowninfortodoroki @kageyamasbabygorl @miya-yume @chaelysian @kittyddandnyla @chaseyui @it-was-just-a-ship @melanie09astrid @naorii-chan @chaoticalybiased @saltyteefff @aristatrois @iamthepenguinwhosearseisonfire @raineedayze

103 notes · View notes

hoodoo12 · 4 years

Text

Costume

This month’s prompt on our discord server? “Costume”, for Hallowe’en, of course! SFW, Beetlejuice/gender neutral reader.

@beetlewise-and-pennyjuice @thewolfisapartofmysoul @janitor-boy @turtlepated @angelicspaceprince

Enjoy! `

You’d never have expected being invited to a Halloween costume party would be such a problem.

A problem shaped like a pestering, jealous ghost-demon named Beetlejuice. “I wanna go! Why can’t I go! You’re leaving me for a whole evening to have fun and I have to sit here and twiddle my thumbs?! You’re going to leave me in the dark in an empty house and I never get to do anything!” His whining was amazing, and not in the good way. “You could take me! We can do a couple’s costume! Like Mickey and Minnie Mouse, or you can be a brick, and I can go as a brick layer!”

You couldn’t help but snort in laughter at his suggestions, as raunchy as the second one had been. “Or, or--you know those horse costumes? We could do that! I could be the back half, because I like holding onto your butt--” “And also because you’re an ass?”

The specter grinned broadly at your jab, thinking that if you were joining in on the idea, his battle was mostly won. “Beej, sweetheart,” you said, patting his cheek, “the answer is no. No one’ll be able to see you, so a couple’s costume just isn’t going to work. I’m sorry.” His expressive face fell. You were pretty sure that if he could control not just the color of his hair but how much it stuck up, it would have drooped in a dramatic, cartoonish way as well.

“Fine,” he muttered sadly. “I mean, people could see me if you just, I don’t know, said my name a few times or whatever, but it’s okay, I’ll just stay here with the dust and spiders and wait in the dark for you to come back . . .” He turned to go, shoulders sloping dejectedly, and shook off your hand when you tried to take his wrist to attempt to make him feel better.

⁂

You actually had no idea what to dress as. Everything was too cutesy or overdone or trite. When watching those Bly Manor and Truth Seekers shows on streaming, however, something clicked into place. You could go as a plague doctor! And not only that, since Beetlejuice bragged about living through the Black Plague, he’d have firsthand knowledge of it and them and could assist making it authentic!

Excitedly, you told him your idea. Although he was still a bit crestfallen, he of course preened a little when you asked for his help and promised to give you all the details he could to make it the best plague doctor around. He went so far as to bring you an authentic beaked mask from . . . somewhere, which he proudly tried to thrust into your hands. Gingerly you accepted it, but tried to keep only the very tips of your fingers in contact with the leather. The clear glass for its eyes made it look more than slightly creepy.

“I’m not going to . . . catch anything from this, right? You didn’t get it out of a festering plague pit . . . ?” “Nah,” he replied dismissively. “I mean, yeah, it’s from a grave, but it’s super old so anything infectious should be gone, I’m pretty sure.”

One thing he’d never claimed to be was a doctor or infectious disease expert, so although you accepted his suspect contribution, you cleaned it inside and out with bleach. And tossed it in the microwave to nuke any possibly remaining microbes, for good measure.

You procured a black coat and hat on your own. Beetlejuice also dug up a black cane--telling you that the doctors used them to poke at people so they could examine them without getting too close--with a silver wolf’s head as a handle. You joked that that was a prop for the Wolfman but accepted it anyway. He also gleefully shoved so many aromatics into the beak it made your eyes water when you finally tried it on. “Thanks, Beej,” you praised as you tried to breathe through your mouth. “Wow. There’s a lot in here, huh? What is that, pine needles?” “Juniper, cloves, and camphor! Some mint too.”

“Uh-huh,” you croaked. You were going to have to grab some tissues to wipe your running nose and watery eyes during this party. “Okay, I’ll see you later.” “Have a good time!” he called after you, and you were glad he’d gotten over his disappointment.

⁂

You knew the people who’d invited you to the party tended to go all out for Halloween, and this year was no exception. It wasn’t Martha Stewart, but it wasn’t professional haunted attraction either. They’d filled their house with lots of skeletons and spiders, pictures that changed based on which angle you looked at them, a soundtrack that low enough to not impede conversations but was filled with creaks, moans, and shrieks, and a buffet spread filled with treats made to look gory.

Everyone was in costume, of course, from those same generic ones available at Halloween stores to homemade cosplay of movie slashers. A hush rippled out like a stone thrown into water when you walked through the front door, even as you called hello to your friends. The party-goers turned to gawk at you.

Gradually people returned to their conversations, and some people returned greetings. You grinned behind your mask; it was good to make an unexpected first impression.

Wandering through the party, you slowly became aware that few people sought you out, and when you tried to engage with others, they were polite but seemed anxious to get away. More than once you caught people glancing over their shoulders at you as they left you. It also became apparent that people gave you a berth as you walked through the house, even at the table spread with food and drink. At first it was kind of cool, like you were this mysterious being, but then it devolved into being a little weird. It had to be because of the aromatics Beetlejuice had stuffed to the brim inside the beak. “I’m sorry about the smell,” you apologized to anyone who would listen. “I just went a little overboard on it being authentic.”

You followed that apology with a little self-depreciating chuckle.

It didn’t make people seem more comfortable around you.

Unable to mingle, feeling like a bit of an outcast--maybe like a real plague doctor--you didn’t stay at the party long. Walking home along streetlight lit sidewalks, you had the same effect on anyone else out: veering to give you room, furtive glances back at you once they were passed.

There was no way you stunk that bad.

Sighing, you slowed down a little. Although there was a chill in the air, you were getting this hat and mask off your face. Maybe you could dump the herbs and whatnot in a garbage can, and reduce the stench. Your nose could use some fresh air anyway.

You happened to stop in front of a closed store’s window. As you grabbed your hat to yank it off your head, you glanced at your reflection and yelped in surprise.

It was you in a plague doctor’s costume, but nightmarishly extreme. Your coat--just a cheap plain coat you found at a thrift store, was smeared along the sleeves and hem with something that looked tacky and black, like old blood. Like your coat had been dragging along the floor of a slaughterhouse, and like you’d been wrist deep in something gory. The rest of the fabric looked moldy and stained and threadbare on the elbows. As if that wasn’t bad enough, your mask--

It was authentic, obviously, but the leather seemed to have molded smoothly to your face. The glass in the eyeholes didn’t show your eyes at all; instead, pinpricks of light, the reflection of an animal’s eyes, shone out.

Everything that looked back at you in the glass looked evil, depraved, and unsettling. The effect was overtly chilling, even as you knew you were looking at yourself.

You ran the rest of the way to your place. “Beetlejuice!” you shouted, throwing open the door so had it bounced back at you from the wall it hit. He sauntered in from the kitchen. “Heya babes! How’d the party go? I was just here, making rice krispie treats--the kitchen’s a bit of a war zone right now--is marshmallow difficult to get off the ceiling?”

“What did you do?!”

“I told you--I was making rice krispie treats--” “I mean what did you do to my costume!”

The specter stopped, and grinned. “Did you like it? Did everyone like it? I think the pièce de résistance was that faint whiff of rot. You really have to concentrate to smell it, but once you do, you can’t unsmell it--”

You gaped at that disgusting revelation and resisted the urge to grab him by the sharp labels of his striped coat and shake him; he’d see that as playtime. Through gritted teeth, you repeated, “What did you do to my costume?!”

“I made it authentic. Just like you asked,” he shrugged innocently.

Squeezing your eyes closed, you counted to ten, actually making it only to four. Your jaw hurt from clenching it so hard, but you didn’t loosen it much to say sarcastically, “And the way my eyes look? Is that authentic? Did plague doctors have creepy shiny eyes?”

He laughed. “Oh. That. Yeah, that was some artistic license. Just to give it some flair.”

A worn coat splattered with unnameable gore, the stench of random herbs plus decay, a mask that was already unsettling and silver eyes for some “flair” . . . this time you did make it to a count of ten, and released the tension in your jaw this time. He was only trying to help. He had provided the expertise you asked for, and he just took it too far because he was nothing if not over the top.

“We should’ve just done the horse costume,” Beetlejuice advised. “Want a rice krispie?”

You glared at him, but couldn’t stay too mad too long. Shrugging out of the coat, you said, “Yes. Take this costume out and bury it or burn it or something. You tricked, and I’ll have a treat.”

“That’s my babe,” he grinned, and took the disgusting outfit off your hands.

fin!

#writing #fanfiction #beetlejuice #Halloween

32 notes · View notes

supremeuppityone · 4 years

Photo

Chapter 116: The Moral in the Mafia

Author’s note: This was written for Klaroline Bingo @klaroline-events. Prompt: Mafia AU.

You can read the sequel here.

So what if she got mugged and her mother’s ring was stolen? Caroline’s never been one to back down, and she heard the local mob boss might be an honorable criminal...

Warning: Some violence.

“Judges, lawyers and politicians have a license to steal. We don’t need one.”

— Carlo Gambino

There should be a special place in hell for morning people. Unfortunately, the best time to take advantage of the natural beauty found within the golden hour was the brief period immediately after sunrise. Caroline grumbled as she set up her phone camera, finding the perfect angle nestled in the elbow of the bronze statue. She was in Jackson Square to capture her new workout routine for Sassy Sunshine, her positivity blog, and as much as she disliked mornings, she knew her subscribers would appreciate seeing the beauty of New Orleans at first light.

A noise startled her, but she only spared a casual glance around the empty park before resuming her warmup. Putting on a smile, she opened her mouth to begin her monologue with her signature phrase, ‘sunshine starts with you,’ when an arm unexpectedly shot out, choking her. Heart hammering in her chest, she gasped, trying to catch her breath. Blue eyes wide and fearful, she couldn’t help but notice the edge of a ferocious-looking wolf tattoo winding its way along the pale forearm that grabbed her.

She stopped struggling as she realized it was the signature mark of the most notorious mafia in the south. “What do you want,” Caroline asked, hating how her voice wavered.

“Your ring, to start,” he rasped, the cold, emotionless tone making her shiver.

He roughly spun her around, and she quickly lashed out with her sneaker, catching him in the balls. “Bitch,” he grunted, doubling over briefly. Unfortunately, he still managed to catch her as she tried to run away, his fist glancing off of her cheek.

Caroline cried out as fire exploded across her face, and she understood why after she spied the gaudy silver ring on his finger. He reached for her, brown eyes glittering with malice, and in an instant, she was frozen. The darkness she read in his gaze. His intentions.

Fortunately, several joggers came into the park, and her assailant cursed as whatever terrible things he��d planned had been foiled. Lunging forward, he grabbed her hand, wrenching off her ring as painfully as possible. Her mother’s ring! “No, stop,” she screamed as he ran off, holding her hand to her chest as the knuckle throbbed and bled. The joggers uselessly stared, then resumed their morning workout as though nothing had happened.

Seriously?! Caroline was furious and frightened and practically vibrating in her skin as she started throwing all of her gear back into her tote bag. It was when she grabbed her phone that she realized the video had been recording the entire attack. Got him. She briefly considered rushing it to the police and filing a report, but that idea lost its luster when she reminded herself of who she was dealing with. Klaus Mikaelson.

