smallfisheyes

[smallfisheyes]

dry eye and you

Aizawa Shouta is your colleague and you're just the quirkless secretary, but that doesn't mean you can't admire him from a distance. It's with the recent push for organizing the job fair that you catch Aizawa's attention, but not for reasons you exactly want. It has to do with your eyes.

wc: 4.4k cw: some swearing.

no pronouns mentioned.

He doesn't mean to stare at you. It's easy not to. 

Environmentally, he means. You’re sweet and always eager to help, and that sweetness transfers to the brightness of your smile and lightness of your voice. So, no, it has nothing to do with your face.

You’re always tucked away in that school office of yours. 

If he doesn’t find you in the staffroom on break, he knows you’re typing away at that yellowing keyboard he wishes you’d replace. The school would pay for it. You just need to ask that silly intern to put the order in for you, but of course, you don’t. According to you (based on Aizawa’s observations), as long as that keyboard doesn’t slow down your word count, then it’s a perfectly fine keyboard.

But at this moment, at this time, Aizawa cannot stop looking at you. Red eyes, frequent blinking, and constant rubbing; he knows you have dry eye. You're only a colleague, not even one he speaks to most days, but it irritates him to know someone is needlessly experiencing the symptoms he has to go through every day, especially when it’s someone sweet and hardworking like you.

Maybe that’s why he crosses the threshold to the front school office. Maybe that’s why he’s seriously considering emailing that intern who pesters you with questions. Sure, Aizawa does have a request to make, but he doesn’t need to tell you you have dry eye. He’s not even sure why he feels so strongly about your dry eye. You’re an adult; a stranger. You can handle it. 

But he feels better knowing you have what you need to take care of it.

Villains hate when they’re caught in his stare. Their fists and knives aim to gouge them, smush them, blind them; anything to escape his eyes. Eraser is too swift, too skilled, too annoying. He’s a threat, and his enemies know it. He has become the confident hero his younger self doubted he could ever be, and enemies larger than him quake at the sight of the mighty Eraserhead.

Unknown to him, Eraserhead is more admired than he thinks. Outside his stare, is yours. Adoring, wide-eyed, and unblinking. Maybe he’s the reason for your sudden bout of dry eye. 

Everyone wants to escape his stare, but you’d fight to be seen by him. No, you’re not trying to get your quirk erased (actually, you don’t have a quirk), but you’re searching for what his eyes hold when he sees you. Amusement? Maybe even a look of yearning? One day (you’re hoping) you’ll catch him looking at you from across the room during a staff meeting, admiring you from a distance, not because you just released an ugly laugh (that’s happened and you stumbled home absolutely ashamed). As unlikely as it is, you hope for at least a look of acknowledgement.

Eraser gifts you head nods as he passes your little office adjacent to the school entrance. Being the secretary, you know it’s out of politeness. As the secretary, you only see him twice a day, if not once or at all. Rumours are circulating of in-house dorms for the staff of U.A. That would surely bring your encounters (if you can even call them that) to a confident zero. Also, as a secretary, you know these rumours now ring true. You’ve been emailing back and forth with the contractor.

No more head nods and pretty dry eyes just outside your view. No more Eraserhead readjusting his scarf one last time before going on patrol because it would be well beyond your work hours. 

How does he do it? You complain enough about your desk job. He does so much, and you don’t think he knows it. You want him to know it.

So, that’s probably why you find yourself in Recovery Girl’s office. You come bearing your usual candies, ones left over on your desk from your terribly long Tuesday. But this time, as queasy as it makes you, you’re equipped with an ulterior motive.

“What was it like?” You squirm, trying to settle into the cheap chair opposite Recovery Girl. It creaks under your weight.

“Hmm?” Recovery Girl turns her head to you, smiling into the green-wrapped candy you offered her. It’s guava flavoured. 

“To, um–” you interrupt yourself with a laugh, wringing your hands like you’re trying to detach them from your wrists. “Aizawa Shouta. He was severely injured from the USJ incident, and you were the one who healed him. Thank you for that, by the way.”

Why are you thanking her like you and Aizawa are in a relationship? Like you’ve extensively researched and paged through his files stored on the school system (you have). You duck your head, staring into a dusting corner. 

Okay, sure, thanking her makes sense to some degree. Searching for substitutes and shifting around schedules because of Aizawa’s severe injuries was a nightmare, but it hurt so much to see him. You didn’t visit him, of course. You're a stranger, but you caught glimpses of Aizawa, especially in the U.A. broadcast. Covered with bandages from head to toe. He even did his lessons while bandaged up. It’s on record. 

He really is amazing. 

“But, um,” you continue, “you healed him. rigorously and very well, because you’re good at your job.” Recovery Girl looks at you, eyes now away from her candy, patiently waiting for an explanation for this flattery.

With big, desperate eyes, you lean toward Shuzenji. “So, what was it like to heal him?”

Kiss him is what you’re really asking.

You can only imagine. That grumpy, hard-working hero with a sweet old lady kissing him incessantly for hours and hours, something you’ll never be able to do. Oh, you’re so pathetic, but you know Recovery Girl. She wouldn’t out you. You’ve always shared your treats with her and stopped by her office to say hi instead of demanding to be healed, not that you need it. Was it for the company? Yes, because you liked it and you thought she was sweet. It may also have to do with you being one of the few quirkless people on faculty. Recovery Girl just felt the most approachable. 

Surely, she has your back. 

Oh, but what if asking was breaching some sort of code of conduct? Patient confidentiality or something similar? Is there an oath against telling external parties what it’s like to kiss a patient as prescribed therapy?

“Ooh. You want to kiss Eraserhead?” Shuzenji teases. She aims a gummy smile at you, and her small shoulders shake with laughter. She falls back into her chair, popping a guava candy into her mouth like popcorn. She regards you like you’re her silly little rom-com movie. 

Shuzenji makes little kissy faces. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

You guffaw and stammer, crinkling the faux leather of your seat. You tear a loose piece off. “I can’t do that!” Your voice is pitchy with embarrassment. A spider takes home in the corner you’re staring at.

“Nonsense.” Shuzenji waves her hand dismissively. “You’re young. You’re attractive. That man surely needs company, and you obviously need it, too.”

You clutch your bag of candies close to you. Is your loneliness that obvious? You didn’t think you wore loneliness so openly. 

“It’s not that easy.” Your smile is wavy.

“Sure it is.” Shuzenji rises from her chair, takes the pen from her desk, and raps it onto your lap. You jump. “Tell him you’re glad he’s doing better, and ask if he wants to get a coffee with you. That’s all. He always needs one; always working. That way, you can trap him.”

Shuzenji waves her small arms into a gesture you assume is you trapping Aizawa Shouta into an ill-intended bear hug. With your charm and his repulsion to affection from strangers, there’s no way.

You rise from your seat, placing the bag of candies onto her desk. “Thanks, Shuzenji, but I don’t think I can do that.” You hope your smile isn’t pained, but your tone remains careful. “Aizawa and I barely talk. I’d just come off as creepy.”

You turn to leave and give her one last smile. “But thank you for entertaining my silly daydream. Enjoy the candy. I’ll have more for you next time.”

She nods, dismissing you for the night. “You are a beautiful thing. Don’t let that insecurity of yours stop you.” She points at you with her cane.

You grumble with fake malice, hiding your smile with the turn of your head. Shuzenji laughs.

As you exit Recovery Girl’s office, you hear her call out to you: “He likes it gentle!”

You squirm away. 

I can be gentle, you think. 

One day.

“Do you remember how to blink?”

You jump, hands flying from your keyboard. Looking up, finally staring at you, is Aizawa Shouta.

You’re more afraid than enamoured.

He’s even prettier up close, but his eyes are red and aching. There’s his familiar line of stubble, a squeezy fruit pack in one hand, and his long hair you want to comb the knots out of. He’s sleep-deprived but handsome. You want to take in every detail, smooth the ache from his shoulders and heat his closed, aching eyes with your hands, but you can only afford three seconds of staring before it gets weird, because you are strangers. 

Aizawa Shouta is not in love with you. He’s in here because he has a task for you. He makes that clear with the way he stands several steps away from your desk, appearing disinterested as he looks around the office. He’s basically in the door. This is a reluctant visit. 

You pretend that isn’t disheartening.

“Hi, Aizawa.” You put on your special secretary smile and hope you hide the pounding of your heart. “How are you?”

Aizawa nods in greeting, then shifts from foot to foot, nonchalantly adjusting his sleeve. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Fine. Yourself?”

“Okay.” You’re smiling a little too eagerly. You’re a secretary, not his lover. “What can I help you with?” 

Aizawa steps closer, finally reaching the spot where most of your visitors stand. Placing a hand gently on your desk, he starts to drum his fingers, keeping his eyes on the monstera in the corner of the office. “I have an assessment at the hospital, but it’s on a weekday. I’ll need a substitute for the afternoon on Friday three weeks from now.”

“After lunch?” you ask. Aizawa nods.

You go through the motions, typing and confirming. Normally, it’s easy to pretend there isn’t someone watching you when you fulfill a request, but Aizawa’s awkward shifting catches your eye. It’s the weird grumbling noise that comes from his direction that makes you look up at his tightly screwed up face, like he’s hotly debating something.

“Are you all right?”

“Peachy.” He waves a dismissive hand. The open hand on your desk begins its drumming again. “Has Nezu been pushing you around recently?”

You blink, confused. “No?” You click one final button to update Aizawa’s schedule. “He hasn’t been bothering me.” To that, Aizawa raises an eyebrow. “Well, I have taken on a recent project. Is something wrong?”

Aizawa takes in a deep breath, almost like a fuck it. “Your eyes. You’ve been pushing yourself, haven’t you?” He points at his own. “They look like mine. You might have dry eye.”

His stare grows softer when he sees the realization hit you. Your shoulders are sagging. Now even your hopeless work crush has noticed.

“They have been a little sore.” You frown, your eyes shifting to the smaller window open on your screen. Your inbox is growing in real time. “And my workload has gotten a little bigger.”

“Don’t let Nezu push you.” His voice is firm and soft. It’s a gentle chiding. 

“Thanks.” Your voice is light, but you can’t bring yourself to smile. Does he even mean it? “You’re free to go, by the way. I’ll email you once a substitute is found.”

As much as you want, you shouldn’t keep him any longer than you have to. He’s a busy man with a busy life that could use twelve hours of sleep. You’re taking up his precious time.

Aizawa nods, but he doesn’t budge. “How’s that project you’re working on anyway?” 

Are his feet glued to the ground?

“Oh, the job fair? I’ve just been organizing it for this coming month.” You shrug. “It’s mostly for the third years, but it’ll be good for the first years, too. I know they have their internships coming up.”

Aizawa’s first years were troublesome but sweet and very deserving of knowing what agencies they’re applying to. You’ve had plenty of conversations with the first years when Aizawa sends them to your little office, his gruff voice unimpressed (and sexy) over the mic system. They’re silly but smart kids. Their first internship should be worthwhile and benefit them.

“The students will appreciate it,” Aizawa says firmly. “I appreciate it. Your help has streamlined the process on my end.”

You had been reaching out to agencies on behalf of Aizawa, sometimes agencies emailing you as a buffer before reaching Eraserhead. Aizawa cc’d you in others. His emails were always curt and professional, but with the right amount of appreciation. 

You liked looking at his credentials: 

Aizawa Shouta, Eraserhead U.A. High School Hero Department Homeroom 1-A   

As short and straight to the point as his emails were, he seemed to switch between “thanks” and "sincerely” in his sign-offs. It made you smile. Just a little.

“How has organizing the fair been going anyway?”

Shouldn’t he be gone by now?

You sigh. “Harder than I thought. When I proposed U.A. hosts the fair, I was picturing a smaller gathering, like ten agencies, but Principal Nezu insisted it should be much larger.”

Aizawa raises an eyebrow. “How many?”

“Forty to fifty?”

Aizawa huffs, roughly running a hand through his hair. Why does he look more stressed than you? “Nezu,” he grumbles. “He has been pushing you. That’s half the size of the hero convention.”

Is he defending you?

“Yeah.” Your voice trails with a halfhearted smile. “I guess that’s why we’re twins.” You gesture to your eyes.

Aizawa doesn’t laugh, but he finally looks at you. Call yourself delusional, but it feels like his stare lingers. Call yourself crazy, but he looks amused. He is amused. 

You realize he doesn’t need to use erasure to make you fall apart. Just a glance, a stare, a look, and you’ll surrender. A man so tired shouldn’t be so hardworking and nice to look at, nor single. 

You're broken out of your stupor with the sound of Aizawa’s voice. “Nezu didn’t mention how many agencies and heroes we were inviting. You should bring this up at the next staff meeting. I’ll personally vote in your favour. Fifty is not necessary.”  

Oh. There’s a soft, fuzzy feeling taking over your body. Aizawa’s voice still had its usual edge to it, but it feels softer. Microscopically, but softer. It’s reassuring. For once, you feel like you’re doing your job right. You feel a weight lift from your chest. 

He should visit you more often.

It must be the spotlight of his stare that fuels your chattiness. “It’s sort of nice, though. Organizing the fair keeps me busy. There wasn’t much for me to do at first, so I’d just open random PDFs.”

This earns you an amused huff. Oh, you’re winning. “Just make sure not to open any files on me.”

You certainly have. You stared at his teacher's file for a little too long.

“Besides,” Aizawa crosses his arms, eyeing the candy bowl you always have set out on your desk, “the fair is good thinking.”

It’s twice now that Aizawa meets your eyes. “It’s good to know someone has a brain in the main head.”

You suppress your smile. You’re afraid Aizawa sees you swoon, because from the corner of his eye, he regards you with a careful stare. Does he expect something? Is that amusement? Why does he have microexpressions?

“It’s not my business,” he says while looking into your eyes. This is three times now. “But if you’re looking for eyedrops, this brand helps.” He pulls a full bottle of eyedrops from his utility belt. “These are over the counter.”

“Oh! Um, thank you.” He must really care about other people with dry eye, or does he just feel so passionately about it since he knows what a pain it is? 

Your fingers touch briefly, and it feels like a current of lightning shoots through you. You thought he had an eraser quirk. That Chargebolt student who makes you laugh a lot isn’t anywhere near.

“Keep it.” Before you can protest, he shifts back to the office entrance. “It’s a new bottle. I have to use scripted eyedrops anyway.” 

Aizawa turns to you. You must look like you’re about to hurl the bottle back at him with an anxious grunt since he explains himself further. “I usually get those bottles for free with my insurance.”

Oh, so this is charity? That makes sense. Don’t look disappointed. 

Aizawa’s back faces you. “Don’t push yourself.” 

He disappears, leaving you and your heart thumping.

Your stare lingers where you last saw him, even when he’s gone.

“Morning” is now Aizawa’s greeting to you. 

Before, the head nods were enough, and the emails signed with his “thanks” and “sincerely’s” would shoot thrills up your spine, but now, he’s making time to say hello.

Sometimes, it’s a visit to see Principal Nezu, to which Aizawa offers you a nod of acknowledgement, a small hello, and the outstretching of a hand to reach into your candy bowl. 