As the formidable mob boss of the notorious Mikaelsons, he ran the south, and everyone knew that he’d made New Orleans his personal playground. He had the cops in his pocket, and all but the worst of criminals dared to cross him and his family. However, there were whispers that despite his fearsome reputation, at times he could be honorable. Attacking an unarmed woman didn’t seem like something Klaus would sanction. Normally, she’d never behave so recklessly, but she didn’t have a choice. She was getting back her mother’s ring.

Despite the rumors she’d indulged in over the years, she had no idea what Klaus looked like, and only a vague idea of how to find him. Lightly touching her cheek, she winced, hoping the black eye that bastard probably gave her wouldn’t be more than her concealer could handle — the last thing she wanted to do was answer awkward questions from her blog followers. Although a run-in with the mafia might do wonders for her blog stats. She hopped on her bike, pleased that at this time of day, Decatur Street was nearly deserted and she could take it most of the way to the Port of New Orleans.

Everyone knew that the Mikaelsons controlled the port — nothing got in or out of this city without their approval. Klaus’ people always could be found there in the heart of his territory. She smartly steered her bike past the shadowy stacks of enormous industrial containers, knowing better than to attract the attention of some sleazy wharf rat lurking in a dark corner. Once she arrived at the more populated (and slightly safer) cruise terminal, she chained her bike to a rack and casually glanced around.

She noticed the dealer before he saw her, and she rolled her eyes at his incompetence. Isn’t that part of their job to be hyperaware of what’s going on around them? She wondered how the entire Mikaelson organization ran on such poor hiring practices. She kept her eye contact to a minimum, not wanting to draw too much attention in case she scared him off. She didn’t have time to chase down a dealer all morning. The kid couldn’t be more than 18 or 19, and he looked ready to bolt the second she got to him. She didn’t blame him — she was completely out of her element in this situation.

“Um...” Caroline began uncertainly, “I need to see Klaus.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Nope. She did not ride her bike all the way down to the docks just to be stopped by some clueless middleman. “Seriously?! I’m betting underneath that dirty hoodie you’re wearing there’s a Mikaelson wolf tattoo on your forearm.” She snidely added, “And now for the bonus round — on the other arm, you’ve got some tacky barbed wire, right?”

“Bitch,” he spat, fists curling at his sides.

An accented voice interrupted them, a hint of reproach in his tone as he said, “Jeremy, that’s no way to talk to a lady.” He tilted his dark head as he studied her, mouth curving into a half-smile as he asked, “What can I do for you, gorgeous?”

“You’re Klaus Mikaelson.” At his brief nod, she explained, “I have business to discuss.”

He wordlessly led her to an office perched over the docks, overlooking the river. As he gestured for her to sit down, he asked in an amused voice, “Would you care for a cafe au lait or perhaps some beignets, Miss...?”

She observed him carefully, taking in his neatly tailored suit with the iridescent lapels and chunky gold cufflinks and his brash, almost charming demeanor. “I’m Caroline. But you aren’t Klaus Mikaelson. You’re too flashy and clearly overcompensating. A man like Klaus Mikaelson doesn’t need to show off. Now, tell me where I can find him.”

“Right here, sweetheart.”

Caroline turned, blue eyes widening as she took him in. The man before her was unexpectedly beautiful. Sculpted cheekbones, dirty blonde curls carelessly tousled, and a dimpled smirk that whispered lewd promises. “There you are. Finally,” she said irritably.

Klaus’ gray eyes twinkled as he wryly observed, “Normally, Enzo performs quite admirably as a stand-in. Tell me, how did you see through him?”

“Please. Real power radiates. Enzo barely sparks.”

Klaus let out a delighted chuckle, waving a grumbling Enzo out of the office and took the black leather chair across from Caroline. “You don’t belong here. You must want to speak with me very badly, love,” he said shrewdly.

She stiffened a bit at his words, trying to decide whether to be insulted. “I like to think I can fit in anywhere.” She glanced down, reddening a bit as she realized she was still wearing her lilac sports bra and cropped pants. One of her sponsorships was with a luxury brand boutique, so at least her outfit was attractive, but she felt distinctly underdressed while sitting across from an impossibly gorgeous man in a ten-thousand-dollar suit. A dangerous man, she sternly reminded herself as she fought back a flicker of interest. “I’m here because I was robbed in Jackson Square just now. By one of yours.”

He eyed her speculatively, but remained frustratingly silent. She had the distinct feeling she was watching a jungle cat patiently wait for its meal to make a foolish mistake. Her hand shook as she unlocked her phone, and she hurriedly explained, “He interrupted me while I was filming for my blog and I caught everything on video. Word is you’re an honorable man...sort of, and I don’t think you’d allow your men to just go around attacking unarmed women.”

“I’m curious as to why you didn’t immediately turn this evidence over to the police. You seem the type to find great comfort in law enforcement.”

“Seriously?! You are the police! And anyone who thinks differently is either a tourist or a clueless idiot,” Caroline retorted, mentally berating herself for losing her temper. You’re here to get help from this criminal. Stop yelling at the scary criminal, dumbass.

His lips twitched as though he was fighting back a smile. “And how do you know I’m a ‘sort of honorable man’, as you so generously put it?”

“You bought the building Sheila Bennett’s tea shop was in after her jackass landlord kept raising the rent and you reinstated her rental agreement from a decade ago,” she told him, secretly pleased that she seemed to have surprised him. “I grew up with her granddaughter.”

“When you compare that simple act with my endless string of horrifying misdeeds, it hardly qualifies me as a saint, sweetheart. Perhaps I just enjoy tea.”

With an annoyed huff, she realized Klaus was more than content to continue this weird flirtation, but she was on a mission and didn’t have time for dangerous criminal murder flirting. “Look, I’m here because your employee stole my mother’s ring. It’s all I have left from her and I need it back. Please.” She tacked on the please at the last minute, hating how just the thought of her mother still almost brought her to tears. “See for yourself.”

Klaus noticed her wince as her knuckle grazed her phone case, and his voice became low and dangerous as he growled, “Did my employee injure your hand? What about that black eye?”

“Yes.” Not bothering to elaborate, Caroline held up her phone and played the video. Together, they watched her attack, but she kept finding her gaze strayed to the enigmatic man before her, surprised to see anger flash across his face.

There was a strained silence between them once the video stopped, and the room felt heavy with...something. “Right. It seems I know the lad responsible and will handle this personally. You have my word, love.”

“Um...so should I meet you back here or...” she trailed off uncertainly, still shocked that her plan worked. She was getting back her mother’s ring. Because she trusted Klaus.

Klaus favored her with an impish wink, telling her, “I’ll just follow the sunshine. After all, it starts with you.”

_________________________________

The package came by messenger later that evening. Caroline still was trying to wrap her head around the fact that notorious mob boss Klaus Mikaelson apparently subscribed to her positivity blog. She had so many questions. She eagerly tore into the first box, relieved to see that it contained her mother’s ring. It unexpectedly had been polished until the small sapphires swirling across the middle gleamed. Klaus had her ring cleaned.

But what truly put a smile on her face was the second box that contained the gaudy silver ring that had belonged to her assailant, faint smears of blood along one edge.

Along with a note in exquisite calligraphy that asked, “Dinner tomorrow?”

#kcbingo2020 #klaroline fanfic #uppity bitch fanfic #klaroline #klaroline aesthetic #aesthetic #mafia kc is so much fun #especially when klaus is a secret cinnamon roll

80 notes · View notes

evien-stark · 5 years

Text

✧I Need You✧ Chapter 35

Tonight was a big night. Bigger than many of the other big nights you’d ever had. You didn’t have to give a speech. You didn’t really have to entertain anyone. You weren’t there to listen about the latest innovations or pretend to listen to someone who was trying to climb over you. You weren’t at the Basel afterparty for the rich and famous on behalf of Stark Industries. You weren’t there to talk about your love of art. You weren’t there to make a generous donation with a smile and a Disney princess wave.

You were there for you and Tony. Very much using the venue for your own advantage. But you were sure they wouldn’t mind. It was, however, because of this, you knew you were walking into a nightmare. While the idea was to put it out casually to the first class world and all its photographers and paparazzi, and then let it leak out to the casual world through the grapevine (and many many pictures…), this night was anything but casual.

It was why you let professional help do your hair and makeup. It was why you’d let a keen eye pick out a slick, gorgeous deep purple mermaid gown with a pooled train, low cut on the neckline and sheer sleeves that had maroon lace detailing up the sides and the hanging pieces from the back that floated behind you as you walked. Similarly you’d picked a coordinated matching outfit for Tony. A smart and sharp white suit with the same dark purple color lining the lapels and coloring his tie along with swirls of that intermingling maroon. Pocket square much the same affair, folded and folded again for good measure.

It was hard not to be nervous. You were never this nervous. But then again… you’d never been put into a position to tell the entire world you were dating Tony Stark before. There were a thousand ways this evening could go that would make this look cheap and tacky, crass. That would put people off the arrangement- not that you cared about what anyone thought. And there would no doubt be people that didn’t like it regardless.

But you loved Tony. Deeply. And to give off any impression save that was unthinkable.

Cameras were going off on the sidewalk as the car pulled up to the long walk of red carpet. Reporters and fans alike were shouting questions at other people and then redirecting when they just knew the Stark car had pulled up on the curb.

Tony glanced at you, briefly, giving your hand a squeeze. A sly smile. In control. He’d taken women to events before. Perhaps he knew the game. Not afraid to get caught by the press- though this was hardly getting caught. Just putting it all out there for everyone to see. No more games. No more getting asked at interviews and pressers what your relationship was.

Everyone would know now.

He got out ahead of you so that he could walk around the car, giving the crowd a wave that turned into a peace sign halfway through. Then he turned to open the car door and held his hand out for you. So you took a breath. Steeled yourself. And then let him help you out.

People were screaming for his attention- his more so than you. Even if you were Stark Industries newest co-owner, he was Tony Stark, after all. Worthy of their adoration. But as he held his arm out for you, you caught the look in his eyes. He’d never cared about everyone else. But tonight he cared somehow even less.

Because he only had eyes for you.

You gave him a gentle smile, eased by his confidence and warm gaze and then slipped your arm around his, holding on to him as he escorted you up the walk. Finding your pace, you held your head high and pretended to be as assured as him.

You were no longer just a woman at the mercy of the world. You owned stake in one of the biggest corporations ever to exist. You were technically now a billionaire. You had faced down villains. You had the invitation of a super secret spy agency. You’re intelligent, capable, witty-

Tony stopped at the front of the steps as the attendants held the door open for the two of you. The entire world was looking at the both of you.

He took your free hand, lifting it to press a careful kiss to the back.

The world might have had the good sense to fade away, if not for the shock that took everyone by storm.

You were all these incredible things, but you had one more.

Turning your hand over you cupped the side of his neck in your palm and leaned up on tiptoe to press a smiling kiss to his cheek.

His grin was charming, pointedly amused. And the only thing you cared about in that moment.

You had Tony Stark. And not a single person could take that away from you.

He made sure to take careful hold of your arm again, almost possessively so, as the two of you ignored the screams from the barred off crowd and headed into the venue. It was cooler inside, something you were grateful for. But there was yet another set of steps to descend into the main ballroom. These people loved this. It was what they lived for. Being looked at. Admired. It was something you usually hated.