Other times, it’s dragging a student to the office, Aizawa’s grumbles of “personally seeing the kid get punished” as the student trembles. You’d watch him stomp towards Nezu’s office, likely a shivering first-year trailing after him. For some reason, it’s a bit fun to watch Aizawa’s berating. It’s firm, but you know he means well. Snippets like “you know you’re above this behaviour” and “pushing yourself is one thing, but injuring yourself is self-harm, and that can’t be rewarded.” It’s reprimanding but affirming their potential. That record of expelling students has been on the down low this semester, too. 

Recently, Aizawa has been checking in on you, leaving a coffee or leftover snacks you didn’t have a chance to grab from the staffroom while asking how your eyes are doing, then disappearing too soon.

Not long ago, you organized a lunch and learn for staff. You were supposed to attend and take notes, but a call for the venue you were trying to book for the job fair (now reduced to twenty agencies thanks to Aizawa’s help) interrupted you. You were looking forward to those sandwiches all week.

That was until Aizawa came stomping into your office.

“Thought you’d want these.”

He handed you a paper plate loaded with sandwiches and fruit. In his other hand was a can of Milkis.

Your reaction was delayed. “I–thank you.” You took the plate and pop from his hands. Tucked under his arm was a notebook bound in black faux leather. Aizawa opened it, tore two or three pages from it, and set it on your desk.

“Here are my notes.”

And just like that, he was out of your office.

Kayama later sent you her minutes. You hadn’t asked Aizawa to take notes for you.

It’s moments like this that seem to solidify your growing, growing longing for Aizawa.

But today, you think you ruined what you had going on.

The eyedrops Aizawa had given you were a brand you didn’t recognize, but they seemed to work miracles. You’ve been using your eyedrops since he first gifted you the bottle, the deadline to the job fair toiling away at your blink count.    

But, for some reason, you’re really bad at putting the eyedrops in.

The bottle states one to two drops per eye every four to six hours. Clocking in eight hours on good days, you have to administer your eyedrops sometime during work. You always feel awkward using them in public, but you see people do it all the time, especially Aizawa.

He bends his head back, creating a nice curve with his neck, and lets them drop like it’s no problem, but you know he’s been doing it for years. This is the only time you get to see his neck, too, so you’re always sure to carefully watch.

You’re hopeless.

Still, there always seems to be a problem with the eyedrops. The bottle’s made from glass, so you can’t squeeze the liquid out. You’re terrible at keeping your eyes open, so if the drops do come out, you’ve probably closed your eyes. Sometimes, you just miss.

Right now, you keep missing.

Your eyes are aching. After working until seven in the evening last night with no lights on except for your computer screen, your eyes have turned red. At this point, it looks like you’re competing in an Eraserhead lookalike competition, and you’re winning. You’d gladly win if the prize were kissing him.

Still, with your head thrown back, sitting at your desk, you hover your eyedrops over you, waiting for at least one drop to fall in.

“Are you having trouble?”

Oh, you’re gonna kill him.

“I need to put a bell on you.” A shiver courses through your body with his sudden presence. Following your threat is a low laugh you needed to hear all day.

Another benefit of Aizawa’s spike in visits is that you're warming up to him. With that benefit, you realized Aizawa Shouta finds you funny. And with that benefit, you feel like you’ve won at life.

“But do you need help?” Aizawa shuffles to the side, like that would somehow help him see your face better. “It looks like you’re struggling.”

You huff. “Funny. And no.”

A droplet comes out, but you miss.

If you could see him, Aizawa slowly blinks, but his eyes return to your neck. “You missed. I didn’t think you could miss.” He almost sounds impressed.

“You can.” 

“You can miss putting something into your eye when it’s directly above your eye?” 

When did he get so smart? 

“I haven’t been putting eyedrops into my eyes daily for the past fifteen years,” you defend, “and this bottle isn’t the easiest to work with.”

Aizawa plants his hands on his hips. “Should I find you another time, or should I help you?”

With this, you sit up correctly, now looking Aizawa eye to eye. “You don’t need to help me.” It would be weird to ask him for help, too. 

Aizawa’s eyes sweep your office. He hasn’t done that in some time. “I’m happy to see the eyedrops are helping, but they won’t work if you can’t put them in.” He shifts from one leg to the other, but Aizawa appears taller, more authoritative. “So, I either show you, you let me do it for you, or I leave you to fend for yourself.”

Oh, you didn’t expect that. Is this what his students call his teaching style? Logical ruses?

Aizawa waits for a response, but you don’t give him one. You’re just staring dumbly at him. He sighs, slumping over. You’re beyond logical. 

“I’m telling you this as a concerned friend.”

Friend. Something lights up in you. Friend. As much as you want to kiss him, this is progress from strangers. Aizawa called you a friend. 

“I’ve been putting in eyedrops myself the past few weeks. I can do it.” You stare at the bottle in your hand.

Aizawa watches you. “So do it.”

So, you do. Your head tips back, and you position the bottle over your eye. Unlike your other attempts, the solution falls into your eye with ease.

“One more,” he tells you, and you do without missing.

Why is he still here?

“Molloy’s Bistro. After work. This Friday.”

You sit up correctly now, fixing Aizawa with a confused stare. “Did you want me to add that to your schedule? Is that a meeting with a hero?”

Aizawa sighs a heavy sigh, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Don’t make this harder for me than it needs to be.”

You don’t let up. He stares you square in the face now.

“I retract my statement. You’re a friend, but I’d like to take you to dinner, because I admire you and want to know you.”

“Korean barbecue,” you say like you’re in a trance.

Aizawa’s lip twitches. You look like you turned into a goldfish. “You want Korean barbecue?”

You nod, eyes wide. He’s looking at you. He’s looking at you wholly and completely like you’re a Roman statue. He’s admiring and entranced by the craft of you.

“Why do you want Korean barbecue? The smell will stick.”

“It’s how I pictured it.” Why are you saying all this? Oh, it’s probably because Shouta has you under his spell. It must be a new form of his quirk. Erasure: seductive stare. You can’t look away. He’ll need to register this new part of his quirk under his hero license. If he doesn’t, you’d personally report him. 

Shouta gets close, his face close to yours. He stoops over your desk. You could touch noses. “You’ve thought about this?”

“Yeah.” You’re smiling stupidly, but you don’t care, because Shouta is, too.

“For how long?”

“Too long.”

You share the same air.

For a moment, you think he’ll kiss you, but he pulls away. Don’t whine.

“Korean barbecue. Friday.” His foot is through the door when he pauses. You love when he pauses. It means he wants to stay with you.

“You sure you're quirkless?”

You frown. Wait, is this all a ruse? Do they suspect you’re unregistered and there’s a spy in the school? You deflate, your glow now gloomy. “Yeah? Why?”

“If you keep looking at me like that, I don’t think I can leave.”

Oh. Oh, thank god. You smile. Aizawa looks away, embarrassed.

“I guess I do,” you answer, “because I want you to stay.”

Shouta hurriedly clambers back to you. “Come here.”

And he finally kisses you.

[smallfisheyes]

dry eye and you

Aizawa Shouta is your colleague and you're just the quirkless secretary, but that doesn't mean you can't admire him from a distance. It's with the recent push for organizing the job fair that you catch Aizawa's attention, but not for reasons you exactly want. It has to do with your eyes.

wc: 4.4k cw: some swearing.

no pronouns mentioned.

He doesn't mean to stare at you. It's easy not to. 

Environmentally, he means. You’re sweet and always eager to help, and that sweetness transfers to the brightness of your smile and lightness of your voice. So, no, it has nothing to do with your face.

You’re always tucked away in that school office of yours. 

If he doesn’t find you in the staffroom on break, he knows you’re typing away at that yellowing keyboard he wishes you’d replace. The school would pay for it. You just need to ask that silly intern to put the order in for you, but of course, you don’t. According to you (based on Aizawa’s observations), as long as that keyboard doesn’t slow down your word count, then it’s a perfectly fine keyboard.

But at this moment, at this time, Aizawa cannot stop looking at you. Red eyes, frequent blinking, constant rubbing; he knows you have dry eye. You're only a colleague, not even one he speaks to most days, but it irritates him to know someone is needlessly experiencing the symptoms he has to go through every day, especially when it’s someone sweet and hardworking like you.

Maybe that’s why he crosses the threshold to the front school office. Maybe that’s why he’s seriously considering emailing that intern who pesters you with questions. Sure, Aizawa does have a request to make, but he doesn’t need to tell you you have dry eye. He’s not even sure why he feels so strongly about your dry eye. You’re an adult; a stranger. You can handle it. 

But he feels better knowing you have what you need to take care of it.

Villains hate when they’re caught in his stare. Their fists and knives aim to gouge them, smush them, blind them; anything to escape his eyes. Eraser is too swift, too skilled, too annoying. He’s a threat, and his enemies know it. He has become the confident hero his younger self doubted he could ever be, and enemies larger than him quake at the sight of the mighty Eraserhead.

Unknown to him, Eraserhead is more admired than he thinks. Outside his stare, is yours. Adoring, wide-eyed, and unblinking. Maybe he’s the reason for your sudden bout of dry eye. 

Everyone wants to escape his stare, but you’d fight to be seen by him. No, you’re not trying to get your quirk erased (actually, you don’t have a quirk), but you’re searching for what his eyes hold when he sees you. Amusement? Maybe even a look of yearning? One day (you’re hoping) you’ll catch him looking at you from across the room during a staff meeting, admiring you from a distance, not because you just released an ugly laugh (that’s happened and you stumbled home absolutely ashamed). As unlikely as it is, you hope for at least a look of acknowledgement.

Eraser gifts you head nods as he passes your little office adjacent to the school entrance. Being the secretary, you know it’s out of politeness. As the secretary, you only see him twice a day, if not once or at all. Rumours are circulating of in-house dorms for the staff of U.A. That would surely bring your encounters (if you can even call them that) to a confident zero. Also, as a secretary, you know these rumours now ring true. You’ve been emailing back and forth with the contractor.

No more head nods and pretty dry eyes just outside your view. No more Eraserhead readjusting his scarf one last time before going on patrol because it would be well beyond your work hours. 

How does he do it? You complain enough about your desk job. He does so much, and you don’t think he knows it. You want him to know it.

So, that’s probably why you find yourself in Recovery Girl’s office. You come bearing your usual candies, ones left over on your desk from your terribly long Tuesday. But this time, as queasy as it makes you, you’re equipped with an ulterior motive.

“What was it like?” You squirm, trying to settle into the cheap chair opposite Recovery Girl. It creaks under your weight.

“Hmm?” Recovery Girl turns her head to you, smiling into the green-wrapped candy you offered her. It’s guava flavoured. 

“To, um–” you interrupt yourself with a laugh, wringing your hands like you’re trying to detach them from your wrists. “Aizawa Shouta. He was severely injured from the USJ incident, and you were the one who healed him. Thank you for that, by the way.”

Why are you thanking her like you and Aizawa are in a relationship? Like you’ve extensively researched and paged through his files stored on the school system (you have). You duck your head, staring into a dusting corner. 

Okay, sure, thanking her makes sense to some degree. Searching for substitutes and shifting around schedules because of Aizawa’s severe injuries was a nightmare, but it hurt so much to see him. You didn’t visit him, of course. You're a stranger, but you caught glimpses of Aizawa, especially in the U.A. broadcast. Covered with bandages from head to toe. He even did his lessons while bandaged up. It’s on record. 

He really is amazing. 

“But, um,” you continue, “you healed him. rigorously and very well, because you’re good at your job.” Recovery Girl looks at you, eyes now away from her candy, patiently waiting for an explanation for this flattery.

With big, desperate eyes, you lean toward Shuzenji. “So, what was it like to heal him?”

Kiss him is what you’re really asking.

You can only imagine. That grumpy, hard-working hero with a sweet old lady kissing him incessantly for hours and hours, something you’ll never be able to do. Oh, you’re so pathetic, but you know Recovery Girl. She wouldn’t out you. You’ve always shared your treats with her and stopped by her office to say hi instead of demanding to be healed, not that you need it. Was it for the company? Yes, because you liked it and you thought she was sweet. It may also have to do with you being one of the few quirkless people on faculty. Recovery Girl just felt the most approachable. 

Surely, she has your back. 

Oh, but what if asking was breaching some sort of code of conduct? Patient confidentiality or something similar? Is there an oath against telling external parties what it’s like to kiss a patient as prescribed therapy?

“Ooh. You want to kiss Eraserhead?” Shuzenji teases. She aims a gummy smile at you, and her small shoulders shake with laughter. She falls back into her chair, popping a guava candy into her mouth like popcorn. She regards you like you’re her silly little rom-com movie. 

Shuzenji makes little kissy faces. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

You guffaw and stammer, crinkling the faux leather of your seat. You tear a loose piece off. “I can’t do that!” Your voice is pitchy with embarrassment. A spider takes home in the corner you’re staring at.

“Nonsense.” Shuzenji waves her hand dismissively. “You’re young. You’re attractive. That man surely needs company, and you obviously need it, too.”

You clutch your bag of candies close to you. Is your loneliness that obvious? You didn’t think you wore loneliness so openly. 

“It’s not that easy.” Your smile is wavy.

“Sure it is.” Shuzenji rises from her chair, takes the pen from her desk, and raps it onto your lap. You jump. “Tell him you’re glad he’s doing better, and ask if he wants to get a coffee with you. That’s all. He always needs one; always working. That way, you can trap him.”

Shuzenji waves her small arms into a gesture you assume is you trapping Aizawa Shouta into an ill-intended bear hug. With your charm and his repulsion to affection from strangers, there’s no way.

You rise from your seat, placing the bag of candies onto her desk. “Thanks, Shuzenji, but I don’t think I can do that.” You hope your smile isn’t pained, but your tone remains careful. “Aizawa and I barely talk. I’d just come off as creepy.”

You turn to leave and give her one last smile. “But thank you for entertaining my silly daydream. Enjoy the candy. I’ll have more for you next time.”

She nods, dismissing you for the night. “You are a beautiful thing. Don’t let that insecurity of yours stop you.” She points at you with her cane.

You grumble with fake malice, hiding your smile with the turn of your head. Shuzenji laughs.

As you exit Recovery Girl’s office, you hear her call out to you: “He likes it gentle!”

You squirm away. 

I can be gentle, you think. 

One day.

“Do you remember how to blink?”

You jump, hands flying from your keyboard. Looking up, finally staring at you, is Aizawa Shouta.

You’re more afraid than enamoured.

He’s even prettier up close, but his eyes are red and aching. There’s his familiar line of stubble, a squeezy fruit pack in one hand, and his long hair you want to comb the knots out of. He’s sleep-deprived but handsome. You want to take in every detail, smooth the ache from his shoulders and heat his closed, aching eyes with your hands, but you can only afford three seconds of staring before it gets weird, because you are strangers. 

Aizawa Shouta is not in love with you. He’s in here because he has a task for you. He makes that clear with the way he stands several steps away from your desk, appearing disinterested as he looks around the office. He’s basically in the door. This is a reluctant visit. 

You pretend that isn’t disheartening.

“Hi, Aizawa.” You put on your special secretary smile and hope you hide the pounding of your heart. “How are you?”

Aizawa nods in greeting, then shifts from foot to foot, nonchalantly adjusting his sleeve. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Fine. Yourself?”

“Okay.” You’re smiling a little too eagerly. You’re a secretary, not his lover. “What can I help you with?” 

Aizawa steps closer, finally reaching the spot where most of your visitors stand. Placing a hand gently on your desk, he starts to drum his fingers, keeping his eyes on the monstera in the corner of the office. “I have an assessment at the hospital, but it’s on a weekday. I’ll need a substitute for the afternoon on Friday three weeks from now.”

“After lunch?” you ask. Aizawa nods.

You go through the motions, typing and confirming. Normally, it’s easy to pretend there isn’t someone watching you when you fulfill a request, but Aizawa’s awkward shifting catches your eye. It’s the weird grumbling noise that comes from his direction that makes you look up at his tightly screwed up face, like he’s hotly debating something.

“Are you all right?”

“Peachy.” He waves a dismissive hand. The open hand on your desk begins its drumming again. “Has Nezu been pushing you around recently?”

You blink, confused. “No?” You click one final button to update Aizawa’s schedule. “He hasn’t been bothering me.” To that, Aizawa raises an eyebrow. “Well, I have taken on a recent project. Is something wrong?”

Aizawa takes in a deep breath, almost like a fuck it. “Your eyes. You’ve been pushing yourself, haven’t you?” He points at his own. “They look like mine. You might have dry eye.”

His stare grows softer when he sees the realization hit you. Your shoulders are sagging. Now even your hopeless work crush has noticed.

“They have been a little sore.” You frown, your eyes shifting to the smaller window open on your screen. Your inbox is growing in real time. “And my workload has gotten a little bigger.”

“Don’t let Nezu push you.” His voice is firm and soft. It’s a gentle chiding. 

“Thanks.” Your voice is light, but you can’t bring yourself to smile. Does he even mean it? “You’re free to go, by the way. I’ll email you once a substitute is found.”

As much as you want, you shouldn’t keep him any longer than you have to. He’s a busy man with a busy life that could use twelve hours of sleep. You’re taking up his precious time.

Aizawa nods, but he doesn’t budge. “How’s that project you’re working on anyway?” 

Are his feet glued to the ground?

“Oh, the job fair? I’ve just been organizing it for this coming month.” You shrug. “It’s mostly for the third years, but it’ll be good for the first years, too. I know they have their internships coming up.”

Aizawa’s first years were troublesome but sweet and very deserving of knowing what agencies they’re applying to. You’ve had plenty of conversations with the first years when Aizawa sends them to your little office, his gruff voice unimpressed (and sexy) over the mic system. They’re silly but smart kids. Their first internship should be worthwhile and benefit them.

“The students will appreciate it,” Aizawa says firmly. “I appreciate it. Your help has streamlined the process on my end.”

You had been reaching out to agencies on behalf of Aizawa, sometimes agencies emailing you as a buffer before reaching Eraserhead. Aizawa cc’d you in others. His emails were always curt and professional, but with the right amount of appreciation. 

You liked looking at his credentials: 

Aizawa Shouta, Eraserhead U.A. High School Hero Department Homeroom 1-A   

As short and straight to the point as his emails were, he seemed to switch between “thanks” and "sincerely” in his sign-offs. It made you smile. Just a little.

“How has organizing the fair been going anyway?”

Shouldn’t he be gone by now?

You sigh. “Harder than I thought. When I proposed U.A. hosts the fair, I was picturing a smaller gathering, like ten agencies, but Principal Nezu insisted it should be much larger.”

Aizawa raises an eyebrow. “How many?”

“Forty to fifty?”

Aizawa huffs, roughly running a hand through his hair. Why does he look more stressed than you? “Nezu,” he grumbles. “He has been pushing you. That’s half the size of the hero convention.”

Is he defending you?

“Yeah.” Your voice trails with a halfhearted smile. “I guess that’s why we’re twins.” You gesture to your eyes.

Aizawa doesn’t laugh, but he finally looks at you. Call yourself delusional, but it feels like his stare lingers. Call yourself crazy, but he looks amused. He is amused. 

You realize he doesn’t need to use erasure to make you fall apart. Just a glance, a stare, a look, and you’ll surrender. A man so tired shouldn’t be so hardworking and nice to look at, nor single. 

You're broken out of your stupor with the sound of Aizawa’s voice. “Nezu didn’t mention how many agencies and heroes we were inviting. You should bring this up at the next staff meeting. I’ll personally vote in your favour. Fifty is not necessary.”  

Oh. There’s a soft, fuzzy feeling taking over your body. Aizawa’s voice still had its usual edge to it, but it feels softer. Microscopically, but softer. It’s reassuring. For once, you feel like you’re doing your job right. You feel a weight lift from your chest. 

He should visit you more often.

It must be the spotlight of his stare that fuels your chattiness. “It’s sort of nice, though. Organizing the fair keeps me busy. There wasn’t much for me to do at first, so I’d just open random PDFs.”

This earns you an amused huff. Oh, you’re winning. “Just make sure not to open any files on me.”

You certainly have. You stared at his teacher's file for a little too long.

“Besides,” Aizawa crosses his arms, eyeing the candy bowl you always have set out on your desk, “the fair is good thinking.”

It’s twice now that Aizawa meets your eyes. “It’s good to know someone has a brain in the main head.”

You suppress your smile. You’re afraid Aizawa sees you swoon, because from the corner of his eye, he regards you with a careful stare. Does he expect something? Is that amusement? Why does he have microexpressions?

“It’s not my business,” he says while looking into your eyes. This is three times now. “But if you’re looking for eyedrops, this brand helps.” He pulls a full bottle of eyedrops from his utility belt. “These are over the counter.”

“Oh! Um, thank you.” He must really care about other people with dry eye, or does he just feel so passionately about it since he knows what a pain it is? 

Your fingers touch briefly, and it feels like a current of lightning shoots through you. You thought he had an eraser quirk. That Chargebolt student who makes you laugh a lot isn’t anywhere near.

“Keep it.” Before you can protest, he shifts back to the office entrance. “It’s a new bottle. I have to use scripted eyedrops anyway.” 

Aizawa turns to you. You must look like you’re about to hurl the bottle back at him with an anxious grunt since he explains himself further. “I usually get those bottles for free with my insurance.”

Oh, so this is charity? That makes sense. Don’t look disappointed. 

Aizawa’s back faces you. “Don’t push yourself.” 

He disappears, leaving you and your heart thumping.

Your stare lingers where you last saw him, even when he’s gone.

“Morning” is now Aizawa’s greeting to you. 

Before, the head nods were enough, and the emails signed with his “thanks” and “sincerely’s” would shoot thrills up your spine, but now, he’s making time to say hello.

Sometimes, it’s a visit to see Principal Nezu, to which Aizawa offers you a nod of acknowledgement, a small hello, and the outstretching of a hand to reach into your candy bowl. 

Other times, it’s dragging a student to the office, Aizawa’s grumbles of “personally seeing the kid get punished” as the student trembles. You’d watch him stomp towards Nezu’s office, likely a shivering first-year trailing after him. For some reason, it’s a bit fun to watch Aizawa’s berating. It’s firm, but you know he means well. Snippets like “you know you’re above this behaviour” and “pushing yourself is one thing, but injuring yourself is self-harm, and that can’t be rewarded.” It’s reprimanding but affirming their potential. That record of expelling students has been on the down low this semester, too. 

Recently, Aizawa has been checking in on you, leaving a coffee or leftover snacks you didn’t have a chance to grab from the staffroom while asking how your eyes are doing, then disappearing too soon.

Not long ago, you organized a lunch and learn for staff. You were supposed to attend and take notes, but a call for the venue you were trying to book for the job fair (now reduced to twenty agencies thanks to Aizawa’s help) interrupted you. You were looking forward to those sandwiches all week.

That was until Aizawa came stomping into your office.

“Thought you’d want these.”

He handed you a paper plate loaded with sandwiches and fruit. In his other hand was a can of Milkis.

Your reaction was delayed. “I–thank you.” You took the plate and pop from his hands. Tucked under his arm was a notebook bound in black faux leather. Aizawa opened it, tore two or three pages from it, and set it on your desk.

“Here are my notes.”

And just like that, he was out of your office.

Kayama later sent you her minutes. You hadn’t asked Aizawa to take notes for you.

It’s moments like this that seem to solidify your growing, growing longing for Aizawa.

But today, you think you ruined what you had going on.

The eyedrops Aizawa had given you were a brand you didn’t recognize, but they seemed to work miracles. You’ve been using your eyedrops since he first gifted you the bottle, the deadline to the job fair toiling away at your blink count.    

But, for some reason, you’re really bad at putting the eyedrops in.

The bottle states one to two drops per eye every four to six hours. Clocking in eight hours on good days, you have to administer your eyedrops sometime during work. You always feel awkward using them in public, but you see people do it all the time, especially Aizawa.

He bends his head back, creating a nice curve with his neck, and lets them drop like it’s no problem, but you know he’s been doing it for years. This is the only time you get to see his neck, too, so you’re always sure to carefully watch.

You’re hopeless.

Still, there always seems to be a problem with the eyedrops. The bottle’s made from glass, so you can’t squeeze the liquid out. You’re terrible at keeping your eyes open, so if the drops do come out, you’ve probably closed your eyes. Sometimes, you just miss.

Right now, you keep missing.

Your eyes are aching. After working until seven in the evening last night with no lights on except for your computer screen, your eyes have turned red. At this point, it looks like you’re competing in an Eraserhead lookalike competition, and you’re winning. You’d gladly win if the prize were kissing him.

Still, with your head thrown back, sitting at your desk, you hover your eyedrops over you, waiting for at least one drop to fall in.

“Are you having trouble?”

Oh, you’re gonna kill him.

“I need to put a bell on you.” A shiver courses through your body with his sudden presence. Following your threat is a low laugh you needed to hear all day.

Another benefit of Aizawa’s spike in visits is that you're warming up to him. With that benefit, you realized Aizawa Shouta finds you funny. And with that benefit, you feel like you’ve won at life.

“But do you need help?” Aizawa shuffles to the side, like that would somehow help him see your face better. “It looks like you’re struggling.”

You huff. “Funny. And no.”

A droplet comes out, but you miss.

If you could see him, Aizawa slowly blinks, but his eyes return to your neck. “You missed. I didn’t think you could miss.” He almost sounds impressed.

“You can.” 

“You can miss putting something into your eye when it’s directly above your eye?” 

When did he get so smart? 

“I haven’t been putting eyedrops into my eyes daily for the past fifteen years,” you defend, “and this bottle isn’t the easiest to work with.”

Aizawa plants his hands on his hips. “Should I find you another time, or should I help you?”

With this, you sit up correctly, now looking Aizawa eye to eye. “You don’t need to help me.” It would be weird to ask him for help, too. 

Aizawa’s eyes sweep your office. He hasn’t done that in some time. “I’m happy to see the eyedrops are helping, but they won’t work if you can’t put them in.” He shifts from one leg to the other, but Aizawa appears taller, more authoritative. “So, I either show you, you let me do it for you, or I leave you to fend for yourself.”

Oh, you didn’t expect that. Is this what his students call his teaching style? Logical ruses?

Aizawa waits for a response, but you don’t give him one. You’re just staring dumbly at him. He sighs, slumping over. You’re beyond logical. 

“I’m telling you this as a concerned friend.”

Friend. Something lights up in you. Friend. As much as you want to kiss him, this is progress from strangers. Aizawa called you a friend. 

“I’ve been putting in eyedrops myself the past few weeks. I can do it.” You stare at the bottle in your hand.

Aizawa watches you. “So do it.”

So, you do. Your head tips back, and you position the bottle over your eye. Unlike your other attempts, the solution falls into your eye with ease.

“One more,” he tells you, and you do without missing.

Why is he still here?

“Molloy’s Bistro. After work. This Friday.”

You sit up correctly now, fixing Aizawa with a confused stare. “Did you want me to add that to your schedule? Is that a meeting with a hero?”

Aizawa sighs a heavy sigh, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Don’t make this harder for me than it needs to be.”

You don’t let up. He stares you square in the face now.

“I retract my statement. You’re a friend, but I’d like to take you to dinner, because I admire you and want to know you.”

“Korean barbecue,” you say like you’re in a trance.

Aizawa’s lip twitches. You look like you turned into a goldfish. “You want Korean barbecue?”

You nod, eyes wide. He’s looking at you. He’s looking at you wholly and completely like you’re a Roman statue. He’s admiring and entranced by the craft of you.

“Why do you want Korean barbecue? The smell will stick.”

“It’s how I pictured it.” Why are you saying all this? Oh, it’s probably because Shouta has you under his spell. It must be a new form of his quirk. Erasure: seductive stare. You can’t look away. He’ll need to register this new part of his quirk under his hero license. If he doesn’t, you’d personally report him. 

Shouta gets close, his face close to yours. He stoops over your desk. You could touch noses. “You’ve thought about this?”

“Yeah.” You’re smiling stupidly, but you don’t care, because Shouta is, too.

“For how long?”

“Too long.”

You share the same air.

For a moment, you think he’ll kiss you, but he pulls away. Don’t whine.

“Korean barbecue. Friday.” His foot is through the door when he pauses. You love when he pauses. It means he wants to stay with you.

“You sure you're quirkless?”

You frown. Wait, is this all a ruse? Do they suspect you’re unregistered and there’s a spy in the school? You deflate, your glow now gloomy. “Yeah? Why?”

“If you keep looking at me like that, I don’t think I can leave.”

Oh. Oh, thank god. You smile. Aizawa looks away, embarrassed.

“I guess I do,” you answer, “because I want you to stay.”

Shouta hurriedly clambers back to you. “Come here.”

And he finally kisses you.

[smallfisheyes]

wip :)

[smallfisheyes]

“Do I wanna Know?” - Hozier (cover)

Nanami Kento x f!reader

You always knew this life would take something from you.

But you didn’t expect it to be him.

⸻

“Are there some aces up your sleeve? You’ve no idea that you’re in deep.”

⸻

It started with whispers behind closed doors. Hushed conversations. Sideways glances at meetings. The moment the higher-ups realized two of their own capable, respected jujutsu sorcerers were seeing each other beyond the battlefield, it was over.

“There is no place for romantic entanglements in this profession,” they told you both, cold and clipped. “We are weapons. Tools. Attachments compromise judgment. Love gets people killed… it’s the worst curse of them all.”

They gave you a choice.

Either end it quietly… or be pulled from active duty and reassigned to opposite ends of the country, permanently.

You had both fought curses that cracked the ground and tore through steel. But nothing compared to the way your heart fractured that night in his apartment.

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” you had whispered.

“I know,” he said, his voice heavy. “That’s the problem.”

He let you go.

Because Nanami Kento always followed the rules. Even when it destroyed him.