But the way the room stilled as the band continued to play, all eyes on the two of you as you descended together arm in arm… maybe there was something to it. Small. Tiny. You’d never admit it. But just maybe.

It was slightly empowering. To have everyone’s attention so easily. Even if it was shock or upset. And even when it would lead to the murmurings and whisperings already happening when the two of you reached the floor. That didn’t matter.

Tony switched to put his arm around your waist, leading you away from the stairs and closer to the bar. “How am I doing so far?”

It wasn’t like you’d discussed a game plan of how to approach this thing. And it didn’t matter. The little bit you had talked about had payed off. Literally everyone in the vicinity knew what was going on. That was what you’d wanted. “Oh. You’re very charming.” If not a little obvious. But that was okay. “What about me?” Glancing up at him with a cheerful smile.

He seemed to melt. “I don’t know if you noticed, but everyone is looking at you.” And in voicing this, the arm around you pulled you just a little bit closer.

“No.” Put off at the mere thought. “It’s you.” As usual. “If it’s me it’s because they’re formulating gossip about how I’m not the right fit.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time everyone else got it wrong.” Warmth in his low tone as he took you to the edge of the bar, relinquishing his hold just so he could take your hand again for another quick kiss to the back. Really laying it on thick tonight. Not that you minded, you found. “Can I get you a drink?”

“God. Yes, please.” Quick to stifle a little laugh at your eagerness. But something to take the edge off those stares was going to be necessary.

He just grinned lightly and then moved to the center of the bar to get the server’s attention. Right about the same time that you somehow found yourself sucked into a vortex that drew you away. You were suddenly in a circle of other women- some of who you knew, although not intimately. In that same way that everyone knew everyone in this world. “Oh- you look so good tonight-”

“It’s nice to see you!”

“How’s the Expo stuff going? We were very sorry to hear what happened-”

All light chitchat nonsense that you would have expected any other night. Things they didn’t really care about. But then, finally, came the question you’d gotten used to hearing. “Did you come with Tony tonight?”

“Oh-” The generic response to that was right on the tip of your tongue. Quick as you had it at the ready at all these events. Generally it was, yes but no not like that. This time, however, for the first and last time now, you put a smile forward that was as genuine as it was calculating. “Yes, we did come together.”

The women all shuffled nervously. “That’s nice.”

“In a separate car I hope!”

“You can keep with us when he gets distracted.”

And then you realized it never would have mattered if you’d said yes before. Because they wouldn’t believe it. Couldn’t, maybe. Couldn’t believe that someone like you would be with someone like him. No matter what had happened. No matter your status. No matter how obvious.

The world had decided you did not belong with Tony Stark. Perhaps not because he was explicitly better than you-

“Excuse me, ladies.” His voice caught everyone’s attention and you saw the stars in their eyes and the droop of their shoulders. The little girlish sighs that escaped.

You didn’t belong with Tony Stark because Tony Stark belonged to the world. Tony Stark belonged to everyone’s fantasies of him. Their idealizations. Their hopes that he’d pick one of them to take home. To bed- and maybe if they were lucky they’d break him in.

You were no such woman. Right? You couldn’t be.

“Hello Tony.”

“Tony you look so good this evening!”

“Did you pick out any art at the showing?”

Crowding around him and effectively shutting you out. Like it was a normal night. This is what would always happen. Because you’d let it. Because once upon a time, a whole lifetime ago now it felt like, Tony Stark didn’t in fact belong to you. You hadn’t had any interest in the idea. So you’d let anyone and everyone take his interest and you’d blend into the wall and talk shop with people who weren’t really listening to you.

But tonight-

“Can we dance?” Asking him softly, ignoring as the women half parted more in their glancing back at you. Like they couldn’t believe you’d ask such a foolish thing.

Tony Stark wanted to stay and chat with the gorgeous women. Not go off with his secretary. But that was life before.

Now, instead, he handed the two fresh drinks he’d only just ordered to the woman standing closest. Who took hold of them as confusion marked her expression. Tony held his hand out to you. “Absolutely.”

You put your hand in his, directing that same smile to the women around you. “Excuse us.” Then let him take you away from the crowd, drawing in a deep breath. “Thanks for the rescue.”

A slow jazzy burn of Dream a Little Dream of Me started to play around you. Tony took your hand in his as you settled your other arm around his neck. His other hand went to your waist. “They giving you a hard time already?”

Your attention turned up to him, finding him looking at you. Only you. A scoff escaped you. “They don’t even care. Or believe me. Apparently I could have been telling these people I’ve been dating you for years. They never would have believed it.”

“So you’re saying we need some sort of grand finale?” His smile was a little mischievous then.

Something you had to put an immediate stop to. Although you were giggling. Just a little. “No. We don’t need to go ham. I don’t… I guess I really don’t care what they think. Or believe.” You’d just wanted to have a night with him to put it out there. But in the end… maybe you just wanted to have a night with him to be with him freely. No more hiding in private villas and behind closed doors.

“Good. Neither do I.”

“No surprises there.”

He grinned. “I’ve never been in the business of giving a damn what other people think about me.”

“Oh you don’t have to tell me that.” How many fires you’d put out for him over the years because of that exact line of thinking.

As he pulled you just a little bit closer, you rested your head on his shoulder. “Then what are we doing here?”

A fine question. If neither of you cared about anyone else or the headlines that would print come tomorrow… “I’m tired of hiding.” You wanted to not have to think about who was watching the two of you when. To not have the office door closed. Or yell at interns. Or make people sign NDAs. Your relationship was not meant to be a burden. Just another thing for you to think and obsess about the optics of.

“Glad to hear it.” His tone was a mere rumble. Something you barely caught just as he stopped swaying with you, taking one of your hands up above your head to slowly twirl you around, and then eased the palm of his hand over the small of your back to get you to lean back as he held you steady. “In that case-”

Not sparing a moment after as he leaned down to press a kiss to your lips. Chaste. Appropriate for the venue despite how inappropriate it was regardless. Heat struck you, blinding across your cheeks as the room went alight with voices. Shock.

And some minor disgust mixed in for good measure.

You put a wall up and ignored them. Instead easing Tony back from you as you slid a hand up the side of his neck. When he pulled just enough away, he was smirking. “How’s that for a grand finale?”

“We just got here.” To your surprise, you were not embarrassed in the slightest, a smile breaking out across your entire face, giggles escaping, as he helped you upright.

God but you loved this man.

“Leaving parties after ten minutes is kind of my thing.” He seemed absolutely delighted. “But- if you really want to stay. How about a drink? I promise to not give it away this time.”

You disengaged from him, stepping back, from the other couples pretending to dance while watching you, to the wall. Giving him a pat on the arm, “I’ll be right here.” He probably had the right idea, you realized as he was halfway gone. Going back to the hotel room now might have been a very smart thing to do. And as he half leaned on the bar with one arm, handsome and all charm with that grin of his, you realized, yes you really would like to go back to the hotel. So you could climb him like a tree.

“Excuse me.”

Just barely getting out of your sordid thoughts after hearing your name called twice. “Mn?” Looking over at the man who had called you.

“You look absolutely divine this evening. Would you care for a dance?” His hand was held out to you and on social principle you found yourself offering yours in return and letting him lead you away. Breaking out of your self-induced Tony trance to try and put a name to this man’s face.

He was tall, lean, dirty blond hair in a coif, five o’clock shadow, blue eyes- ...did you know this man? “I’m sorry- have we met?” It wouldn’t be entirely unusual for someone you had no direct knowledge of to try and-

“Barely. It’s alright. I won’t take offense.” He was grinning at you. Interrupting your thoughts so easily with that gravel-y tone of his. “I know social climbing is frowned on at these sorts of events, but I was hoping you’d give me a chance.”

His hand on your waist made you uneasy. “A chance?”

“I have a little thinktank that is doing wonders with gene therapy. We heard- well, everyone heard about what happened at the Stark Expo a couple weeks ago. I know there are some people laid up in hospital beds with injuries they may never recover from.” This was like a cold hard slap in the face.

So much so that you stopped moving. “This is a little more than social climbing, Mr.-?”

He smiled gently and nudged you to keep swaying. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to bring up terrible memories. It’s remarkable, the lengths you’re going to to help everyone. To fix things. I was hoping to have a sit down meeting. I think my company could partner with yours and do some extraordinary things. Really help people.”

Gene therapy? That wasn’t exactly a forte of Stark Industries. Was this something worth pursuing? This man was right… some people were going to need more than just money thrown at them to fix what had happened. Something you’d dwelt on for a long time. “What is your company called?” At the very least it was worth sitting down and reading some documents. Doing some research.

“We’re called AIM-”

“Excuse me.” Tony’s voice blessedly cut between the two of you.

“Good to see you, Tony.” The mystery man with a plan grinned at him, taking his hands off you so he could offer one to Tony to shake.

Tony barely looked at him. “Yeah, you too buddy- if I can just cut in here.” Not really asking permission as he handed you your long-stemmed glass and put his now free arm around you, whisking you away.

“Think about it!” The man called out behind you. You gave him an apologetic wave over your shoulder.

But really… you were glad Tony had come to your rescue. “That guy bothering you?”

You took a small sip of your champagne. “No more so than anyone else.”

“You looked uncomfortable.” He stopped near the large double wide glass doors that led out to a perfectly low lit garden.

With a raise of your brows, “Really?” Your work mask had slipped, if that was the case. While you didn’t want people coming up to you and doing what he’d just done, it was more professional to look like it didn’t bother you. Pursing your lips you shook your head. “I just- I don’t wanna talk about work stuff. And he’s like the rest of them.” Trying to get to you to get something out of you.

Really help people.

Hm.

Tony raised his glass and you met it for a little clink. “Here’s to not talking about work stuff.”

You two shared a long sip and then you eased a breath out. Something about this was still bothering you. “I really looked uncomfortable?” That you would have been that unaware of your own expressions-

“Can’t say I blame you. He was eyeing you like a plate of meat and had his hands all over you.”

Ah. Your smile was carefully gentle. “Are you sure you weren’t the one who was uncomfortable?”

“What have I got to worry about?” He arched his brow at you, taking another pointed loud sip of his drink.

To this you nodded. “Absolutely right. So it won’t bother you to know he said I look absolutely divine.” Teasing him just a little. You didn’t want him to worry about stuff like that. The exact opposite of the reason the two of you were here in the first place.

He made a face, rolling his eyes. “Not even a little. Guy’s trying too hard.”

Despite yourself you pursed your lips. “Meaning?”

“Meaning he was laying it on thick.” Finishing his drink in one more sip, he set it on a low table nearby and turned to you. Tipping your chin up with the crook of his index finger, he proved himself right. “You look beautiful.”

Because where absolutely divine had no affect at all, those three little words from Tony set your heart to hammering. Or maybe it was the look he was giving you. The softness of those warm brown eyes. Or how close he was. All you knew was you couldn’t stop the dazed smile from appearing. There was really only one thing you could say to that. “Let’s leave.”

His smirk reappeared. “Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

#Tony Stark #Tony Stark x Reader #INY Chapter Thirty Five

9 notes · View notes

no-mo-rules · 6 years

Text

Par for the Course

Part One | Part Two | Part Three (Last)

A bustling rabble of people is alive with chatter in the bowels of an undisclosed metro station. Somewhere among them, two teenagers: Ryuji and Akira, stand on a platform following a frenzied exit from a train. Respectively, one holds a large bouquet of red roses tied with a thick, white ribbon, and the other frantically clicks through a navigation app, trying his best to figure out which way he should be facing to walk to Nagaike Park.

“Oh man. I’m gonna be late,” Ryuji grumbles to himself, rocking on his heels impatiently. Akira, on the other hand, does not appear nearly as agitated.

“We’re already late,” he remarks, numbly. “Fifteen minutes late.”

Ryuji’s eyes widen dramatically.

“No way. You’re kidding.”

A woman trailing a large, wheeled duffel knocks Akira on the shoulder, but with enough determination, he finds the patience to dismiss it with a huff and a discrete sweep of his hand through his hair.

This whole outing is a bad idea. He knows that, knew it from the very beginning, so how come his common sense proved so lacklustre when it came to refusing Ryuji’s puppy eyes? Honestly, it should have been a hard no, even without the disaster that was this entire morning, because on top of the fact Ryuji always leaves getting ready to the last minute, he insisted on dragging Akira to the market for a bouquet of flowers, too.

“No. You were supposed to be there for quarter to three, right?” he asks, and lifts his smartphone up to the sky, where it still struggles with a vapid single-bar. Among other instances of bad luck during the day, the capricious nature of his phone’s data is not lost on him.

“I should have been there for half past two!” The panic encasing Ryuji’s wide eyes and overzealous tone finds no reflection in Akira’s response.

“Oh,” he begins, as drearily and matter-of-factly as everything he’s said before. “In that case, you’re already half an hour late.”

With an irate gasp, Ryuji almost uses the bouquet to club Akira’s head. But bar his marginally more formal outfit (think: slightly less tacky shirt), the flowers are all that he has to his name in the intention of making a good first-impression (because punctuality is sure as hell a goner), so he thinks better of it.

“Well, now what?”

“I’m still trying to figure out where we are.”

“Shit, is there no like, map around here or somethin’?”

To tell the truth, Akira is still having a hard time trying to grasp why Ryuji didn’t offer to meet with you in a place he was familiar with. Sure, Shibuya square is kind of a busy place to find someone you’ve never met before, and maybe the fishing spot in east Shinjuku is a little shady for a first-timer. But there’s many locations Akira can think of that don’t look like locations bookmarked by prolific serial killers, or places where it’s easier to get trampled than it is to find somewhere to sit down: the ramen restaurant in Ogikubo is a good place to start, but even aside from that, parks litter Shibuya left and right, and they’re all easier than taking a trek to some random park in the middle of nowhere just because it was the place you suggested first.

(“I just didn’t want to delay meeting her any longer,” Ryuji had justified, and Akira supposes he’s paying for his impatience now; if he’d been a little calmer about the whole thing, he wouldn’t have missed his stop.)

With a defeated sigh, Akira scours around for maps and notices a subway route outline that looks a little too oversimplified to be of any help. Still, it doesn’t stop a crowd of people from gathering around it, flocking like sheep and trying to figure out where and which way to go.

Among them, a girl that looks suspiciously like…

Like…

“Oh, fuck”.

“What?” Ryuji inquires, and barely has the chance to follow Akira to where he slinks away to hide behind a banner advertising men’s perfume. “Dude, what’s gotten into you?”

‘You weren’t supposed to be here,’ he thinks. ‘You weren’t supposed to see him. More importantly, he wasn’t supposed to see you.’

“Just --” excuses come through his head one hundred miles an hour: I’m tired (from what?); I just got hit with the crimson wave (wrong gender, genius); I owe dirty money to one of the bulked-up yakuza blokes standing on the side smoking cigarettes and if they see me they’re going to skin me alive like a -- “it’s just a leg cramp,” he finishes, and it’s so predictable and transparent that the little internal cringe he experiences helps him fake the pain he’s supposed to be feeling.

Thankfully, whether out of chance or genuine belief that Akira would never lie to him, Ryuji is gullible enough to fall for it.

“Oh. Do you need to sit down?” he asks, full of nothing but concern. “I guess we have been standing around a lot.”

Akira shakes his head through gritted teeth.

“No, it’s alright. Go over to the map and figure out where we are,” he instructs him, and points to where he’s convinced he saw you, just standing around looking lost. This doesn’t go over as smoothly, and Ryuji frowns at him.

“You sure? ‘Cause it kind of sounds like you need –”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

The force with which Akira shoves Ryuji in your direction almost makes him stumble over. He doesn’t quite understand what Akira’s problem is, but he neglects his over-eagerness all the same, giving him no more than a half-concerned, half-offended glance as he makes his way over to the map.

With a deep breath, Akira settles against the back of the advert and takes to watching you from the side-lines.

Truthfully, the map doesn’t help his situation. It’s not even a map, not really, more of a subway outline that takes a lot of artistic liberties in terms of distance and location. The only thing he can infer from it is that he’s in Tamasakai Station, which seems to be a mysteriously undisclosed number of kilometres away from Minami-Osawa, the station he should have departed from. Still, he tries his best to figure out what general direction Nagaike Park is in, even if there’s nothing in either the enclosed environment of the subway station or the map that could provide foundation for a reliable guess. Eventually, as the people around him confirm their next route, the crowd thins, and he’s left standing there with someone who looks even more confused than he feels.

At first, he gives you no more than a precursory glance, more a reflexive reaction to being alone with you than anything else, but it sticks. He finds, with some gentle apprehension, that it’s a little difficult to look away.

So he stares (without prejudice or assumption), and takes note of your shoes, hair, and all the details he scarcely pays attention to, like the way your lips tuck into each other as you concentrate on deciphering what you can of the map. And then you turn to him, and he sees everything about your slightly troubled expression: like the way your frown tightens and straightens into a long, thin line, or the inquisitive curve to your eyebrow as you –

“Uhm, can I help you?” you ask eventually, and whoops.

He’s been caught.

“Uh, sorry! I just…” Oddly, he finds his eyes drawn to you even now, when he should be wrapping up his stray stares and pretending to find sudden interest in the map. “You just look kind of lost.” As justification, it feels like an excuse at best, but it’s the only explanation he has (bar just asking if you’re a magnet or something).

Understanding flashes across your face.

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely,” you say, with such assuredness it’s almost funny. “It’s my first time in this area of Japan, so...” With a sheepish glance (shortness suggestive of a customary politeness), you take note of the bouquet of roses he’s holding. “To tell the truth, I don’t really know where I’m going. I think I got off too early.”

He laughs a little, a soft chortle that seems so genuine you feel a butterfly in your stomach awaken.

“Ditto,” he says. “But I think I got off too late.”

“So, in other words, we’re both lost?”

Now he’s smiling really, very widely. You like the way it takes over almost the entirety of his face, pinching his cheeks and dimpling his eyes into little slits.

“Looks like it, yeah.” He rubs the back of his head. “And to top it off, I’m really late.”

You snort.

“If you think that’s bad, look at this.” With another little laugh, you pull your phone out of your pocket and present its black screen in his direction. You make a show of pressing the power button, which does nothing to change the display. “My phone ran out, so I don’t even know what time it is.”

There’s another laugh, but this time it’s both of you, together. A spark crackles through your neck, twisting into your chest – and with it comes a rush of excitement that fries the string in your throat dry. It’s strange; very strange. It almost feels like your own body is malfunctioning the same way circuits do. You take a deep breath to calm it: to settle all the stray sparks and ease the current to a steady ebb and flow, and you notice (with some strange version of hypersensitivity) that he does it too.

When you look away (for barely a second), it feels like a switch has been disconnected.

“Ah well, at least now we can use the old ‘I was helping a lost tourist’ excuse,” he says, a little sheepishly, and grins at you.

God, his smile.

(Another butterfly rouses.)

“I guess so,” you say, genuinely flabbergasted at the clarity of its appearance, like you could trace an outline of its silhouette just from the way it beats against the side of your stomach.

“Where you tryin’ ta’ get to, anyway? I can’t promise I’ll know how to help, but…”

When he speaks, flashes of images throw a blanket over you: of a fuzzy peach, delicious and lush, and intertwined feet beneath a blanket of warmth you feel an immediate need to burrow inside; not a bright neon light flashing ‘safety! safety!’ but an innate feeling – like you just know.

Barely, you find the strength to speak, but even then, you’re overwhelmed by the familiarity of someone who has proven themselves to be nothing more than a stranger. (A stranger!)

“Uh, I – uh, a park.”

He looks at you, eyebrow jutted gently.

“A park?”

You scramble to think of the name, but it dangles from beneath the fold of your tongue, just out of reach. There’s a flash of something across his face, and then his eyes are open, wide, wide open, and his heart beats erratically, in pace with yours.

“It wasn’t –” he pauses. “It wasn’t Nagaike, was it?”

Your nod has a sharp, surprised quality to it, mostly out of genuine disbelief that he guessed correctly, because out of all the possible parks that exist around this area, surely it’s such a coincidence that he knows –

And then it hits.

“Oh! You must be –”

“Yeah! I’m Ryuji!”

“Ah! I’m –”

“Yeah! From the forum!”

“Yeah!”

“You mean that we both –”

“We were both late! Can you believe that?”

When the both of you burst into laughter, it’s a flurry: a rambling mess of squirming and feathery lightness that comes hand in hand with the flutter of your heart and feet.

You’ve never had this with anyone. Sure, you’ve had butterflies, but these things feel like giant atlas moths, like doves, and swans, and albatross of wingspans unseen (although when you see the blinding brightness of his shy grin, you think that maybe moths are still the most fitting metaphor. They are, after all, drawn to the light).

“So uh,” he starts, and the inner tug-of-war he has with his own eyes to stop staring at you is completely transparent. The plane of his face curves away in an attempt to focus on something else, but his eyes compromise the distance, following you like magnets. “These are for you,” he mumbles, softly, and lifts the bouquet of flowers up to his chest.

Shyly, you take them from him, and when your fingers ever so gently trace his, the intersection of skin where they meet erupts into bonfires and sparks, crackles and whips. Softly, he recoils, and it’s all it takes for you to be entirely sure he feels it too.

‘Wow,’ he mouths. “This is –” a gulp breaks it apart. “It’s strong.”

Your nod is haphazard, but all the more assured.

“I didn’t think it was gonna be like this,” you agree. “I’ve never –”

“Never felt it before?”

“No.”

He’s mimicking you now, nodding with such subtle movement you’re positive he can’t be aware of it. The urge to draw him in is overwhelming, but what little dapples of cologne you can smell from where you’re standing are already enough to bring a swirly wobble to your knees, so you keep your distance.

Oddly, you don’t feel insecure. You did this morning, when you got dressed into eight different outfits before making your mind up, and you did this afternoon, when you realised your phone didn’t charge overnight and you missed your first train.

It all feels for nought now, all so insignificant that you can scarcely remember what anxiety is supposed to feel like.

“It’s good though,” you add, because you sure as hell can’t pretend it isn’t.

“Oh yeah,” he responds enthusiastically, and offers his hand for you to take. “It’s great.”

(There are three swarms of butterflies.)

Akira smiles to himself.

It’s a good feeling, he thinks, to see the two of you finally meet.

Maybe it’d be nicer if he didn’t have to hide; if the support he felt for Ryuji (and you) didn’t have to be pressed against the side of a wall that you can’t see and buried in his little hidden fist pumps. Sure, it’s hard to pretend there aren’t little sprouts of feelings long buried when he looks at you, and there might be a little bit of distaste when the two of you smile at each other with thick congestions of saccharine.