⸻

“I dreamt about you nearly every night this week.”

⸻

A year passed.

You buried yourself in missions. You chased down curses in far-off towns, slept in an empty room that never felt like home, and told yourself that the silence ringing in your chest was just part of the job.

He didn’t call. You didn’t write. You couldn’t afford to. The higher-ups were always watching.

But sometimes, in the lull between battles, when your cursed energy buzzed low in your bones and your injuries throbbed like a reminder of your mortality… your mind drifted back to him.

His steady voice. His hand on yours. The way he always smelled like cedar and crisp books.

And you would wonder: Did he miss you too?

⸻

“Do I wanna know?”

⸻

The mission that changed everything was supposed to be routine.

An abandoned elementary school in Saitama. Residual cursed energy. A low-grade spirit.

But the reports were wrong. So, so wrong. You never even saw it coming.

By the time the backup team found you, your uniform was soaked in blood, a deep gash running down your torso, arm twisted unnaturally, breath wheezing through cracked ribs. Your cursed energy had flickered out completely.

You should have died. Maybe part of you did.

⸻

“It’s sad to see you go, sort of hoping that you’d stay.”

⸻

Nanami found out two hours later. He had just returned from a mission in Osaka when Gojo stopped him in the hallway, unusually solemn.

“They pulled her out of a cursed zone. Almost in pieces,” Gojo said, eyes shadowed under his glasses. “It’s bad.”

Nanami froze mid-step, “What?”

“They’re at Tokyo General. No visitors—higher-ups are keeping it quiet. Trying to avoid scandal.”

“Scandal?” Nanami’s voice was dangerously low.

Gojo shrugged. “Hard to explain why one of their best sorcerers nearly died on a misclassified mission. Not good for PR.”

He didn’t remember how he got to the hospital. He just remembered the sound of rain, the echo of his footsteps, the way his heart felt like it was going to rupture with every beat.

He remembered your name being scrawled on the chart outside the door.

And the ache in his chest when he opened it.

⸻

“Darling we both know… that the nights are mainly made for saying things that you can’t say tomorrow day.”

⸻

You were asleep—or something close to it. Your face was pale, lips chapped, scars marked your body. Monitors beeped softly beside the bed, tracking your heartbeat in lazy rhythms.

Nanami stood there in the doorway, soaked to the bone, afraid to breathe too loud in case it shattered the fragile reality in front of him.

You were alive. But barely.

A tremble ran through his hand.

How many times had he dreamed of this moment, of seeing you again? And how many nights had he convinced himself that staying away was the right choice?

The safe choice?

But none of those thoughts mattered now. Because you almost died thinking he didn’t care.

You stirred first. Your eyelids fluttered, dry and slow. Then your eyes, blurry and confused, met his.

“…Kento?” you rasped, voice hoarse.

He moved instantly to your bedside, kneeling down so you didn’t have to lift your head.

“It’s me,” he said gently.

You blinked, disoriented. “Why… why are you here?”

He didn’t answer at first.

How could he? How could he tell you that he had spent the last year trying to forget you, only to feel his world stop on its axis the moment he heard your name again?

“I had to see you,” he said softly.

You looked away. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.”

Your lips parted slightly. You were trying to be strong, stoic, like always. But he saw it in your eyes.

The pain. The fear. The loneliness.

⸻

“Crawling back to you.”

⸻

“I thought I was going to die,” you whispered, almost going unheard.

Nanami swallowed hard. “I know.”

“And I thought…” You exhaled shakily. “I thought you’d moved on.”

“I didn’t,” he said immediately. “I couldn’t.”

He reached for your hand slowly, giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

His fingers closed gently over yours. Warm. Familiar.

“I tried to follow the rules,” he said. “Tried to bury it all. But it didn’t work. Every day without you felt like something was missing. Like I left a piece of myself behind and just kept walking without it.”

Your throat tightened, “Kento…”

“I told myself staying away would keep you safe,” he continued, voice rough now. “But it didn’t. You nearly died out there. And all I could think was if you had died without knowing how much I still love you—”

Your eyes burned, tears dripping down your scarred cheeks.

“I do,” he said. “I still love you. I always have.”

He leaned forward then, forehead resting against your bandaged arm. Not kissing. Just… there. Breathing you in. Grounding himself in the fact that you were alive.

“I love you too,” you whispered. “I never stopped.”

Silence settled between you but this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was full of everything unspoken. Everything you had both lost, and found again.

“I don’t care what they say anymore,” Nanami said after a long pause. “We deserve more than this. We deserve each other.”

You looked at him, eyes searching, “What happens now?”

He smiled faintly, brushing your hair back from your face. “Now? You get better. And when you’re strong enough… we walk out of here together. We take our lives back.”

He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, “No more hiding. No more pretending.”

You exhaled slowly, for the first time in what felt like forever. The pain was still there, old and new, but so was something else.

A/N: More angst with comfort and a side of music???

[smallfisheyes]

kento’s favourite noise is hearing your wedding rings clink together.

it’s a soft sound, not a harsh wobble of metal or the screech of a steel sheet cut in two, but like the ripples of water interrupted. it is delicate and brief; a perfect clink. when kento hears it, he sees pink.

clink it goes when kento reaches for your hand when you wake up in the morning, half asleep and head buried deep inside your pillow. he can’t see your face, so he reaches for you instead. his gold band clinks with your more delicate gold ring. it feels softer than cashmere and the yarn of your crochet projects.

clink it goes when you pass him back the spoon he handed you to taste test dinner. the food is hot from the pot and blown carefully by him. it’s a recipe an older woman from the grocery store gave to kento. apparently, her husband would make it for her, so now kento will cook it for you. struck by humour, he didn’t tell you about his encounter until your first few bites into dinner. you choked, tears streaming down your face. kento would make more for you, to which he would receive a reluctant “thank you” and a glare as piercing as cotton balls. you’d never known a love so quietly overwhelming until you met him.

clink it goes when you lightly slap his hand when he’s being silly. kento’s straight line mouth (which you lovingly stroke until he smiles), bursts into the shape of a lemon slice. he can’t help but make you squirm. he likes the little dance you do, your high-pitched “stop it’s” and “you’re so weird, kento’s”. it’s almost as sweet as the clinking of your rings, but somehow, it’s unmatched.

look at you. you’ve conditioned him to associate your love with the clinking of your rings. how dare you.

kento’s favourite noise is hearing your wedding rings clink together.

just finished the hardest design studio i’ve done so far for school :’) i’m still in school but hopefully i can start posting again. sorry for the silence

[smallfisheyes]

i got my full driver's license :) 🚗

[smallfisheyes]

nanami vs. kento

there is a difference between nanami and kento.

nanami is all suits and odd patterns. he is quiet, reserved, but his fashion so loud. nanami takes great care to steam his suits. ironing would damage the expensive material. wool is to be steamed and hand washed. denim is hung to dry so that it doesn't shrink in the dryer.

oh, but kento discards those patterned ties and pinchy shoes once he's through the door. after long days, they feel more like a choker than a tie.

sometimes, even, when you stay over, the suit is certainly discarded. if kento wasn't fast enough, you would rip it off for him. oh, but the harness. the harness would stay on. bronze and muscle and the addition of leather with beautiful blonde hair you loved tugging. you love pulling at his harness when he's on top of you, so big and—oh, he just remembered. he should get you more hair ties.

oh, but nanami. nanami would never do such things.

you stroll side by side in public, maybe nanami a few steps ahead of you. not in the way that he was superior to you as wives would trail after their husbands' shadows five paces behind. no, you are equals, but you are decidedly better.

nanami lets you turn off your rampant mind, guiding you to where your curse was located. he knows you perform best with a clear mind and without the loom of anxiety over your shoulder. there is no hand holding, no gentle pushes from the small of your back, but there are secret glances and stares you tease him about when you're on your own.

oh, but kento would tickle you. throw you onto the couch and crawl on top of you with a goofy, delighted smile. it was only after becoming a brick layerer of hard-won trust and many “is this okay’s?” that kento knew he could offer more of himself. perhaps eighty percent of himself. he was wrong. one hundred was just fine.

kento fantasized about your smile and the newest addition to your closet and how pretty it looked on you. nanami, with a little give in the stick up his ass, kept a tab of solitaire open on his work computer. the minutes had become hours. who could blame him? there were some old files on the work system he was curious about browsing, too.

glancing around him, nanami suddenly more kento, clicks on the folder titled "CLASS_009"

organized into subfolders "Year 1, Year 2, and Year 3", kento enlarges the folders and dives into year 1. there you are. much younger, hair longer and frizzier, and teeth a little more crooked and skin bumpy with scars and acne. a golden feeling overwhelms him. suddenly, kento is happy gojo insisted poking his tiny Sony camera into his face so long ago. kento's mouse clicking becomes incessant.

there you are with those blue popsicles that have discontinued so long ago. there you are leaning against a tree, kento beside you, appearing to be reading a book to you. your face is covered by your hair blown by the wind, but he sees how you lean to get closer to him, but not touching. how silly the two of you were.

just friends, kento recalls explaining to an old woman when he was scouting an area with you, and your sudden quietness he read as nervousness for the mission. kento scoffs. he was a dumb little punk.

year 2, you appear distant. there's a photo of the two of you standing beside each other stiffly, each of you holding several papers kento recalls were still hot from the printer.

class rewards, kento muses while zooming into the paper you were holding.

highest standing in cursed studies and highest standing in intro to sorcerer strategies, the papers you were holding read. of course. yes, you were a very small class, so everyone received at least one reward by default, but you did give kento a hard time. you were his competition, and you made him better.

kento shifts his mouse, dragging the image while zoomed in to read his own reward.

highest standing in cursed combat was the paper he held. kento smirks, thinking about all the times he pushed you to the ground. you always looked angry, complaining about how someone so skinny and with a side bang could take you down. you claimed his music made him violent, but he knew you indulged in rock, too. that was funny.

the next photo, ichiji shyly held a pile of papers, one slipping from his hands, the only visible one reading highest standing in cursed history, first year written beneath in smaller text. kento chuckles. how ichiji of him.

the next photo was of the three of you with your rewards, poor ichiji squished between the two of you, like a child caught between his fighting parents.

evidently, the tension between you and kento was from the absence of the third student in your class. in those remaining years, kento was more nanami than kento, an icy veneer frosted over him.

there was no more listening to punk rock in his room. there was no more sneaking to the convenience store after curfew. there was only staring pointedly at his toes, murmuring to you about missions, and the dodging of the bright elephant in the room that was brutally sliced in half.

it was easier to be professional, distant, and cool. kento had presented himself as nanami. there was very little fun between the two of you, nanami's time well spent between his upperclassman, leaving you to the first years.

kento quickly exits the folder system when he hears familiar footsteps enter the staff office.

"time is up," you say warmly from the doorway. "let's go home."

"you can be silly with me." your smile was so sweet and so hurt. if he wasn't so terribly in love with you, he would look away, but he can also see each detail in your eye. each individual speck and colour no one else gets to see but him, and especially how tears began to gather along your waterline. from the pain or the strain on your relationship, he wasn't sure.

"i want to know all versions of you, nanami kento." you play with his fingertips. they're more square and wider compared to your tinier and more rectangular fingertips. it's the only part of you you could move.

"i want to know who you've become. come back to me. come back. come back." you're crying now, your chest heaving as you gasp for air. tears are forced out of kento's eyes as he holds you close. it must hurt, your heart and your ribs. several of them are broken.

four years as a salaryman, nanami mused. four years away from you. when he returned, he was not kento, but nanami, the professional and 7:3 sorcerer. he arrived in pinchy shoes and patterned ties, a deep frown and distaste for annoying co-workers always present.

now, you laid on the ground, bloody and bruised.

it is nanami kento that promises you he will give you all of him: his body, his mind, his heart.

today, it is nanami kento who holds you, smiles at you, and whispers goodnight and flicks off the light with a kiss to your forehead.

he wants this to last. he wants to make up for all the times he had just been nanami, standoffish and aloof nanami, and not your nanami kento.

masterlist tip jar

[smallfisheyes]

keep u happy

[smallfisheyes]

nanami vs. kento

cw: swearing, one suggestive paragraph, injury, descriptions of reader’s hair at a younger age (long, frizzy)

there is a difference between nanami and kento.

nanami is all suits and odd patterns. he is quiet, reserved, but his fashion so loud.

nanami takes great care to steam his suits. ironing would damage the expensive material. wool is to be steamed and hand washed. denim is hung to dry so that it doesn't shrink in the dryer.

oh, but kento discards those patterned ties and pinchy shoes once he's through the door. after long days, they feel more like a choker than a tie.

sometimes, even, when you stay over, the suit is certainly discarded. if kento wasn't fast enough, you would rip it off for him. oh, but the harness. the harness would stay on. bronze and muscle and the addition of leather with beautiful blonde hair you loved tugging. you love pulling at his harness when he's on top of you, so big and—oh, he just remembered. he should get you more hair ties.

oh, but nanami. nanami would never do such things.

you stroll side by side in public, maybe nanami a few steps ahead of you. not in the way that he was superior to you as wives would trail after their husbands' shadows five paces behind. no, you are equals, but you are decidedly better.

nanami lets you turn off your rampant mind, guiding you to where your curse of the night was located. he knows you perform best with a clear mind and without the loom of anxiety over your shoulder. there is no hand holding, no gentle pushes from the small of your back, but there are secret glances and stares you tease him about when you're on your own.

oh, but kento would tickle you. throw you onto the couch and crawl on top of you with a goofy, delighted smile. it was only after becoming a brick layerer of hard-won trust and many “is this okay’s?” that kento knew he could offer more of himself. perhaps eighty percent of himself. he was wrong. one hundred was just fine.

kento fantasized about your smile and the newest addition to your closet and how pretty it looked on you. nanami, with a little give in the stick up his ass, kept a tab of solitaire open on his work computer. the minutes had become hours. who could blame him? there were some old files on the work system he was curious about browsing, too.

glancing around him, nanami suddenly more kento, clicks on the folder titled "CLASS_009"

organized into subfolders "Year 1, Year 2, and Year 3", kento enlarges the folders and dives into year 1. there you are. much younger, hair longer and frizzier, and teeth a little more crooked and skin bumpy with scars and acne. a golden feeling overwhelms him. suddenly, kento is happy gojo insisted poking his tiny Sony camera into his face so long ago. kento's mouse clicking becomes incessant.

there you are with those blue popsicles that have discontinued so long ago. there you are leaning against a tree, kento beside you, appearing to be reading a book to you. your face is covered by your hair blown by the wind, but he sees how you lean to get closer to him, but not touching. how silly the two of you were.

just friends, kento recalls explaining to an old woman when he was scouting an area with you, and your sudden quietness he read as nervousness for the mission. kento scoffs. he was a dumb little punk.

year 2, you appear distant. there's a photo of the two of you standing beside each other stiffly, each of you holding several papers kento recalls were still hot from the printer.

class rewards, kento muses while zooming into the paper you were holding.

highest standing in cursed studies and highest standing in intro to sorcerer strategies, the papers you were holding read. of course. yes, you were a very small class, so everyone received at least one reward by default, but you did give kento a hard time. you were his competition, and you made him better.

kento shifts his mouse, dragging the image while zoomed in to read his own reward.

highest standing in cursed combat was the paper he held. kento smirks, thinking about all the times he pushed you to the ground. you always looked angry, complaining about how someone so skinny and with a side bang could take you down. you claimed his music made him violent, but he knew you indulged in rock, too. that was funny.

the next photo, ichiji shyly held a pile of papers, one slipping from his hands, the only visible one reading highest standing in cursed history, first year written beneath in smaller text. kento chuckles. how ichiji of him.

the next photo was of the three of you with your rewards, poor ichiji squished between the two of you, like a child caught between his fighting parents.

evidently, the tension between you and kento was from the absence of the third student in your class. in those remaining years, kento was more nanami than kento, an icy veneer frosted over him.

there was no more listening to punk rock in his room. there was no more sneaking to the convenience store after curfew. there was only staring pointedly at his toes, murmuring to you about missions, and the dodging of the bright elephant in the room that was brutally sliced in half.

it was easier to be professional, distant, and cool. kento had presented himself as nanami. there was very little fun between the two of you, nanami's time well spent between his upperclassman, leaving you to the first years.

kento quickly exits the folder system when he hears familiar footsteps enter the staff office.