But that’s the case for any ex, isn’t it? Resurfacing feelings are surely temporary. He’s just a little nostalgic, is all. It’ll be fine.

He’ll be fine.

(Three is not an even number.)

A full twenty-five minutes of lively chatter come and go in the underground subway station before Ryuji thinks about Akira again. He can’t even remember what subjects have been breached, he just knows he’s having a lot of fun, laughing with you like nothing else

“Oh, I forgot to say,” he begins, chipping at the end of a burst of laughter that tumbles all the way from your stomach (and he notes this with pride) at a joke he’d quipped a couple moments prior.

“What is it?” you ask, voice still a little raw with warmth. The rumble of another train lolls in the tunnel, so you make the effort to move and make way for the line of people around you to get on, and Ryuji follows cue.

“One of your old classmates is here with me,” he says, and proceeds to twine his fingers together. “I was kinda nervous, so I asked him if he could come with until I got to the park.” You look around, but there’s no familiar face in sight. Ryuji notices, and gestures nonchalantly to the banner Akira is hiding behind. “He’s waiting there, he says. “D’you wanna see him?”

“Yeah, course. Who is it?”

Ryuji leads the way, carving a path from the congested crowd of people that you closely trace.

“D’you remember Akira?” he asks.

You stop.

“Akira?”

Ryuji looks back at you to make sure you’re still following, but when he finds you stopped dead in your tracks, he takes a couple of steps back to get close to you again.

“Yeah. The one that called the ambulance for you a couple months back, when the whole femur thing happened.” He looks back at you, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head with his arm. “Sorry ‘bout that, by the way.”

Still gobsmacked, you nod numbly, and hurry to answer him.

“It’s – it’s fine.” It comes out a little disconnected, and Ryuji must pick up on it, because his look turns to concern.

“Nah, that thing hurt like shit.” His attempts for a comforting smile do not go unnoticed, and even without thinking about it, your own face reacts – pulled taut at the cheeks with how your grin spreads. “Trust me, I know.” It’s funny how fast your nerves ease, how fast you forget about Akira in favour of standing a little closer to Ryuji until you look behind the banner he’s supposedly hiding behind and see him slumped against it, scrolling through his phone.

At first, he doesn’t even notice you’re there, but when he sees you, it’s with a double-take that sends him to his feet almost immediately. His eyes are wide open, and everything about the stiffness of his form suggests he did not intend on being seen.

You’re not surprised, but it still hurts in an odd, distant way.

“Look who I found,” Ryuji says, and points to you, presents you, almost, like an item of extreme value from a museum. His gullible reaction to Akira’s helpless look is a clear enough sentiment.

He has no idea. Akira hasn’t told him.

“I was wondering where you went,” Akira says to him, in a casual tone that borders on sheepish just enough that you can read into it. He’s wearing a neutral expression, but it’s thinly spread, and all it takes to shatter the glass is one look at you.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

You lift an eyebrow at him, just to let him know you’re onto his game before you reply.

“Yeah, it has.”

He’s nervous, you can tell.

“I –” he begins, and the next thing he says is just innocuous enough to pass as an introduction to Ryuji, but it’s a desperate excuse to you, a plea for forgiveness that begs you not to slip details of your relationship. “I told Ryuji about you being his soulmate.”

It surprises you; he can see it on your face.

“Wait. You told him?”

Akira’s breath of relief when Ryuji cuts in to elaborate is audible; when you hear it, you pity it about as much as it annoys you.

“Oh yeah, he told me everything.” Ryuji says, almost shyly. “I really owe him one."

There’s a beat of pure silence, and it means nothing to Ryuji, who’s tone deaf to the bitter anger in your grimace and the guilty edge to Akira’s. It means a little more to you, who’s seeing your ex-boyfriend for the first time since he left and cut off all contact with you. But it means the most to Akira, who’s entire life hinges on what you say next. How you react. Whether you decide that now is a good time to hit him with the lecture you’ve probably been letting stew for the past five months.

“Thanks,” you finally say. “I owe you one, too.”

This time, even Ryuji hears him sigh in relief.

“How did it go?” Akira asks, two nights after the outing to Nagaike park.

Turmeric and cumin define the thick and heavy savour of curry about Leblanc. Ryuji shovels forkfuls of it down his throat as he looks up at him – and the brightness of his demeanour is so transparent that Akira doesn’t even need a verbal response to know the answer.

He is, of course, referring to the breadth of four and a half hours between Akira’s swift escape onto the next subway and seven-thirty PM, when darkness overtakes the sky and you sheepishly excuse yourself from Ryuji to catch the first train home.

“It was the best time of my life,” Ryuji says, and Akira rolls his eyes almost immediately. “Nah, for real. I could have died happy just holding her hand.”

“So cheesy,” Akira laughs.

Normally, Ryuji would get a little defensive, but there’s no hint of offence (not even in good humour) in this instance. There’s just an unrivalled good mood, so unshakable Akira doesn’t think he’d have the artillery to put a chip in it.

“You’ll know when you find yours, man,” is all he says, still with that dumb smile on his face.

Ryuji expects the soft sheen of awkwardness that comes with the next silence, but it’s more a conclusion drawn from subconscious pattern-recognition than it is out of genuine thought or scrutiny. He takes the chance to look at Akira, leant over his own plate of curry (almost untouched), and observe the pointless way his fork trails the side of the plate.

“How does it feel?” Akira asks, and looks up at Ryuji to notice he’s being stared at.

“How does what feel?”

“Her,” he answers, resolutely, and then corrects himself. “Being with her. What’s it like?”

“Oh.” Another bright smile (one singular instance in a series, like stars taking turns to line his teeth) takes him hostage. “I’ve never felt anything else like it. It just all feels… so strong, y’know?

He thinks he knows.

“Can you describe it?” The question is anxious and insecure, so much so that Akira needs to clear his throat before he allows himself to speak again. “In words?”

Ryuji has little skill in articulating himself; it probably has something to do with the disproportionality between how much he feels and how much he thinks about what he’s feeling, and it reflects in his momentary frustration, as he kicks gently at the air with his feet and scrunches his face in thought.

“Think, uh, really big butterflies.”

Akira laughs again.

“And maybe like, imagine an electric shock when you touch. But it’s not a bad shock. Just kind of, intense.”

Ryuji’s lost in a sweet haze of happiness, recounting the afternoon in Nagaike for the umpteenth time. Akira, meanwhile, is slowly sobering, little chortles trailing off into silence.

“Your eyes just – follow them, and when they find them, they’re just stuck in place.”

His smile falls from his face.

“Just, when you’re around them, everything feels right.”

Any hints of humour deaden entirely.

“Know what I mean?”

Not as a full realisation, but as a soft ebb muted almost entirely by denial, it strikes him, that he does know.

(Or at least, he did.)

“Not really,” he answers.

(Maybe, if he really, really tries, he still can.)

Akira likes Ann.

She’s pretty: her blonde hair looks gorgeous undone, when it’s falling in shambles around her collar and bare back; her lips are lush and plump when they caress him; her voice curls into itself (tight at the edges) when she’s close, and he loves swallowing her moans with his lips as she shudders against him.

When his eyes are open, she’s the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

“Hey, Akira hold on --”

It’s satisfying to see her curl away from him when he doesn’t let up. His hand gets trapped between her legs when she crosses them tightly to stop him, and that, too, is satisfying, even if in doing so she displays the name of another splayed across her shoulder blades.

“Hold on. You’re not close yet,” she repeats, and how nice is that? Even on the throws of orgasm, she’s thinking about his pleasure.

“It’s fine,” he laughs, mumbles into her skin, and curves into her back to kiss her.

“No,” she retorts. She shoves his arm off her and to the side, where he grasps at the sheets as her legs hook around his waist. “You need to have fun, too.”

As someone to mess around with, she’s perfect; and if he was willing to open that can of worms, he’d be sure she’d make the perfect girlfriend, too.

So he listens to her. He lets his moans out, rocks against her, and closes his eyes.

(That’s where he makes his first mistake, really.)

“You’re perfect,” he whispers into her ear, because he’s skirting too close to the precipice to speak normally without cracking his voice. “So beautiful.”

His legs shake when his pace stutters, and Ann responds with more of her pretty little moans.

Pretty, so pretty.

Against the darkness of his eyelids he imagines her, feels the hot friction where she brushes against his skin. It’s difficult to concentrate with everything so hot and foggy, like his mind is trying to detangle his thoughts but there’s too many all coming at once: friction, and friction, and blonde hair and gasping and moans and everything all at once and he can’t think anymore.

And then it comes.

Among the flurry (while every bit of his mind is too distracted with sex and sweat), an apparition appears; takes the shape of love – the kind he hasn’t felt ever since you left, ever since you were taken from him. It bends, coils his heart and twists it so hard he can barely breathe, because God it’s strong, God it’s so much more than everything else, God he’s being swallowed up by fire; it’s up to his chest now, up to his collar, up to his nose and now he really can’t breathe because God he loves. He loves so much.

(When he peaks, his eyes are closed.)

“I love you,” he says. “I missed you so much.”

And then: a name.

It’s not Ann’s.

Akira doesn’t become aware of what he’s done until every remnant of the post-orgasm fades from his head and he opens his eyes to witness Ann’s hurt expression staring back at him.

“Shit,” he says, and pulls out of her in a frantic race, because as soon as it hits, it comes full force. “I’m sorry. That was, it was --”

“It’s alright,” she says.

The gasping anxiety chills into guilt and dread.

“No. I’m sorry.”

Ann turns her head away from him. He doesn’t know what to say, which is a shame, because the unbearable silence pushes a sore sickliness onto his stomach that would be far better gone. She sits up, and Akira notices with another surge of guilt that her legs are tightly closed and her arms are crossed self-consciously in front of her chest.

It doesn’t look like she knows what to say either. (How awful is that? Bubbly, chatty, lovely Ann doesn’t know what to say.)

She rubs her bare shoulder before standing up and reaching for her leggings, but she doesn’t do anything with them. Just holds them in her fingers awkwardly for a little while.

“I mean, I know I’m not your soulmate, but…” she finally speaks. Her tone doesn’t reveal significant sadness. In general, she doesn’t look particularly upset that he was thinking about someone else in his orgasm, but then, now that he thinks about it, why would she be? It’s not like she had any expectations for a future with Akira. Even at the beginning, Ann had made her own feelings clear. “It’s still kind of rude to be thinking about someone else, right?”

Akira just nods.

“Maybe you need to get together with whoever this other girl is?” she offers, and given how offended she’s probably feeling, it’s remarkable she’s trying to help him at all.

“No, it’s --” Akira begins, but to tell the truth he’s got no idea where that sentence would even go. “Just forget about it, please,” he asks instead.

With a deep breath, Ann shimmies into her leggings.

Ah, so she’s not staying the night.

(Not like it surprises him.)

“Alright,” she says. Briefly, she looks about the room, as though she’s deciding whether she should sit back down on the bed (and talk to Akira for a little while longer, help him figure things out) or put the rest of her clothes on and go back home. “I hope… uh, this thing sorts itself out, alright?” she says, and waits for Akira’s reply.

He doesn’t respond.

With another long sigh, she puts her top on.

Ryuji, 19.28: Ann, text back asap. I wanna tell u something important.

Ann, 19.33: What’s going on? Is everything alright?