"time is up," you say warmly from the doorway. "let's go home."

"you can be silly with me." your smile was so sweet and so hurt. if he wasn't so terribly in love with you, he would look away, but he can also see each detail in your eye. each individual speck and colour no one else gets to see but him, and especially how tears began to gather along your waterline. from the pain or the strain on your relationship, he wasn't sure.

"i want to know all versions of you, nanami kento." you play with his fingertips. they're more square and wider compared to your tinier and more rectangular fingertips. it's the only part of you you could move.

"i want to know who you've become. come back to me. come back. come back." you're crying now, your chest heaving as you gasp for air. tears are forced out of kento's eyes as he holds you close. it must hurt, your heart and your ribs. several of them are broken.

four years as a salaryman, nanami mused. four years away from you. when he returned, he was not kento, but nanami, the professional and 7:3 sorcerer. he arrived in pinchy shoes and patterned ties, a deep frown and distaste for annoying co-workers always present.

now, you laid on the ground, bloody and bruised.

it is nanami kento that promises you he will give you all of him: his body, his mind, his heart.

today, it is nanami kento who holds you, smiles at you, and whispers goodnight and flicks off the light with a kiss to your forehead.

he wants this to last. he wants to make up for all the times he had just been nanami, standoffish and aloof nanami, and not your nanami kento.

masterlist tip jar

[smallfisheyes]

cw. body insecurity and negative self-analysis of the body. staring into the mirror. swearing. suggestive but nothing explicit.

his arms, you think.

he wouldn’t like your arms, you also think.

you should just watch on, and watch only, but even then that feels criminal. only people as beautiful as him should be able to watch him move, speak, breathe. you shouldn’t be allowed to share the same space he walks. so, you turn your eyes away, freeing him of your dirty stare.

it feels like a sticky goo coats your body. you feel ugly and gross, but it’s a feeling you can’t shower off. it clings to your skin, persistent in its hatred. because it sticks to you, it becomes a part of you. with its overwhelming persistence, it’s no longer just a feeling of being ugly and gross: you are ugly and gross.

how do you get rid of the goo?

he thinks he’d like to be friends with you.

he watches how you smile politely the rare times you speak together, but that polite smile becomes a big, wide grin that kento can’t help but join in secret. the beautiful grin only appears when you speak to the ones you love and admire the most.

your little niece had once joined you at the school when your cousin couldn’t find a sitter. you had to shove your missions onto kento, your apologies rampant, but he insisted it was all right. how else were you supposed to ensure her safety? your little niece clung to your hand, head peeking out from behind your leg.

when he arrived back at the school beaten and sore, kento saw how she sat perched on your lap as you mumbled stories to her. you tapped away at your old keyboard while making your niece giggle, that wide grin pulling your cheeks into the shape of apples. kento wondered if at the same age as your niece, if you ate so many apples that your cheeks took the shape of them when you smiled. recounted by his mother, kento once ate so many carrots he turned orange.

most days, you seem to frown deeply when kento was within a five metre radius. he thought you were very grumpy when he first met you, but it seems he’s wrong. your ambrosia apple cheeks are telling enough. the sweetest apples, and one named after the gods’ food.

you never smile at him like that. maybe you’re just not comfortable around him? that’s probably it.

what can he do to make you apple smile at him?

you stare at yourself too hard in the mirror.

your hair doesn’t sit right. the shirt you wear makes your arms look too big. the pants you wear pinch at your waist and emphasize the curve of your tummy, but you just bought these recently. you should forgive yourself. that was a particularly hard day.

still, you’d easily be cast as the first to go in a horror movie, or even the scary creature everyone runs from. you wouldn’t be the pretty main lead in a 2000s rom-com that was clever and beautiful. you’re you. plain jane on the good days, horror movie monster most days.

it’s best you just stay home.

walking out of the restaurant with kento, your colleagues lingering behind for more drinks, a couple exchanging kisses take up the corner of the building. you and kento politely look the other way, but the details of their kiss are seared into your mind.

the man gripped her waist like he was afraid she'd go. the woman’s arms were thrown over his shoulders, grabbing him by the back of the head to bring him closer. they're already close, you glower. and they're in public. could they not? but there’s that familiar pang that bothers you some days, the ones that remind you of your singleness.

your arms move to curl around yourself in a self-hug. the pit of loneliness shapes itself into a bout of jealousy, pushing your heart into a sprint. your hug does nothing to dampen your rampant thoughts.

hands clammy, heart rushing, breath short, your thoughts are the scary kind.

no one would ever do that to you. your body is revolting. your personality is molded to please others so that there’s no identity beneath all the fake layers.

unfuckable. unloveable. unkissable. it is your life sentence to be alone.

oh, but you can’t stop looking at him. your eyes are always quick to spot him. you haven’t seen him wear that turtleneck before. that green suits him, and so does his typical blue.

you can’t help it. it’s instinct to admire beautiful things.

almost like he knows what you’re thinking, nanami’s voice softly cuts through your thoughts. “what are your plans for the rest of the night?”

you blink, recovering from your personal assault. the grey of the parking lot soothes you. the plaza is wide and is lined with other restaurants and tea shops.

“nothing really,” you laugh. “probably a movie at home or even sleep right away, but i need to finish making my niece’s gift before the weekend. i’m not sure if i’ll make it.”

nanami’s eyes brighten the way when a person recovers a distant but good memory. “the dragon, right?”

he sounds almost delighted even though it’s not his gift.

you forgot you told him about your granny hobbies, and your latest endeavour was your niece’s crocheted dragon amigurumi. it’s a cute stuffy, and you bought the pattern not too long ago. heated embarrassment courses through you. why does he remember?

“i’m surprised you remember,” you admit out loud.

“i think handmade gifts are very thoughtful. how could i forget?”

oh, you’re smiling like a fool. you didn’t think he was the type to praise.

kento continues. “why a dragon anyway?” he looks at you with attentive eyes. you pull away, but you feel the weight of his stare. it makes you soar, but you can’t show it. you hug yourself tighter.

ground yourself.

“she was born the year of the dragon,” you murmur. when did parking lots become your favourite place?

“clever,” he compliments with a lightness in his tone.

his finishing move is the most radiant smile, and you feel the knock out collapse your lungs.

oh. oh. you’re about to go into cardiac arrest. it’s no longer your thoughts that run rampant, but your heart.

“here’s my ride!” you almost scream. if kento didn’t see how you waved your pointed finger aggressively at the car that pulled in front of the two of you, he would have had no idea what you just said. your words came out in a jumble.

you fly for the back door, nearly knocking yourself out and mumbling your name in a pitchy voice. kento watches, heart aching a little. if his cheeks were still full and youthful, he would probably be smiling one of your ambrosia smiles.

“don’t stay up late,” he tells you before shutting your door.

you send him a picture of your finished dragon at three in the morning. he scolds you at work, but praises you all the same, admiring every stitch and asking what the process is.

“talented,” he called you.

bit by bit, your scary thoughts begin to die down. oddly, that layer of goo that made you feel ugly thins. it’s still there, and it probably will always be there, but it thins. sometimes, it feels like it’s not even there, as if it was never important to begin with.

nanami reminds you and shows you what you really are: beautiful and brilliant.

it is another week that goes by that nanami uncovers a freshly baked loaf of bread and hands it to you. “i can’t make anything but bread. this is for you.”

it must be a gift for covering for him. you hold out your arms, accepting the bread.

“handmade gifts are the most thoughtful,” you say while looking him in the eye.

soon, you are in his arms. soon, you’re kissed by him. soon, you share the same bed with him, and he explores you reverently, admiring every curve and bend and sigh.

“you’re worth loving.” he presses the words into your forehead with a kiss.

and you believe him.

[smallfisheyes]

cw. body insecurity and negative self-analysis of the body. staring into the mirror. swearing. suggestive but nothing explicit.

his arms, you think.

he wouldn’t like your arms, you also think.

you should just watch on, and watch only, but even then that feels criminal. only people as beautiful as him should be able to watch him move, speak, breathe. you shouldn’t be allowed to share the same space he walks. so, you turn your eyes away, freeing him of your dirty stare.

it feels like a sticky goo coats your body. you feel ugly and gross, but it’s a feeling you can’t shower off. it clings to your skin, persistent in its hatred. because it sticks to you, it becomes a part of you. with its overwhelming persistence, it’s no longer just a feeling of being ugly and gross: you are ugly and gross.

how do you get rid of the goo?

he thinks he’d like to be friends with you.

he watches how you smile politely the rare times you speak together, but that polite smile becomes a big, wide grin that kento can’t help but join in secret. the beautiful grin only appears when you speak to the ones you love and admire the most.

your little niece had once joined you at the school when your cousin couldn’t find a sitter. you had to shove your missions onto kento, your apologies rampant, but he insisted it was all right. how else were you supposed to ensure her safety? your little niece clung to your hand, head peeking out from behind your leg.

when he arrived back at the school beaten and sore, kento saw how she sat perched on your lap as you mumbled stories to her. you tapped away at your old keyboard while making your niece giggle, that wide grin pulling your cheeks into the shape of apples. kento wondered if at the same age as your niece, if you ate so many apples that your cheeks took the shape of them when you smiled. recounted by his mother, kento once ate so many carrots he turned orange.

most days, you seem to frown deeply when kento was within a five metre radius. he thought you were very grumpy when he first met you, but it seems he’s wrong. your ambrosia apple cheeks are telling enough. the sweetest apples, and one named after the gods’ food.

you never smile at him like that. maybe you’re just not comfortable around him? that’s probably it.

what can he do to make you apple smile at him?

you stare at yourself too hard in the mirror.

your hair doesn’t sit right. the shirt you wear makes your arms look too big. the pants you wear pinch at your waist and emphasize the curve of your tummy, but you just bought these recently. you should forgive yourself. that was a particularly hard day.

still, you’d easily be cast as the first to go in a horror movie, or even the scary creature everyone runs from. you wouldn’t be the pretty main lead in a 2000s rom-com that was clever and beautiful. you’re you. plain jane on the good days, horror movie monster most days.

it’s best you just stay home.

walking out of the restaurant with kento, your colleagues lingering behind for more drinks, a couple exchanging kisses take up the corner of the building. you and kento politely look the other way, but the details of their kiss are seared into your mind.

the man gripped her waist like he was afraid she'd go. the woman’s arms were thrown over his shoulders, grabbing him by the back of the head to bring him closer. they're already close, you glower. and they're in public. could they not? but there’s that familiar pang that bothers you some days, the ones that remind you of your singleness.

your arms move to curl around yourself in a self-hug. the pit of loneliness shapes itself into a bout of jealousy, pushing your heart into a sprint. your hug does nothing to dampen your rampant thoughts.

hands clammy, heart rushing, breath short, your thoughts are the scary kind.

no one would ever do that to you. your body is revolting. your personality is molded to please others so that there’s no identity beneath all the fake layers.

unfuckable. unloveable. unkissable. it is your life sentence to be alone.

oh, but you can’t stop looking at him. your eyes are always quick to spot him. you haven’t seen him wear that turtleneck before. that green suits him, and so does his typical blue.

you can’t help it. it’s instinct to admire beautiful things.

almost like he knows what you’re thinking, nanami’s voice softly cuts through your thoughts. “what are your plans for the rest of the night?”

you blink, recovering from your personal assault. the grey of the parking lot soothes you. the plaza is wide and is lined with other restaurants and tea shops.

“nothing really,” you laugh. “probably a movie at home or even sleep right away, but i need to finish making my niece’s gift before the weekend. i’m not sure if i’ll make it.”

nanami’s eyes brighten the way when a person recovers a distant but good memory. “the dragon, right?”

he sounds almost delighted even though it’s not his gift.

you forgot you told him about your granny hobbies, and your latest endeavour was your niece’s crocheted dragon amigurumi. it’s a cute stuffy, and you bought the pattern not too long ago. heated embarrassment courses through you. why does he remember?

“i’m surprised you remember,” you admit out loud.

“i think handmade gifts are very thoughtful. how could i forget?”

oh, you’re smiling like a fool. you didn’t think he was the type to praise.

kento continues. “why a dragon anyway?” he looks at you with attentive eyes. you pull away, but you feel the weight of his stare. it makes you soar, but you can’t show it. you hug yourself tighter.

ground yourself.

“she was born the year of the dragon,” you murmur. when did parking lots become your favourite place?

“clever,” he compliments with a lightness in his tone.

his finishing move is the most radiant smile, and you feel the knock out collapse your lungs.

oh. oh. you’re about to go into cardiac arrest. it’s no longer your thoughts that run rampant, but your heart.

“here’s my ride!” you almost scream. if kento didn’t see how you waved your pointed finger aggressively at the car that pulled in front of the two of you, he would have had no idea what you just said. your words came out in a jumble.

you fly for the back door, nearly knocking yourself out and mumbling your name in a pitchy voice. kento watches, heart aching a little. if his cheeks were still full and youthful, he would probably be smiling one of your ambrosia smiles.

“don’t stay up late,” he tells you before shutting your door.

you send him a picture of your finished dragon at three in the morning. he scolds you at work, but praises you all the same, admiring every stitch and asking what the process is.

“talented,” he called you.

bit by bit, your scary thoughts begin to die down. oddly, that layer of goo that made you feel ugly thins. it’s still there, and it probably will always be there, but it thins. sometimes, it feels like it’s not even there, as if it was never important to begin with.

nanami reminds you and shows you what you really are: beautiful and brilliant.

it is another week that goes by that nanami uncovers a freshly baked loaf of bread and hands it to you. “i can’t make anything but bread. this is for you.”

it must be a gift for covering for him. you hold out your arms, accepting the bread.

“handmade gifts are the most thoughtful,” you say while looking him in the eye.

soon, you are in his arms. soon, you’re kissed by him. soon, you share the same bed with him, and he explores you reverently, admiring every curve and bend and sigh.