Ryuji: 19.33: You know how I’m supposed to be blank?

Ann, 19.33: Yeah?

Ryuji, 19.34: Turns out I’ve actually got a soulmate lol. We’re just bound through pain, not names.

Ann, 19.34: Omg, no way!! I’m so happy for you!! Ann, 19.35: Have you met them yet?

Ryuji, 19.35: Yeah. I hate to sound cheesy, but it was love at first sight. Everything about them is just perfect.

Ann, 19.36: Awww!! that’s so cute. Congrats, honestly.

Ryuji, 19.36: Thanks. I really can’t screw this up now, lmfao.

Ann, 19.36: I’m sure they’ll like you even if you make a fool out of yourself, haha. Ann, 19.37: Before I forget to ask, what’s their name?

Akira can’t eat.

Nothing on his plate is worth the trouble of opening his mouth

You don’t notice him; not as much as you notice Ryuji.

He sees this with excruciating detail, because during the short gasps of time where he waits with Ryuji for you outside of the school gates, and he sees you skip over to them like you’re on top of the world, he’s always looking at you.

Usually, he excuses the genuine tearing he feels inside of himself as an expected feeling. This whole issue is a complicated mess, but at least he can declare himself the third wheel with confidence. Ann hasn’t texted him since the last time they met up, and although he’s certainly not blaming her, it’s made the empty space in his bed all the more obvious. In general, he feels like a loner clinging to the last few hints of romance he has, desperately squeezing every last bit of satisfaction out of his relationships (he and Makoto have been getting kind of close, and Kawakami still answers whenever she’s free) until they feel dry and pointless.

He knows what he wants. He’s got that far.

Surely, he’d have to layer denial on himself thickly enough to bury the majority of his intelligence not to. Ryuji drew the parallels for him a couple of weeks back, anyway, and he’s not keen on closing his eyes just so he can’t see his own reflection in Ryuji’s doe-eyed looks.

‘Everything feels right,’ he remembers Ryuji saying, and to tell the truth, now that he’s really looking at you, it doesn’t feel right, not really. But it definitely feels worse when he’s not looking at all, so he’s brave enough to admit it’s probably because you’re not looking back.

“Whenever I see you, it always feels like we’ve been apart for way too long,” he hears you say to Ryuji, and funnily enough, he finds himself agreeing, even though you’re not speaking to him.

Ryuji laughs.

“Come on, we saw each other yesterday.”

“Still too long.”

You’re dipped into a kiss that tries to go somewhere further (mostly through Ryuji’s direction), but you push against his chest and move back before it has the chance to. Akira is grateful for it. His knuckles have already turned white, and the only thing Ryuji did was plant a kiss on your lips.

When the three of you walk to the subway station, you’re in the middle. It’s a curse, really, because whenever he catches himself spacing out he realises he’s walking a little closer to you than he was before, and he’s had to remind himself to step away countless times before you finally get there. He departs from you at the station, and he feels an odd levity that reveals itself as anxiety when Ryuji wraps his arm around your waist possessively on the crowded train.

It always surprises him how quickly memories from five months back turn invasive.

He swears he can feel the pressure of your skin against the tips of his fingers: a soft sweep, almost not there at all, as his arms (wrapped around you) run along the indentation down the centre of your back. He needs to coil the wires, solder your body to his, close the gaps and fix the circuit, so he reaches out.

And then he realises what he’s doing.

Like burnt, his hand jitters back.

It’s with a bittersweet thrum that Akira notes you don’t hate him for leaving you those six months ago. Even when Ryuji is turned away, and the two of you are alone in a brief second of (buzzing, fizzing) eye-contact, there’s no sense of anger or frustration.

Realistically, he should be happy about it. It means you’ve got no reservations, that you’re not going to hold his decision against him and the worries he had over your reunion will remain unrealised. But it doesn’t make him happy, not at all.

He knows the sheer absence of any resentment towards him is not a result of forgiveness, but of indifference. You don’t care about him. Not when you’re wrapped so closely around Ryuji on the way to the subway, and Akira has to remind himself to step away from you.

The past means nothing to you now that you’ve got him. He only wishes he could say the same.

Saturday evening date in Leblanc, nearly one month into your relationship with Ryuji. It’s a deceptively warm day. Rainclouds loll in the sky in thick cumulations of grey, taking turns to cover the sun like castle fortifications, hoarding it in ebbs until it peeks through and colours the alleys outside of Leblanc in brighter light.

Ryuji feeds you a little bit of his food, and you take it into your mouth shyly, giving a short, sideways glance over to where Akira is slumped over the counter. He pretends he’s not looking, but it’s not hard to see he’s unsuccessful in pulling the wool over your eyes. It’s not the first time you’ve caught him staring. Probably won’t be the last, either, he admits to himself, with long-established resignation.

When it comes to paying the bill, Ryuji is quick to insist on footing all of it. You try to argue otherwise, but he’s too kind, too insistent. Even when he realises he doesn’t have any cash on him, he runs out of the shop in search of a cash machine before you can say anything, telling Akira not to let you pay under any circumstances.

When he leaves, you stare at the door wistfully for a while (like having to tear your eyes from him is difficult even when he’s no longer in periphery) before you finally turn to Akira, and even then, it’s with an incredulous, confused look that has half the depth of the look you had when you were staring at a slab of wood.

“You’re always staring at me,” you say.

He smiles.

“Am I?” You nod, and he hums. Nonchalantly, he straightens from behind the counter and walks to the front of it, hands in his pockets. “I haven’t noticed.” There’s a while where the two of you don’t say anything, so you settle into it, taking lazy bites of the cake Ryuji was feeding you. “How have you been doing?” he asks. The relaxed slouch in his posture is betrayed by the expectant quality to his eyes. This same question was asked once before, the first time the two of you were alone after the reunion on the station.

Back then, you had bitingly told him to clarify what he meant.

(“Are you asking out of curiosity, or just because you want to know whether I’m over you up and leaving?”)

“I’m good,” you say this time. “Ryuji and I are doing well.”

“I can tell.” With a slow sigh, he walks to your table. There’s been no customers for the past two hours bar you and Ryuji, (Leblanc is always slow on a Saturday,) so he forgoes his job at the front of the bar to sit in front of you. “You love him, don’t you?”

“Without a doubt.” Your head is propped up with one of your arms, in a relaxed pose that’s in no way discomforted or aggressive. For a moment, a flash of sadness crosses your face, and it’s there so briefly he would have missed it had he not already been staring. “You’ll find yours, too, you know,” you say, and he knows you believe it completely. “You pissed me off with the whole break-up thing, but I still know you’re too nice of a person to be blank forever.”

The things Akira wants to say toss and turn in his head, fighting for space until one wins and slithers slowly to the back of his throat.

“I think I might have already found her.”

Wide eyes. Your form straightens. You’re surprised, but you must not realise what he means, because you look happy for him.

“That’s great!” you say with genuine enthusiasm, as a smile flutters across your face. “It’s intense, isn’t it? So much more than just having a normal fling.”

When he realises what you said, it zips through his spine with a trail of goosebumps. A shiver rocks through his body, convulsing his insides in invisible tremors, like they’ve all decided to forfeit their jobs for making this feeling stronger.

‘A normal fling.'

Is that what he was to you?

Even his best fake smiles can’t cover up the heartbroken grimace that comes as a result of the piercing pain he’s feeling. Yours fades away in turn (your eyebrows jutting into concern), but you still don’t get it. You just don’t get it. He’s about to cry here, right in front of you; he’s about to stand up again and reach over the table to kiss you on the lips, and you just. don’t. get it.

“Yeah,” he says. “It really is.”

As soon as Ryuji finds out his mum has overtime, the group chat is abuzz with activity. It’s very short notice, but within three and a half hours, you and Akira both manage to make it to Ryuji’s house, with snacks and two six-packs of cider respectively.

Predictably, Ryuji’s room is a complete mess: books are tossed left and right; a towering pile of clothes sits on the chair in front of his desk, threatening to topple over at the slightest instigation; and not one or two, but three packets of insta-cook ramen remain un-binned on his bookshelf, without a single bowl in sight.

(“Did you just eat them straight out of the packet?” you ask, when you walk in, and he looks away in embarrassment.)

“Wasn’t Ann supposed to be here by now?” you question, from where you’re curled up on Ryuji’s bed with a dark, green pillow beneath your head. An unopened bag of crisps is on the pillow beside you.

Akira is sat in the corner, reading the first part of a manga Ryuji insisted on recommending. It’s unfamiliar to you, but the cover depicts two men and a black and white, spotted dog. He’s been kind of quiet the whole night, and while you haven’t caught him staring (not yet, anyway) he hasn’t really moved on that far in terms of reading, so you think he’s probably just gotten good at not getting caught.

“Oh, did I not tell you?” Ryuji replies, peeking up from the PSP he’s been staring at for the past ten minutes. He’s sat on the floor, propped up against the side of the bed. “Ann couldn’t come.”

You sit up, and your pins and needles go through your legs in protest.

“Wait, how come?”

From what you can see from behind his shoulder, Ryuji is struggling with a difficult round of Tekken. (His character is getting combo’ed relentlessly.)

“Well, it seemed like she wanted to, at first, but then I told her Akira was coming and it turned out she had other plans.”

Suddenly suspicious, you lift an eyebrow up in Akira’s direction. You’ve only met her once or twice, but you can tell with confidence that Ann exudes an easy-going nature that immediately suggests she wouldn’t care to engage in petty squabbles.

“Did the two of you have an argument or something?” you ask him, and the stiffness that crosses his face is almost comically transparent.

“No comment,” he says, and flips the page.

“Oh, did you hear that?” You’re smiling ear-to-ear. “Lover’s quarrel.”

“Yeah.” Ryuji doesn’t look half as amused as you, but it still comes as a surprise when he dismisses your comment almost entirely and changes the subject. “What bit of that manga are you up to, anyway?” he asks him.

“Some guy with a mullet has just started throwing a weaponised top-hat at Jonathan.”

“Dude! That’s one of the best bits!”

Akira hums. It’s clear he isn’t mirroring Ryuji’s enthusiasm.

“I can’t really get into it,” he admits, turning the book over and scanning the cover again. “It feels a bit… old-fashioned.”

“Well, duh. It came out in 1987.”

“1987?” Akira looks at the back of the book to see the publishing date, which does, in fact declare itself as 1987. “You’re making me read a 30-year-old book?”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with appreciating the classics.”

“He’s right, you know,” you say, even though you’ve got no idea what book he’s even talking about. You shift back into a comfortable position on the bed, and your head hits the ‘Berserk’ manga you were reading before you got distracted. Silently, Akira goes back to his game, and Ryuji back to his manga.

“So, it’s just us three, then,” you say, absentmindedly, and finally open the bag of crisps beside you. Akira follows cue, popping open another can of cider.

“I can leave and give you guys some alone time, if you want,” he says, and it’s got the trademark monotone of the voice he uses for teasing. Eager to jump on the bandwagon, you smile, salacious and large, and speak to Ryuji with a sultry tone.

“Oh, I see. Was that your plan all along, Ryuji?”

The sound of a knockout coming from Ryuji’s PSP and the tinny voice of the announcer counting down in the continue screen gives exactly the satisfaction you were looking for. Sure, you and Akira might not get along as well as you used to, but the two of you have yet to miss a beat when it comes to teasing Ryuji.

“No! That’s not it! Don’t get the wrong idea.”

The urge to get up from the bed and kiss his embarrassed flush is overwhelming, so you listen to it, dragging yourself up and pushing your lips to his cheek. If anything, his embarrassment gets worse, but he leans into it nevertheless.

“I know. I’m kidding, darling.”

He hums something too quietly for you to hear, and then he rubs his head against the bed, like he wants you to stroke his hair. It looks like he’s burnt out and short-circuited, face still a little pink on the cheeks and eyes closed yearningly. When you gently brush you fingers through his scalp, he hums in appreciation.

It lasts a couple of minutes, and then Ryuji’s phone starts ringing out of the blue, and he jolts out of his seat.

“Oh crap,” he says, checking the ID. “It’s my mum.”

“Better answer it,” Akira suggests. Another page is flippantly turned.

“Yeah, hold on.” Ryuji jogs out of the room, closing the door behind him, and the silence that befalls is immediate. The only thing that breaks it apart is the muted sound of Ryuji’s mother instructing him how to prepare dinner, but eventually, even that fades away, as he walks downstairs to the kitchen.

It’s a little awkward, so you’re grateful when Akira cuts in, sarcasm at the ready.

“You never used to rub my hair like that.” Again, the trademark monotone is enough for you to know not to take his joke seriously. You laugh, and the smile that follows comes without effort.

“You never asked.”

The beginnings of a smile line his face too.

“How about now?” he asks, clearly still kidding. “Please with a cherry on top.”

You laugh again. “Sorry, boyfriend privileges.”

The smile on his face is a little wider now, a little more obvious, and he hums like he was expecting your response. This time, when the silence settles, it does so with tenfold the grace. Akira’s always had charisma, so you’re not surprised to see that the way he manipulates the atmosphere works to his favour. He takes another sip of his cider, and when you look to the side to see where the rest of the cans are, you notice with some vague semblance of shock that a full six-pack has already been completely downed.

Before you can comment on it, he speaks.

“Honestly,” he begins, and his voice is a little more sombre than the dry tone reserved for his witty remarks, “I get a little jealous of you two sometimes.” The atmosphere is barely shed of enough awkward stiffness that it feels natural.

“Don’t be. You said you found your soulmate, didn’t you?” you prompt. He remains silent, so you prod him a little further. “Is it Ann?” You don’t see the way he grits his teeth and flips the page prematurely.

“No, it’s not.”

Thoughtlessly, you finger the fleece blanket you’re curled around.

“Makoto?”

“No.” The sharp quality of his tone throws you off guard, but it’s not enough to discourage you.

“Is it anyone I know?”

He takes a deep breath so loud that you can hear it, and shoves the manga entirely to his side. His hands aren’t -- shaking, exactly, but they’re certainly less deliberate than what you’re used to with him.

“Yes, it’s someone you know,” he says, and his frustration is clear. When he takes another sip of cider, you realise the only reason he put the book away was to have his hands free for alcohol.

It takes a little while for you to voice your next question, and even when it comes, your voice is tender and tentative.

“Will you tell me who it is?”

“No.” (His, on the other hand, is completely definitive.) You groan, and crawl across where you’re sprawled out on Ryuji’s bed to be closer to him.

“Pretty please? With a cherry on top?”

“Why?” he asks, and it’s about as annoyed as it is amused. “Are you jealous?” It sounds like a joke, but all it takes for you to realise it’s not all that is the gentle tug on his amused (albeit not entirely genuine) smile.

“No, of course not,” you say, and he looks unamused. “I just… still care about you, you know? even if it’s not in the same way I used to.”

Another sip of the cider. He doesn’t look that drunk, but considering how good he is at underplaying these things, you can’t be sure.

“You’re going to regret it,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“Hit me with it anyway.”

A long silence follows. Anticipation builds as you watch him stall by finishing off his drink, and then by doing nothing more significant than staring at the wall ahead of him, like he’s deliberating whether or not to open his mouth. Internally, it feels like he’s teetering on the edge of a cliff, holding on with his arms, his hands, and then the tips of his fingers as his weight tries to pull him under.

Finally, he drops.

“I think you’re my soulmate.”

Your heart stops.

“What?”

When he realises that it’s out in the open, all the things Akira wants to say stop fighting for space. Instead, they line up, pushing and shoving to his mouth until they all tumble out in one long gasp.

“Ryuji told me that it feels like electricity. That he can’t look away from you. That big butterflies swirl in his stomach and everything just feels right.” Your breath hitches; heart skips beats again. “It’s what I felt for you back then. Word for word.” He corrects himself. “What I still feel.”

“You still feel?”

“Yes. Every, single thing.”

He can see the discomfort settle in your stiff shoulders, as you move into the wall behind you and away from him.

“But I can’t be with you, Akira. I’m already in love with Ryuji.” Your voice is exasperated, distraught, and it’s clear you’re nervous. It’s screwed up then, that the first thing that pops into his head is how to take advantage of it. How to guilt-trip you into listening to him. Before he can stop himself, he calls out your name and reaches out to touch your hand.

“But didn’t you say that you’d stay with me no-matter what?” he says, as though a promise you gave him six months ago (that he broke, first) held any weight now. “That soulmates didn’t matter.”

You swipe his hand away, as though his touch burns.

“Akira. Don’t do this.”

“Please,” he begs, and if any part of his mind is aware of how pathetic he feels, it’s desperately side-lined in the hopes you’ll take pity on him. “I don’t mind sharing. I don’t even mind being the third wheel.” It doesn’t look like you quite know what to say, so Akira takes the advantage and pretends it’s permission to keep trying to convince you. “Ryuji loves you; he’ll understand.”

“I can’t just, manipulate him like that –”

“I’ll never step out of line or ruin your plans with each other.”

“Akira, cut it out.”

“If you’re scared of hurting him, you don’t even need to tell him; I won’t.”

“Akira!”

He stops. The irregular beat of his heart thrums loudly against his ears, and the tense stiffness that comes about as a result of him holding his breath is all the more glaring.

(God, does he feel like a dog begging for scraps.)

“I just can’t do that,” you say, and take a couple of deep breaths to stable your pulse. You’re rubbing at your arm, slightly turned away from him. “It would break his heart, and he deserves better.”

Slowly, Akira’s becoming aware of what he’s doing, but he lets his mind cloud a little longer. This feels like the last chance: the last shot he has at happiness. He can’t just let it go.

“I don’t want what you and Ryuji have,” he explains. “I don’t want to take you from him.”

“I know, but –”

“After I broke up with you, I kept… I kept trying to feel the same thing…. with other people. But it never happened. And now that you’re back – I can’t, I can’t do it. I can’t pretend anymore.”

Fortitude attempts to reign your expression. The frown on your face feels detached, unnaturally so, and he thinks you might just be trying to reel in your sympathy by steeling yourself.

“You should have never left me,” you say, quietly, numbly, and completely barren of emotion.

“I…” he starts, and he knows you’re right, that he’s the one that put himself in this position in the first place. That it’s his fault. But he just - didn’t know, back then. He didn’t know it was going to hurt so much. “I did it for you.”

Whatever transparent detachment holds his tears back snaps in that moment.

“Oh, Akira.” Your steeled bearing melts in favour of climbing off the bed down to where he’s sat and tugging him in towards you, and when you do it, he sinks into it, grips you like a lifeline and buries his tears into the crook of your neck.

“I just wanted you to be happy.”

“I know.” The way you say it is utterly definitive and it breaks him, it really does; draws a line through the middle of his chest and pierces his heart, because in that moment, he realises it’s just not enough. “I’m sorry,” you say. Your voice is choked up.

“It’s alright. I understand,” he replies, even though he’s completely shattered, torn into little pieces like a bit of paper dissolved in a body of water. But he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want you to cry. It rams into him a million miles an hour, that he should have just kept his mouth shut, because now you’re hurt, and now he can’t even wait with Ryuji for you in front of the school and catch little glimpses of you, like a drowning man grappling for gasps of air.

The two of you don’t say anything else for a long, long time. He takes the chance to brush up against your collar and breathe into you, inhaling every bit of your smell and letting it ease him, bit by bit with each breath.

(He’d stay like this forever, if he could.)

“What if –" he begins, but his voice is too tattered, and he has to clear his throat before trying again. “What if it was just up to you?” Before you can push him away (and his fingers curl into firsts around your clothes, keeping you in place) he hurries to explain himself. “It’s too late. I know. But I just need to be sure.”

He’s has no idea what exactly he’s looking for. He knows you don’t love him the same way that you did Ryuji (never did). You’re not his soulmate. Not right now. You must have loved him in some way, some distant apparition of it, at least. But nothing can come between the overwhelming bond that ties two soulmates together.

He knows, because he’s tried, (with Ann, Makoto, Kawakami, Hifumi, Tae, Ohya, Chihaya and handfuls of others he can’t remember the names of) and none of them have ever come close.

“If it was just up to me?”

You mull the answer over, because it’s difficult to be certain what the right thing to say here is. Should you throw him a bone? Should you be honest? (Would he believe you if you weren’t?) None of them feel quite right, because you don’t want to pretend like you feel nothing for him, but it wouldn’t be fair to say something that could give a false sense of hope.

“Akira, I don’t think –"

“It is up to you,” comes a third voice. It’s whiplash. Immediately, your heart drops.

Ryuji’s leaning against the open door to his room, arms crossed in front of his chest. For a second, you’re scared he’s heard the tail-end of your little spat and assumed the worst, but to tell the truth, he doesn’t look that angry.

He doesn’t even look that surprised; not really. Compared to him, Akira looks like a deer caught in headlights. He’s too scared to move, too weak to pull away from you. The silence is absolutely suffocating; it envelops most everyone in a thick, tight tension, tightening around your lungs until breathing becomes almost impossible.

“Ryuji, I promise this isn’t… He’s just -- He’s just upset,” you scramble to answer. Your heart pumps blood erratically, throbbing like drums through every part of your body.

“I know, babe,” he says, calmly, and then sighs, long and deep. “I know.” The bed dimples where he sits on it, and Akira hurriedly unsticks himself from you to wipe at his eyes. In turn, Ryuji wipes at yours, and then places his head in his hands and stares down at the floor.

There’s only the sound of sniffling for what feels like a long while, and then Ryuji speaks again.

“Akira, we’ve been friends for a while.” His voice is heavy. “I know we’ve had our ups and downs, and I know you’ve been cleaning up after my shit plenty.” He maintains a sort of distant nature to his voice. It’s not anywhere near monotone, but there’s an odd sense of finality about it. “But honestly, I can’t believe you’re pulling this crap on me.”

Akira is hiding his face in his hands. He’s half avoiding looking at Ryuji, but it’s almost unwarranted with how unaccusatory Ryuji’s gaze is. It’s not hard to imagine that Akira’s feelings don’t come as a surprise to him.

“It’s the drink,” Akira mumbles, but you’re not buying it, Akira’s not buying it, and Ryuji sure as hell isn’t buying it either.

“Sure. So what happened with Ann was just drink, too?” he asks.

Akira stops, entirely, like he’s been frozen, and then he laughs a bitterly and shakes his head.

“She told you,” he says, and although he’s not sobbing, his voice is tattered into shreds of uneven pitch and size.

“You hurt her, Akira. She liked you more than she let on.”

Another laugh, this one wracked with guilt. Ryuji watches him for a little while longer, but he’s so broken and pitiful everywhere he looks that he stops expecting a response, and eventually, Ryuji turns to you again.