“you’re worth loving.” he presses the words into your forehead with a kiss.

and you believe him.

[smallfisheyes]

cw. body insecurity and negative self-analysis of the body. staring into the mirror. swearing. suggestive but nothing explicit.

your insecurity is eating you, and you're absolutely certain you have no chance with nanami. he makes you feel otherwise while discussing your grandma hobbies (1.3k)

his arms, you think.

he wouldn’t like your arms, you also think.

you should just watch on, and watch only, but even then that feels criminal. only people as beautiful as him should be able to watch him move, speak, breathe. you shouldn’t be allowed to share the same space he walks. so, you turn your eyes away, freeing him of your dirty stare.

it feels like a sticky goo coats your body. you feel ugly and gross, but it’s a feeling you can’t shower off. it clings to your skin, persistent in its hatred. because it sticks to you, it becomes a part of you. with its overwhelming persistence, it’s no longer just a feeling of being ugly and gross: you are ugly and gross.

how do you get rid of the goo?

he thinks he’d like to be friends with you.

he watches how you smile politely the rare times you speak together, but that polite smile becomes a big, wide grin that kento can’t help but join in secret. the beautiful grin only appears when you speak to the ones you love and admire the most.

your little niece had once joined you at the school when your cousin couldn’t find a sitter. you had to shove your missions onto kento, your apologies rampant, but he insisted it was all right. how else were you supposed to ensure her safety? your little niece clung to your hand, head peeking out from behind your leg.

when he arrived back at the school beaten and sore, kento saw how she sat perched on your lap as you mumbled stories to her. you tapped away at your old keyboard while making your niece giggle, that wide grin pulling your cheeks into the shape of apples. kento wondered if at the same age as your niece, if you ate so many apples that your cheeks took the shape of them when you smiled. recounted by his mother, kento once ate so many carrots he turned orange.

most days, you seem to frown deeply when kento was within a five metre radius. he thought you were very grumpy when he first met you, but it seems he’s wrong. your ambrosia apple cheeks are telling enough. the sweetest apples, and one named after the gods’ food.

you never smile at him like that. maybe you’re just not comfortable around him? that’s probably it.

what can he do to make you apple smile at him?

you stare at yourself too hard in the mirror.

your hair doesn’t sit right. the shirt you wear makes your arms look too big. the pants you wear pinch at your waist and emphasize the curve of your tummy, but you just bought these recently. you should forgive yourself. that was a particularly hard day.

still, you’d easily be cast as the first to go in a horror movie, or even the scary creature everyone runs from. you wouldn’t be the pretty main lead in a 2000s rom-com that was clever and beautiful. you’re you. plain jane on the good days, horror movie monster most days.

it’s best you just stay home.

walking out of the restaurant with kento, your colleagues lingering behind for more drinks, a couple exchanging kisses take up the corner of the building. you and kento politely look the other way, but the details of their kiss are seared into your mind.

the man gripped her waist like he was afraid she'd go. the woman’s arms were thrown over his shoulders, grabbing him by the back of the head to bring him closer. they're already close, you glower. and they're in public. could they not? but there’s that familiar pang that bothers you some days, the ones that remind you of your singleness.

your arms move to curl around yourself in a self-hug. the pit of loneliness shapes itself into a bout of jealousy, pushing your heart into a sprint. your hug does nothing to dampen your rampant thoughts.

hands clammy, heart rushing, breath short, your thoughts are the scary kind.

no one would ever do that to you. your body is revolting. your personality is molded to please others so that there’s no identity beneath all the fake layers.

unfuckable. unloveable. unkissable. it is your life sentence to be alone.

oh, but you can’t stop looking at him. your eyes are always quick to spot him. you haven’t seen him wear that turtleneck before. that green suits him, and so does his typical blue.

you can’t help it. it’s instinct to admire beautiful things.

almost like he knows what you’re thinking, nanami’s voice softly cuts through your thoughts. “what are your plans for the rest of the night?”

you blink, recovering from your personal assault. the grey of the parking lot soothes you. the plaza is wide and is lined with other restaurants and tea shops.

“nothing really,” you laugh. “probably a movie at home or even sleep right away, but i need to finish making my niece’s gift before the weekend. i’m not sure if i’ll make it.”

nanami’s eyes brighten the way when a person recovers a distant but good memory. “the dragon, right?”

he sounds almost delighted even though it’s not his gift.

you forgot you told him about your granny hobbies, and your latest endeavour was your niece’s crocheted dragon amigurumi. it’s a cute stuffy, and you bought the pattern not too long ago. heated embarrassment courses through you. why does he remember?

“i’m surprised you remember,” you admit out loud.

“i think handmade gifts are very thoughtful. how could i forget?”

oh, you’re smiling like a fool. you didn’t think he was the type to praise.

kento continues. “why a dragon anyway?” he looks at you with attentive eyes. you pull away, but you feel the weight of his stare. it makes you soar, but you can’t show it. you hug yourself tighter.

ground yourself.

“she was born the year of the dragon,” you murmur. when did parking lots become your favourite place?

“clever,” he compliments with a lightness in his tone.

his finishing move is the most radiant smile, and you feel the knock out collapse your lungs.

oh. oh. you’re about to go into cardiac arrest. it’s no longer your thoughts that run rampant, but your heart.

“here’s my ride!” you almost scream. if kento didn’t see how you waved your pointed finger aggressively at the car that pulled in front of the two of you, he would have had no idea what you just said. your words came out in a jumble.

you fly for the back door, nearly knocking yourself out and mumbling your name in a pitchy voice. kento watches, heart aching a little. if his cheeks were still full and youthful, he would probably be smiling one of your ambrosia smiles.

“don’t stay up late,” he tells you before shutting your door.

you send him a picture of your finished dragon at three in the morning. he scolds you at work, but praises you all the same, admiring every stitch and asking what the process is.

“talented,” he called you.

bit by bit, your scary thoughts begin to die down. oddly, that layer of goo that made you feel ugly thins. it’s still there, and it probably will always be there, but it thins. sometimes, it feels like it’s not even there, as if it was never important to begin with.

nanami reminds you and shows you what you really are: beautiful and brilliant.

it is another week that goes by that nanami uncovers a freshly baked loaf of bread and hands it to you. “i can’t make anything but bread. this is for you.”

it must be a gift for covering for him. you hold out your arms, accepting the bread.

“handmade gifts are the most thoughtful,” you say while looking him in the eye.

soon, you are in his arms. soon, you’re kissed by him. soon, you share the same bed with him, and he explores you reverently, admiring every curve and bend and sigh.

“you’re worth loving.” he presses the words into your forehead with a kiss.

and you believe him.

[smallfisheyes]

Back at it again, this took a long time cuz I've never painted glass before. Had a lotta fun though trying to study and understand glass!!

[smallfisheyes]

you pierce link's ears

cw: some mentions of blood.

“Yarna’s daughter said no sewing needles!”

“It’s all I got.” Link shrugs.

You guffaw, snatching the needles from him. "No hollow needles, then no piercings!"

That was two weeks ago.

Even with the correct needles, you’ve never seen yourself frown so deeply. Two hollow needles sit in the bowl of hot water, ready for poking. The tips are so sharp and shiny, perfect for piercing, but you've heard plenty of horror stories of ear piercings gone wrong.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Positive,” Link responds, grinning at his reflection. He eyes the lobes of his ears, already picturing the two piercings he begged and begged for. He flops his head side to side, hair falling with his movements, imagining two blue hoops moving with him. 

This entire excursion feels like a fool’s journey. The air smells sharply of sliced lemons and lavender from Link’s burning incense. Two hollow needles stolen from the resident healer in Hateno Village sit in a bath of boiling water. Sweetly, Link had placed two hooped earrings carved from blue stone into the sauce plate you had handmade for him for his birthday last year; your thumbprints forever pressed into the clay. Now, his new birthday gift was sitting on his old birthday plate.

Even with his reassurance and the eager kicking of his feet, Link’s tooth gap does little to calm the rapid beating of your heart. 

“Okay. Yeah, stupid question.” You shake your hands, head downturned. You fiddle with the clean cloth draped over the back of Link’s chair, frown falling deeper and deeper. 

Your ears were pierced as a baby, but you know it’s supposed to hurt. Your grandmother had told you over and over again how you wailed, how your ears hadn’t healed for months, and that the needle didn’t cleanly exit your lobe. Paintings of you as an infant specifically left out the angry lumps on your ears. They had nearly fallen off. 

What if you did the same to Link?

You inhale sharply before speaking again. “I mean, I should be asking you if you want me to do this. I think Yarna’s pierced—”

Link catches your eye in the mirror, a small smile growing bigger and bigger the longer he holds your stare. “Positive,” he repeats. “I wouldn’t want anyone else to do it.” 

His voice is so even, so calm, that you believe him. Just for a second.

What was that swirling feeling between your lungs, and why does it feel so nice?

You huff. “Yeah, whatever.” 

Link laughs. It sounds like tinkly bells; the very sound of joy released from a crystal jar.

Too much research and planning was put into this anyway. It would be selfish to back out, especially since this was supposedly your gift to Link.

“It’s my birthday, so you have to do what I say,” he had sing-songed, hands planted on his hips in a wide stance. A goofy grin stretched his squishy face.

Needles stolen, gathering research from Yarna’s obnoxious daughters, the timing aligned with his sister and dad’s biweekly visit to Sanidin Park to spy on the horses and ogle Hyrule Castle; you had to do it now. 

So, hands washed and spritzed with lemon juice, you pick the needle from the hot water. Yarna’s daughters had talked about something called “disinfectant” to prevent “infection because of germs,” whatever that was. 

“You don’t want to give your boyfriend lumpy ears, do you?” she had teased you. She waved a skinny finger at you, her red hair tied into frizzy dual braids. They looked more like horns.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you grumbled. What a way to remind you.

You stomped all the way back to Link’s house, slamming the door behind you. Link had wondered why you returned so grumpy. You even had the notes you promised you would get from Yarna’s daughters, everything from preparing sliced lemons and what needles to use. What was there to be upset about?

Needle in hand and ear lobes already marked where Link wanted his earrings to go, all you had to do was poke him.

“Ready?” You speak more confidently, head raised higher. There’s the excitement Link was looking for. His eyes grow bigger.

You do just as you had written in your notes: place a piece of cork behind the ear. Align the needed to the penned mark. Ensure there’s a ninety-degree angle between the ear and the needle so that the earring does not sit funny.

“That tickles,” Link giggles.

“Okay, smiley. Try not to move.”

You swear Link’s tooth gap grows a millimetre or two. He smiles into the mirror, watching your movements. 

You begin a slow countdown, the tip of the needle brushing Link’s skin. “Three, two, one.”

You push, pushing the lobe against the needle. It makes a clean exit, the sharp point poking the cork.

The first thing you sense is Link’s squirming.

“Hylia! Hylia!” he screams.

You screech, eyes bouncing all over Link’s face, scanning for pain. He flinches, Link’s pretty face scrunching into a yelp, eyes closed, and mouth biting hard onto his teeth.

Oh. Oh no.

The world is ending. The world is ending. You want a Like Like to swallow you whole and never spit you out. You hurt your best friend.

“Did it work?” Link suddenly says. A calm washes over him, limbs no longer flailing like an armoured porgi on the shore. “Did it work? Did it work? That wasn’t bad.” 

You blink, rapidly. “It—it did.” You gently remove the needle from Link’s ear. Shock pushes you to grab the clean cloth on the bathroom counter, gently holding Link’s bleeding ear. Your voice comes out small. “Does it still hurt?”

Link’s tone is soft. “Just aches now.”

You meet Link’s eyes in the mirror. He looks so beautiful, bloody ear and all. His hair is messy and tucked into a ponytail. A streak of dirt is still on his face where you had lightly slapped him. He snuck up on you while working on the rice paddies. How could you not?

Your smile grows. His smile grows with yours. You fall into a fit of giggles, shoulders shaking. You feel golden.

Link turns in his chair to shake you by the shoulders. “Put the earring in now, weirdo!”

Giggling, you rush to pluck the blue earring from the birthday sauce plate. Opening the clasp, you slip the earring through Link’s new piercing.

There’s a beat of silence. Link stares almost emptily into the mirror.

“It’s perfect,” Link breathes. The air leaves his body. He waves his head side to side, just as he had done pre-piercing. The blue loop shifts right and left; to and fro.

“Thank you.” His voice is soft; fragile. Link gives his head a final shake. 

You smile. Link watches you in the mirror.

“You have to pierce my other ear now.”

You huff, gripping your knees. “Give me a second to recover.”

“No. Earring. Now!”

You move to choke Link.

It is a joy to see him with his earrings now, ears healed with the help of dabbing lemon juice every night. You watch the swing of his blue hoops when he playfights with you, wooden swords in hand. You admire the jump of his blue hoops as he nods, listening to you attentively. Lately, you’ve been rambling about your apprenticeship with the witch of the village, specializing in elixirs and potions. How his earrings lay by his bedside when he sleeps, two perfect blue rings.

You have been seeing Link less and less. Ever since his stunt with the pot lid when a guardian had lost control, his promotion to appointed knight to Princess Zelda frightened you. Even worse, distanced you.

All you can do is research elixirs and clean your ex-mentor’s dusting storage cupboards. What happened to dueling with wooden swords and squishy grins?

Even if you see him very little now, and as he grows higher and higher, you just remember he’s your friend. A very good, long-distance friend.

That is until he bursts through your shop’s doors. Only one blue hoop swings from Link’s ear. You look closer. Oh. 

“I need your help,” he murmurs. The piercing had closed up on his other ear.

You smile, rising from your stool. “Help me find some hollow needles, will you?”

i am almost done playing botw. i just need to beat ganon's bum now D:

[smallfisheyes]

nanami finds you in the kitchen

Most days, Nanami forgets he has a roommate.

Kento knows you. You're the one who paces down the hall, creaking the floorboards of this old home. There are traces of you in the kitchen, the scent of brown sugar and cinnamon, a waft of a hearty meal with the tang of tomato, a trail of charcoal for failed dishes. Thank goodness, Kento would think. You’re human, at least. 

He knows you’re down the hall. There’s a bathroom between your rooms. He hears you pace, the creaking of old floorboards under your weight. Kento hears how you rummage and how often you drop things (often). He knows what brand of toothpaste you use, how you use an electric toothbrush, the colour of your loofah, and how you try to keep your shared spaces tidy (thank you). He has certainly heard your voice when you call a loved one or friend. Kento detects your presence with four out of five senses, but he has seen you, albeit not often.

The few times he’s home at regular hours, you’ll pass him in the hallways from your journey to your room to the kitchen downstairs. Only hellos and polite head nods are exchanged as you rush past each other to get to point B. Within the first few days of Kento moving in, you’d have to open the door for Kento when he arrived home. 

“I forgot to tell you the front entrance is hard to close,” you told him with a guilty smile. “I’ve been meaning to contact the landlord, but they’re hard to reach, so I’ve been using the back entrance. Did he give you the backdoor code?”