“Babe,” he calls out, and the favour in his voice is like whiplash. It’s not the case that he was angry when reprimanding Akira, (just kind of tired and exhausted) but this tone, tailored especially for you, is immeasurably sweeter all the same. “He didn’t threaten you, did he?”

The enthusiasm with which you rush to defend him surprises everyone in the room, most of all Akira.

“No! Of course not.”

You try to justify it by saying it’d be unfair to pretend he’s the bad guy. That while he might not be a great friend to Ryuji, you don’t doubt he loves you, and he’d never break his principles to hurt you. And while all of those things are true, it’s less about them, and more about how hard it is to forget the delicacy of his fingers against your skin, the way the dimples gently slope downwards where his lips brush against you, even if he’s kissing to leave marks. The way he pushes into you with only a fraction of his body weight, softly in and out even if you’re asking him for more.

He’d called it ‘teasing’, then, but it’s more a case of fragility. Of being so scared of hurting you or losing you that he treats you like glass. Even if he wants to listen to your cries and envelop you completely (let himself be consumed by heat and push the burning of his body onto you), he can’t.

There’s a barrier, and it’s thick and heavy even now.

“Are you sure?” he asks, shifts a little closer (until he’s close enough to wipe your tears again), and scans you for any hint of dishonesty.

You nod, firmly.

One, two, three, (four, five, six, seven) beats of absolute silence. The bad kind. The one that cuts your heart of oxygen and your brain of any thought bar fear and premonition. Ryuji’s still looking at you, analysing everything about your voice for fear, but to his frustration, all he sees is fondness.

After a while, he kicks at the floor in vexed concession.

“Shit, man,” he says, and brings his hand up to ruffle his hair. He looks conflicted, but less like he doesn’t know what decision to make, and more like he doesn’t like the decision he’s made already. He stares at Akira, long and hard.

“I wish I didn’t owe this to you,” he seethes under his breath. You know what he means. In the end, it is thanks to him that you and Ryuji met in the first place. If he hadn’t given himself up for your happiness, the two of you could still be apart. A deep breath comes and goes, and then Ryuji says something neither of you would have ever expected him to say.

“Just for tonight,” he begins, and has to take another deep breath before he continues, “she’s yours.”

Your heart drops.

With a jolt from your seat, you make a move to protest, but Ryuji cuts you off.

“But you’re only allowed to go as far as she lets you, do ya hear? If I come back and find her cryin’ or I see a single scratch on her, I’m going to kill you.” There’s no joke to it; he means what he’s saying. “And I’m gonna feel no fuckin’ remorse, regardless of how long we’ve been friends for.”

Akira nods, sharply. He’s stood up, too, heart beating too fast to sit still. He turns to you, and quickly finds he can’t turn away, even if you never give him so much as a glance.

“Ryuji, you can’t just --”

When he interrupts you with a kiss (a sharp tug to your chin and upwards, where he cups the back of your head with his hand), you’re concerned he’s going to ask you to give Akira what he wants.

But it’s not what he says. Not at all.

“I trust you,” he whispers, loud enough for Akira to hear. “I trust you’re gonna say no to everything he asks for, even if he begs on his knees.” Gently, he leans in for another kiss, and you realise with a heavy lurch to your throat the gravity of the situation you’ve found yourself in.

“Ryuji,” you try again, because you want to discuss this further, ask him what he’s doing and why he thinks it’s a good idea, but he cuts you off with another kiss.

“He’s not going to give up otherwise,” Ryuji offers lamely, and it’s better than nothing by a slim margin. “Or maybe he –” Ryuji swallows. “You know,” and there’s a lengthy period of hesitation. “Maybe he needs to get it out of his system. Maybe you need to get it out of his system.”

“How?” you ask, but Ryuji doesn’t answer, just pulls you in for another kiss. It’s a feeble attempt to distract at best, but it does its job, and you don’t pursue his statement.

“Just know I won’t give you up even if you start liking him again, alright?” he says, and by no means is it a question.

“I would never,” you exclaim, with such fervour that your hands tighten their grip on his arms. “Seriously, don’t even think about it.”

Another dapple of kisses, marking freckles where fresh eruptions of tingles tickle against your skin.

For a moment, Akira disappears.

Amongst Ryuji’s little touches and caresses, he feels like he’s sunk into the background (once again a jigsaw in the wrong box) a piece that doesn’t fit in with the rest. And well, isn’t it all par for the course anyway - that being blank leaves him with no other option but to be the third wheel?

It’s what he’s always thought; that even if you matched him perfectly: filled out every un-ironed crease in his life like a god-sent benefaction, ticked every box, made every bad thing good and every good thing even better, you were never meant to be.

Because why otherwise would the two of you be nameless?

But then –

But then he remembers what your blank skin looked like in the hazy moonlight when he had you on his parent’s balcony; he remembers the nonchalance when Ryuji told him he was blank, the twist in his gut that made him feel empty out of sheer, concentrated jealousy. (How could he even pretend it was anything else?) And now, he sees the dauntlessness of Ryuji’s arms, their assured and certain confidence as they crawl around your body, claiming your skin even if his name is nowhere to be found.

He realises, with more dread than anything else, that he was the variable all along.

(Because maybe if he’d stayed, loved you without the need for confirmation, if he wasn’t so obsessed with the idea of something as arbitrary as having his name on someone else’s skin, you could be feeling his pain instead.)

Hah, he thinks, and his heart gives out so fast he barely has the time to laugh again.

It was never about destiny, was it?

Against every single blow that’s hit him up to this point – this one is painfully neutral. Maybe it’s the finality of it, the way it makes him know without a doubt that this is the only way things can be. Compared to everything else (the jealousy, the bitterness, the guilt – and that one is by far the worst) it’s almost a positive feeling, one he’s glad to welcome into himself. Surely, this neutral rush of ‘eureka’ is better than every awful sludge of emotion that’s been sitting in his chest since he left you.

It’s why he smiles when you say, (sweet little voice freshly unearthed from the crook of Ryuji’s shoulder) “Akira? Is everything alright?”

He doesn’t answer for a little while, just looks on from across his tented hands with that same bitter-sweet smile, a tapestry of dimpled cheeks that never gets close to reaching his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, eventually, and he wants to say more, (“I love you;” “everyone else feels like an in-between;” “If Ryuji wasn’t here I’d –”) but they all circle too closely around ‘I wish I could have you’ and there’s no part of him that thinks you don’t know that already.

Reluctantly, you unpeel yourself from Ryuji, pushing against his arms until he lets go with even more reservation. For a second, his hand hovers over you like it wants to pull you in again, but he draws it back, and it has no choice but to relent. When he stands up, the place where his weight used to be feels blank and empty. He walks to door, slumping tiredly against it, and you don’t need to be linked through pain to feel the absolute agony in his eyes.

He looks at Akira first, half-expecting him to change his mind and say it’s fine (that he doesn't need this), but he’s not surprised when nothing of the sort happens.

“Ryuji, I --” Akira begins, and then stops, because doesn't know what he’s going to say. ‘Thank you’ feels too big; Ryuji’s not exactly giving him permission, he’s just severing him of consequences out of nothing more than a feeling of obligation. But then what else works? What else can he say to show his appreciation?

“You’re a piece of shit friend, you know that, right?” Ryuji cuts him off.

With a start, Akira realises what he has to say.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

A half-hearted huff and careless wave is all it takes for Ryuji to swipe Akira's apology away.

“Whatever,” he says, and gives you one last (pained, very pained) look before leaving, down the stairs and through his front door till you hear it smash shut.

It doesn’t lock behind him.

The silence that follows is the worst yet.

It’s so powerful that Akira knows he has nowhere near the skill to break it apart: that no jokes, no sarcasm, no smiles, or any words in general can get him out of this quicksand.

In general, this feels like the worst-case scenario. Not only do you know about his feelings (about the pull they have on him, puppeteering him like a dandelion seed pushed in random directions through the air), but so does Ryuji. He can’t pretend anymore. It’s entirely possible that he’ll never be able to laugh with you again, not really, not without getting pitiful looks at his attempts to cling to you like a child clinging helplessly to their parent, or a dog circling its owner’s foot.

Oddly, he’s not as upset as he should be. He finds that his next words come with practised confidence, and the gestures of his hands stop feeling so stiff.

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to,” he says. It’s a complete reiteration of his vow towards Ryuji, but it puts you at ease enough that you turn to him. “But – I’m not leaving. I can’t make it that easy.”

When he looks into your eyes and sees no real love (not the kind he wants, anyway), he knows with certainty that he’s lost. There’s no doubt, no space to assume parts unfilled (like a liquid) where you and Ryuji meld. To make room for himself, he’d have to split you, and he’s got neither the heart nor ability to do that.

He’s lost, that’s for sure. It was over before the story even begun, long prior to the breakage of Ryuji’s femur. But as he looks closer and watches you scan over him, a look that drips pity with such putrid stench he can feel it on his skin even from here, he lets himself think, that sometimes, even losers get consolation prizes.

When Ryuji comes home at half-past one in the morning, it’s already dark outside. The lights are on in his room where you’re sleeping on his bed, and when he opens the door quietly (as not to alert), he can’t hear the sound of conversation.

Akira is nowhere to be found.

There’s a sense of dread inside of him, not quite premonition, but a soft fear all the same. He’s not sure how his heart would take seeing any evidence that you’d actually slept with Akira, so his eyes hesitate when they skim over you. Because maybe, your clothes are a little ruffled. Maybe your hair is just a titch unruly (surely, it’s just because you’ve been lying on it).

He feels greedy waking you from your nap just to kiss you, but he does it anyway.

“Hm, Ryuji,” you say, through the kiss, and he closes his eyes and kisses you harder. “I didn’t do anything,” you mumble, tiredly.

“I know,” he says, so softly it’s on the verge of breaking. He crawls over you on the couch and buries his face into your neck, trailing soft, barely there at all kisses on every inch of your uncovered body, like he’s trying to wash something away.

He moves to take your top off and thinks about closing his eyes so he doesn’t see any marks that may or may not be underneath. Instead, he pushes himself off you and turns the lights off, so your form is coloured a vague black in the darkness.

“Ryuji?” you ask, as he places his hands on your waist and feels your body beneath him, painting an image of your clean, unmarred skin, free of any names or marks.

“Shh,” he whispers, just above your ear, in case he pays too much attention to your voice and notices any strange cracks or undulations, things that could point towards its overuse.

With a slurred movement, he drags your top off and kisses your chest, sucking on the skin enough to leave (what he hopes) are bright, red marks.

“I know,” he repeats, and he leaves so, so many, over and over on every single part of your skin: from your arms, to your legs, and your stomach, until not an inch is unmarked. When his eyes adjust to the dark, he’s left too many to count. Too many to remember. Too many to know for sure if they’re all his.

“I trust you,” he says, but his eyes close nevertheless.

#par for the course #kill me internally #please expect radio silence for like the next 2 weeks #i was prioritising this for so long that i was actually doing it in my lessons #and as soon as i got home through to late night when i should have been sleeping #so i need to catch up on sleep + work that i've fallen behind on #that being said #please enjoy lol #sweat and tears went into this #ryuji sakamoto #ryuji #akira #akira kurusu #persona 5 #reader insert #im so sorry to mobile users this is so long

260 notes · View notes