Kento would stumble inside, apologizing while slipping off his work shoes as you’d slam your hip into the door to close it. Embarrassed, he took your advice and has been slipping in and out of the back entrance that opens directly into the kitchen since. 

Kento thinks you’re nice, but if he has learned anything from his literature teacher before transferring to Jujutsu Tech, it was that nice has no meaning. It was a placeholder word; something to fill a void of empty opinion. Kento knows you, he lives with you, you’re not disagreeable, so you’re nice. Maybe if he wasn’t always at work and used his bedroom for sleeping rather than a place to crash on weekends, he could label you as more than just nice.

When Kento is in his room, he hears you pacing. When Kento is in the same room as you, you smile, then leave for work. When you’re in the living room watching TV, Kento is far away at work, likely staying over to complete the pile of work his boss just gave him that morning, even though it needed to be finished the night of. 

Maybe if he hadn’t been so quick to turn you away, he’d think you’re more than just nice.

It’s quiet in this house for two.

There are footsteps upstairs, but you’re not sure who they belong to. 

You’re in the kitchen, lights on in every room on the ground floor. The living room lights flicker occasionally, and you have headphones on, your music so high you can’t hear any noise beyond the rhythmic beat. You really don’t know whose footsteps belong to. 

At first, you thought the footsteps were Nanami’s, but you swore he wasn’t home. You got home at 5:30, and according to the past opening and closing of the back door entrance in the kitchen, Nanami always arrived home significantly later than you. Poor man.

It was easy to tell whose shoes were whose among the pile that neatly sat outside the backdoor entrance. Your shoes looked so petite compared to Nanami’s shiny work shoes. Come to think of it, he only seemed to keep his office shoes at the kitchen entrance, and the rest were your mix of footwear: white tennis shoes for casual outings, some running shoes comfortable for walking, and shoes fit for the office. If you weren’t embarrassed, you’d have your whole shoe collection down in the kitchen.

Looking at the pile of shoes by the kitchen door, it was obvious Nanami wasn’t home.

So, the locks. Someone could be in the house. Your heart rate had spiked. That’s worse than a ghost. The kitchen back door was locked. You tiptoed to the front entrance of the home. That was also locked. 

You plopped yourself back into the seat in the kitchen. It’s confirmed: there’s a ghost in your home. 

It sounds silly, but you’ve heard what it sounds like for Nanami to walk outside his door. The scuffle of his house slippers against the wood floorboards. There is the creaking, the dragging of feet. You listened for his footsteps to know when the kitchen was free, but also to know if he made it home. That man is so rarely home. If you were closer, you’d confront him about it.

Instead, there is someone lazily walking upstairs, going back and forth between your room and Nanami’s room with bare feet. It sounds nothing at all like Nanami’s footsteps. The sound is evident; there is a ghost in your house. 

When you first toured the house, long before Nanami signed his lease, the landlord’s son told you the house was old. 

“It dates back to the late 1800s,” the landlord's son explained. “We’ve done extra work on the house. When we first bought it, it was a dump. Now, it’s a very nice place to live, and it’s close to the city and work; good for young people like you.”

You had agreed, laughing along to the jokes the son shared. His cheerfulness dropped to a sombre expression when you arrived in the upstairs hallway.

“This neighbourhood is known for strange activity, so be careful.” 

You had thought he was referring to the people who stumbled outside your home when nighttime fell. There would be scuffles here and there, sometimes between street cats, and scraggly yells from outside. It appeared the strange activity reached within your home’s walls, too.

If you knew him a little better, you’d worry for Nanami, but that broody expression of his would do enough to ward away the nightwalkers. 

With the sound of footsteps coming from upstairs, you kept yourself occupied in the kitchen. You could prepare your lunch for tomorrow. Now you’re thinking about calling in sick and finding somewhere to sleep, because there was no way you’d be functional at work. Neither could you sleep in this house with a pacing ghost outside your room. 

The hours in the kitchen have been long. Music continues to blast into your ears. You worry if you’ll feel the ghost’s breath breathing down onto your neck. Would it be cold? Worse, what if you see a ghost?

It is three in the morning, and Nanami Kento finally arrives home. 

"Hi, Nanami."

Kento startles, keys rattling from his hands. You're sitting in the kitchen just as he opens the back entrance to the house, your headphones on the side of the table. Your hands are wrapped around a mug he's sure you can't find in a store. Did you paint it yourself?

Your eyes widen, watching Kento stumble to regain his footing.

"Sorry." He apologizes before you can. "I wasn't expecting anyone in the kitchen at this hour."

You glance at the oven clock. In green, it reads three in the morning.

"Yeah," you start, the word a bit too drawn out. "I'd be in my room, but I think there's a ghost walking around upstairs." You drum your fingers along the table.

Nanami blinks. “There’s a ghost upstairs?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know it’s a ghost? Could it be an intruder?”

You’ve never heard Nanami so serious. His voice is hardened, and he fixes you with a no-nonsense stare. You straighten up, adjusting yourself in your chair. “I got home around 5:30. I locked the door behind me, and I left for work after you and locked it then, too. We never use the front door, and that’s also locked. I don’t think anyone besides us is home.” 

“Okay,” Nanami nods. “Are you hurt?” He seems to soften.

You frown. Small. “No.”

“I’ll check upstairs then.” Nanami slips off his work shoes (so big compared to yours), sets down his briefcase, slips on his house shoes, and calmly moves to the stairs, passing you along the way. 

He does this so cooly, with no second thought, you watch with your mouth hanging open stupidly like a fish. You could never do that, especially without fear. 

Your eyes trail after Nanami as he goes up the stairs. “Do you want me to come?” you call after him. You mean it, but reluctantly.

“No need.” Nanami rolls back his shoulders as he climbs, back somehow straighter than when he entered the house. A serious expression crosses his face, but it does little to erase the dark circles under his eyes. 

Nanami disappears when he turns into the dark hallway towards your bedrooms. 

There’s silence, then the shuffle of feet. It’s the same lazy footsteps from before. You shiver. All you can hear are the ghost’s footsteps. 

“Nanami?” you call. You rise from your seat, about to make your way upstairs. There’s an edge to your voice. Concern, maybe, but the sound of concern for a stranger.

You hear heavy footsteps and the drag of house slippers. They’re Nanami’s footsteps.

You wait with bated breath, hovering over your seat.

There’s the sound of creaking again, then the tall figure of Nanami unharmed makes his way downstairs.

“You’re okay,” you say. You feel dumb for stating the obvious. Nanami rounds the corner and joins you in the kitchen, picking up his briefcase from the ground.

“I’m okay,” he replies. For someone who’s just encountered a ghost, he doesn’t look spooked at all. It makes you feel silly for cowering down here for so many hours and long into the morning. 

Nanami stands in the corner closest to the back entrance of the house, and a little too much like he wants you to leave. His face is pinched into what you think is annoyance. You remain seated at the kitchen table. The only thing keeping you here is the glue of awkwardness. 

The longer you sit, the more Nanami looks ready to retreat into his room as he usually does when he arrives home. Why wouldn’t he? He works for so long, and you don’t spend time with each other. You should go. He wants you to go.

Strangely, it’s Nanami who cuts through the silence. 

“There’s nothing to worry about. The ghost is harmless.”

“Thank you for checking,” you breathe. “But how do you know?” Another silly question, but you can’t help it.

Nanami shrugs. “Some experience.” He glances to the side, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “I have experience with spirits with negative energy. This one didn’t seem to have any bad energy, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

You nod. You didn’t take Nanami as one who has experience with the paranormal, but you don’t want to question it. Your heart slows to a steady beat, but your nerves don’t leave you. You haven’t been in the same room as Nanami Kento for this long before. You literally sit at the edge of your seat, making an effort to balance your pelvis on the chair’s edge.

Nanami moves to leave, bowing his head and suitcase in hand. He wants to go. You feel a pang of hurt, but for some reason, you stop him. 

“Really. Thank you for checking upstairs. It was silly of me to be afraid.”

Nanami stops in his steps, straightening up. “You have reason to be afraid.”

For someone who meant to retreat, his voice is oddly affirming. It’s comforting. This time, he looks you straight in the eye, almost to say he means it. You’d like to think he means it. 

Since Nanami has moved in, you have put the extra effort into avoiding him. Yes, you introduced yourself when the landlord’s son had been doing his tours, putting the effort into giving him an extra shiny smile, and you introduced yourself again when Nanami had moved in. You had offered to help him move his things in, but Nanami insisted he do it on his own. He was polite, gentle, but curt. Then progressively blunt. 

“That box is quite heavy,” he would say. “I can handle it.” “I don’t have much. I can manage on my own.” “Let me do it.” It was polite talk, but his monotone and unmoving expression made him feel cold. So, you backed off. He’s handsome, obviously, but intimidating. His eyes are stern and always a little focused on what it’s fixed on, and his mouth is as flat as a plankboard. Maybe you can try again. You scooch away, retreating into your house.

As Nanami moved his belongings into his room, you remained in the living room, a blanket over your legs as you curled yourself into the corner of the couch with a book in hand. Still open, still there if he wants to speak to you. You read lines from your books in chunks rather than fluid pages as you listened to Nanami’s shuffling upstairs and the rearranging of boxes. You want to at least be friendly with your roommate. 

When Nanami returns downstairs and moves to the kitchen, you call out to him. He stops in his steps.

“Would you like to get dinner together later? Something casual? It would be nice to get to know each other.”

“I have more unpacking to do,” was what he said.

“Oh! Maybe a raincheck then?”

Nanami paused, just about to leave. “I will be quite busy at work. I don’t think dinner will work for me.”

Oh, was what you wanted to say. Instead, you smiled and said, “Okay, I understand.”

Okay, he had just dismissed you and completely turned down any prospect of grabbing food altogether. Okay, maybe he has a girlfriend, and he thought you were making a move on him. Okay, but two months into living with each other, this man surely has no girlfriend, with how he’s always at work and never has anyone over. 

The longer he’s lived here, the more he gives you the impression he does not want you here; that he does not want to speak to you. He’s never in the kitchen at the same time as you, unless you're heading to work at the same time. As a result of Nanami’s obvious discomfort, you have done him the favour of hiding. 

It has been dancing away from each other, weaving past one another in the hallway upstairs, and listening for your roommate’s footsteps for two sickly long months.

It has been a lonely two months. 

Now, for some reason, you want to keep the ball rolling. Maybe he isn’t so bad, especially if he was willing to check on the ghost on his own for your sake (supposedly). You fiddle with the handle of your mug.

“I don’t think I like ghosts,” you mumble. Oh, why did you have to say that?

Surprisingly, Nanami gives you a small smile, but there’s a hint of sadness behind his eyes. "I think there can be worse things than ghosts." 

His tone is light. Maybe this is going in the right direction?

"That's true," you admit. "But you can't fight a ghost."

This time, Nanami smiles wider. He offers you a laugh. It’s a bit magical. "Why would you need to fight a ghost?"

"To protect myself," you answer like it's the most obvious thing. Nanami scoffs with a small grin, like he was trying to stop himself.

"And what if it's a friendly ghost?"

"You don’t know if it’ll turn on you.”

Nanami suppresses his smile. “You are very funny, aren’t you?”

It’s your turn to grin big and wide. This is nice, you think. Maybe you shouldn’t have been avoiding him the entire time. 

“Have you had dinner?” you ask. 

Nanami blinks, then glances at the time. “I did, at 9:00.” He purses his lips. “I am hungry, but I have no food.”

You rise from your seat. “I can make us some quick ramen.”

Nanami waves his hands in protest. “There’s no need for that.”

A part of you wants to agree, to submit to his protests. Yet, you’re scared this will go away. He probably won’t talk to you again. 

Why are you so scared? Why do you want to talk to him so badly?

“I’d like to make you ramen as a thank you,” you insist. You’re sure to add an edge to your voice to make your words final. “Sit. Please.”

He’s probably tired. Why are you doing this? You’re just being annoying. You’re in his way.

Still, Nanami draws a kitchen chair back and sits down ungracefully. You don’t know him well, but that feels out of character for him.

As the stove top flickers on and you rummage for a small pot, you hear a sound come from Nanami, but you don’t quite catch it.

“Pardon?” you ask.

“Thank you,” Nanami mumbles a little louder this time. “Thank you.”

He has been so lonely, but you’re here now.

happy birthday, nanami! :) there will be another part to this

[smallfisheyes]

nanami finds you in the kitchen

Most days, Nanami forgets he has a roommate.

Kento knows you. You're the one who paces down the hall, creaking the floorboards of this old home. There are traces of you in the kitchen, the scent of brown sugar and cinnamon, a waft of a hearty meal with the tang of tomato, a trail of charcoal for failed dishes. Thank goodness, Kento would think. You’re human, at least. 

He knows you’re down the hall. There’s a bathroom between your rooms. He hears you pace, the creaking of old floorboards under your weight. Kento hears how you rummage and how often you drop things (often). He knows what brand of toothpaste you use, how you use an electric toothbrush, the colour of your loofah, and how you try to keep your shared spaces tidy (thank you). He has certainly heard your voice when you call a loved one or friend. Kento detects your presence with four out of five senses, but he has seen you, albeit not often.

The few times he’s home at regular hours, you’ll pass him in the hallways from your journey to your room to the kitchen downstairs. Only hellos and polite head nods are exchanged as you rush past each other to get to point B. Within the first few days of Kento moving in, you’d have to open the door for Kento when he arrived home. 

“I forgot to tell you the front entrance is hard to close,” you told him with a guilty smile. “I’ve been meaning to contact the landlord, but they’re hard to reach, so I’ve been using the back entrance. Did he give you the backdoor code?”

Kento would stumble inside, apologizing while slipping off his work shoes as you’d slam your hip into the door to close it. Embarrassed, he took your advice and has been slipping in and out of the back entrance that opens directly into the kitchen since. 

Kento thinks you’re nice, but if he has learned anything from his literature teacher before transferring to Jujutsu Tech, it was that nice has no meaning. It was a placeholder word; something to fill a void of empty opinion. Kento knows you, he lives with you, you’re not disagreeable, so you’re nice. Maybe if he wasn’t always at work and used his bedroom for sleeping rather than a place to crash on weekends, he could label you as more than just nice.

When Kento is in his room, he hears you pacing. When Kento is in the same room as you, you smile, then leave for work. When you’re in the living room watching TV, Kento is far away at work, likely staying over to complete the pile of work his boss just gave him that morning, even though it needed to be finished the night of. 

Maybe if he hadn’t been so quick to turn you away, he’d think you’re more than just nice.

It’s quiet in this house for two.

There are footsteps upstairs, but you’re not sure who they belong to. 

You’re in the kitchen, lights on in every room on the ground floor. The living room lights flicker occasionally, and you have headphones on, your music so high you can’t hear any noise beyond the rhythmic beat. You really don’t know whose footsteps belong to. 

At first, you thought the footsteps were Nanami’s, but you swore he wasn’t home. You got home at 5:30, and according to the past opening and closing of the back door entrance in the kitchen, Nanami always arrived home significantly later than you. Poor man.

It was easy to tell whose shoes were whose among the pile that neatly sat outside the backdoor entrance. Your shoes looked so petite compared to Nanami’s shiny work shoes. Come to think of it, he only seemed to keep his office shoes at the kitchen entrance, and the rest were your mix of footwear: white tennis shoes for casual outings, some running shoes comfortable for walking, and shoes fit for the office. If you weren’t embarrassed, you’d have your whole shoe collection down in the kitchen.

Looking at the pile of shoes by the kitchen door, it was obvious Nanami wasn’t home.

So, the locks. Someone could be in the house. Your heart rate had spiked. That’s worse than a ghost. The kitchen back door was locked. You tiptoed to the front entrance of the home. That was also locked. 

You plopped yourself back into the seat in the kitchen. It’s confirmed: there’s a ghost in your home. 

It sounds silly, but you’ve heard what it sounds like for Nanami to walk outside his door. The scuffle of his house slippers against the wood floorboards. There is the creaking, the dragging of feet. You listened for his footsteps to know when the kitchen was free, but also to know if he made it home. That man is so rarely home. If you were closer, you’d confront him about it.

Instead, there is someone lazily walking upstairs, going back and forth between your room and Nanami’s room with bare feet. It sounds nothing at all like Nanami’s footsteps. The sound is evident; there is a ghost in your house. 

When you first toured the house, long before Nanami signed his lease, the landlord’s son told you the house was old. 

“It dates back to the late 1800s,” the landlord's son explained. “We’ve done extra work on the house. When we first bought it, it was a dump. Now, it’s a very nice place to live, and it’s close to the city and work; good for young people like you.”

You had agreed, laughing along to the jokes the son shared. His cheerfulness dropped to a sombre expression when you arrived in the upstairs hallway.

“This neighbourhood is known for strange activity, so be careful.” 

You had thought he was referring to the people who stumbled outside your home when nighttime fell. There would be scuffles here and there, sometimes between street cats, and scraggly yells from outside. It appeared the strange activity reached within your home’s walls, too.

If you knew him a little better, you’d worry for Nanami, but that broody expression of his would do enough to ward away the nightwalkers. 

With the sound of footsteps coming from upstairs, you kept yourself occupied in the kitchen. You could prepare your lunch for tomorrow. Now you’re thinking about calling in sick and finding somewhere to sleep, because there was no way you’d be functional at work. Neither could you sleep in this house with a pacing ghost outside your room. 

The hours in the kitchen have been long. Music continues to blast into your ears. You worry if you’ll feel the ghost’s breath breathing down onto your neck. Would it be cold? Worse, what if you see a ghost?

It is three in the morning, and Nanami Kento finally arrives home. 

"Hi, Nanami."

Kento startles, keys rattling from his hands. You're sitting in the kitchen just as he opens the back entrance to the house, your headphones on the side of the table. Your hands are wrapped around a mug he's sure you can't find in a store. Did you paint it yourself?

Your eyes widen, watching Kento stumble to regain his footing.

"Sorry." He apologizes before you can. "I wasn't expecting anyone in the kitchen at this hour."

You glance at the oven clock. In green, it reads three in the morning.

"Yeah," you start, the word a bit too drawn out. "I'd be in my room, but I think there's a ghost walking around upstairs." You drum your fingers along the table.

Nanami blinks. “There’s a ghost upstairs?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know it’s a ghost? Could it be an intruder?”

You’ve never heard Nanami so serious. His voice is hardened, and he fixes you with a no-nonsense stare. You straighten up, adjusting yourself in your chair. “I got home around 5:30. I locked the door behind me, and I left for work after you and locked it then, too. We never use the front door, and that’s also locked. I don’t think anyone besides us is home.” 

“Okay,” Nanami nods. “Are you hurt?” He seems to soften.

You frown. Small. “No.”

“I’ll check upstairs then.” Nanami slips off his work shoes (so big compared to yours), sets down his briefcase, slips on his house shoes, and calmly moves to the stairs, passing you along the way. 

He does this so cooly, with no second thought, you watch with your mouth hanging open stupidly like a fish. You could never do that, especially without fear. 

Your eyes trail after Nanami as he goes up the stairs. “Do you want me to come?” you call after him. You mean it, but reluctantly.

“No need.” Nanami rolls back his shoulders as he climbs, back somehow straighter than when he entered the house. A serious expression crosses his face, but it does little to erase the dark circles under his eyes. 

Nanami disappears when he turns into the dark hallway towards your bedrooms. 

There’s silence, then the shuffle of feet. It’s the same lazy footsteps from before. You shiver. All you can hear are the ghost’s footsteps. 

“Nanami?” you call. You rise from your seat, about to make your way upstairs. There’s an edge to your voice. Concern, maybe, but the sound of concern for a stranger.

You hear heavy footsteps and the drag of house slippers. They’re Nanami’s footsteps.

You wait with bated breath, hovering over your seat.

There’s the sound of creaking again, then the tall figure of Nanami unharmed makes his way downstairs.

“You’re okay,” you say. You feel dumb for stating the obvious. Nanami rounds the corner and joins you in the kitchen, picking up his briefcase from the ground.

“I’m okay,” he replies. For someone who’s just encountered a ghost, he doesn’t look spooked at all. It makes you feel silly for cowering down here for so many hours and long into the morning. 

Nanami stands in the corner closest to the back entrance of the house, and a little too much like he wants you to leave. His face is pinched into what you think is annoyance. You remain seated at the kitchen table. The only thing keeping you here is the glue of awkwardness. 

The longer you sit, the more Nanami looks ready to retreat into his room as he usually does when he arrives home. Why wouldn’t he? He works for so long, and you don’t spend time with each other. You should go. He wants you to go.

Strangely, it’s Nanami who cuts through the silence. 

“There’s nothing to worry about. The ghost is harmless.”

“Thank you for checking,” you breathe. “But how do you know?” Another silly question, but you can’t help it.

Nanami shrugs. “Some experience.” He glances to the side, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “I have experience with spirits with negative energy. This one didn’t seem to have any bad energy, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

You nod. You didn’t take Nanami as one who has experience with the paranormal, but you don’t want to question it. Your heart slows to a steady beat, but your nerves don’t leave you. You haven’t been in the same room as Nanami Kento for this long before. You literally sit at the edge of your seat, making an effort to balance your pelvis on the chair’s edge.

Nanami moves to leave, bowing his head and suitcase in hand. He wants to go. You feel a pang of hurt, but for some reason, you stop him. 

“Really. Thank you for checking upstairs. It was silly of me to be afraid.”

Nanami stops in his steps, straightening up. “You have reason to be afraid.”

For someone who meant to retreat, his voice is oddly affirming. It’s comforting. This time, he looks you straight in the eye, almost to say he means it. You’d like to think he means it. 

Since Nanami has moved in, you have put the extra effort into avoiding him. Yes, you introduced yourself when the landlord’s son had been doing his tours, putting the effort into giving him an extra shiny smile, and you introduced yourself again when Nanami had moved in. You had offered to help him move his things in, but Nanami insisted he do it on his own. He was polite, gentle, but curt. Then progressively blunt. 

“That box is quite heavy,” he would say. “I can handle it.” “I don’t have much. I can manage on my own.” “Let me do it.” It was polite talk, but his monotone and unmoving expression made him feel cold. So, you backed off. He’s handsome, obviously, but intimidating. His eyes are stern and always a little focused on what it’s fixed on, and his mouth is as flat as a plankboard. Maybe you can try again. You scooch away, retreating into your house.

As Nanami moved his belongings into his room, you remained in the living room, a blanket over your legs as you curled yourself into the corner of the couch with a book in hand. Still open, still there if he wants to speak to you. You read lines from your books in chunks rather than fluid pages as you listened to Nanami’s shuffling upstairs and the rearranging of boxes. You want to at least be friendly with your roommate. 

When Nanami returns downstairs and moves to the kitchen, you call out to him. He stops in his steps.

“Would you like to get dinner together later? Something casual? It would be nice to get to know each other.”

“I have more unpacking to do,” was what he said.

“Oh! Maybe a raincheck then?”

Nanami paused, just about to leave. “I will be quite busy at work. I don’t think dinner will work for me.”

Oh, was what you wanted to say. Instead, you smiled and said, “Okay, I understand.”

Okay, he had just dismissed you and completely turned down any prospect of grabbing food altogether. Okay, maybe he has a girlfriend, and he thought you were making a move on him. Okay, but two months into living with each other, this man surely has no girlfriend, with how he’s always at work and never has anyone over. 

The longer he’s lived here, the more he gives you the impression he does not want you here; that he does not want to speak to you. He’s never in the kitchen at the same time as you, unless you're heading to work at the same time. As a result of Nanami’s obvious discomfort, you have done him the favour of hiding. 

It has been dancing away from each other, weaving past one another in the hallway upstairs, and listening for your roommate’s footsteps for two sickly long months.

It has been a lonely two months. 

Now, for some reason, you want to keep the ball rolling. Maybe he isn’t so bad, especially if he was willing to check on the ghost on his own for your sake (supposedly). You fiddle with the handle of your mug.

“I don’t think I like ghosts,” you mumble. Oh, why did you have to say that?

Surprisingly, Nanami gives you a small smile, but there’s a hint of sadness behind his eyes. "I think there can be worse things than ghosts." 

His tone is light. Maybe this is going in the right direction?

"That's true," you admit. "But you can't fight a ghost."

This time, Nanami smiles wider. He offers you a laugh. It’s a bit magical. "Why would you need to fight a ghost?"

"To protect myself," you answer like it's the most obvious thing. Nanami scoffs with a small grin, like he was trying to stop himself.

"And what if it's a friendly ghost?"

"You don’t know if it’ll turn on you.”

Nanami suppresses his smile. “You are very funny, aren’t you?”

It’s your turn to grin big and wide. This is nice, you think. Maybe you shouldn’t have been avoiding him the entire time. 

“Have you had dinner?” you ask. 

Nanami blinks, then glances at the time. “I did, at 9:00.” He purses his lips. “I am hungry, but I have no food.”

You rise from your seat. “I can make us some quick ramen.”

Nanami waves his hands in protest. “There’s no need for that.”

A part of you wants to agree, to submit to his protests. Yet, you’re scared this will go away. He probably won’t talk to you again. 

Why are you so scared? Why do you want to talk to him so badly?

“I’d like to make you ramen as a thank you,” you insist. You’re sure to add an edge to your voice to make your words final. “Sit. Please.”

He’s probably tired. Why are you doing this? You’re just being annoying. You’re in his way.

Still, Nanami draws a kitchen chair back and sits down ungracefully. You don’t know him well, but that feels out of character for him.

As the stove top flickers on and you rummage for a small pot, you hear a sound come from Nanami, but you don’t quite catch it.

“Pardon?” you ask.

“Thank you,” Nanami mumbles a little louder this time. “Thank you.”

He has been so lonely, but you’re here now.

happy birthday, nanami! :) there will be another part to this

[smallfisheyes]

nanami finds you in the kitchen

Most days, Nanami forgets he has a roommate.

Kento knows you. You're the one who paces down the hall, creaking the floorboards of this old home. There are traces of you in the kitchen, the scent of brown sugar and cinnamon, a waft of a hearty meal with the tang of tomato, a trail of charcoal for failed dishes. Thank goodness, Kento would think. You’re human, at least. 

He knows you’re down the hall. There’s a bathroom between your rooms. Kento hears how you rummage and how often you drop things (often). He knows what brand of toothpaste you use, how you use an electric toothbrush, the colour of your loofah, and how you try to keep your shared spaces tidy (thank you). He has certainly heard your voice when you call a loved one or friend. He’s embarrassed to note that your voice goes much higher and softer than when you speak to him. Kento detects your presence with four out of five senses, but he has seen you.

The few times he’s home at regular hours, you’ll pass him in the hallways from your journey to your room to the kitchen downstairs. Only hellos and polite head nods are exchanged as you rush past each other to get to point B. Within the first few days of Kento moving in, you’d have to open the door for him when he arrived home. 

“I forgot to tell you the front entrance is hard to close,” you told him with a guilty smile. “I’ve been meaning to contact the landlord, but they’re hard to reach, so I’ve been using the back entrance. Did he give you the backdoor code?”

Kento would stumble inside, apologizing while slipping off his work shoes as you’d slam your hip into the door to close it. Embarrassed, he took your advice and has been slipping in and out of the back entrance that opens directly into the kitchen since. Your murmured something about the wood swelling and shrinking depending on the season. That must be it.

Kento thinks you’re nice, but if he has learned anything from his literature teacher before transferring to Jujutsu Tech, it was that nice has no meaning. It was a placeholder word; something to fill a void of empty opinion. Kento knows you, he lives with you, you’re not disagreeable, so you’re nice. Maybe if he wasn’t always at work and used his bedroom for relaxing rather than a place to sleep when work didn’t call for him to stay the night, he could label you as more than just nice.

When Kento is in his room, he hears you pacing. When Kento is in the same room as you, you smile, then leave for work. When you’re in the living room watching TV, Kento is far away at work, likely staying over to complete the pile of work his boss just gave him that morning, even though it needed to be finished the night of. He doesn’t even know you sit in the living room after work, hoping you’d catch a glimpse of him to ask how he is, and maybe talk.

Maybe if he hadn’t been so quick to turn you away, he’d think you’re more than just nice.

It’s so quiet in this house for two.

There are footsteps upstairs, but you’re not sure who they belong to. 

You’re in the kitchen, lights on in every room on the ground floor. The living room lights flicker occasionally, and you have headphones on, your music so high you can’t hear any noise beyond the rhythmic beat. You really don’t know who those footsteps belong to. 

At first, you thought the footsteps were Nanami’s, but you swore he wasn’t home. You got home at 5:30, and to what you could hear from kitchen, Nanami always arrived home significantly later than you. Poor man.

It was easy to tell whose shoes were whose among the pile that neatly sat outside the backdoor. Your shoes looked so petite compared to Nanami’s shiny work shoes. Come to think of it, he only seemed to keep his office shoes at the kitchen entrance, and the rest were your mix of footwear: white tennis shoes for casual outings, some running shoes comfortable for walking, and shoes fit for the office. If you weren’t embarrassed, you’d have your whole shoe collection down in the kitchen.

Looking at the pile of shoes by the kitchen door, it was obvious Nanami wasn’t home.

So, the locks. Someone could be in the house. Your heart rate had spiked. That’s worse than a ghost. The kitchen back door was locked. You tiptoed to the front entrance of the home. That was also locked. 

You plopped yourself back into the seat in the kitchen. It’s confirmed: there’s a ghost in your home. 

It sounds silly, but you’ve heard what it sounds like for Nanami to walk outside his door. The scuffle of his house slippers against the wood floorboards. There is the creaking, the dragging of feet. You listened for his footsteps to know when the kitchen was free, but also to know if he made it home. That man is so rarely home. If you were closer, you’d confront him about it.

Instead, there is someone lazily walking upstairs, going back and forth between your room and Nanami’s room with bare feet. It sounds nothing at all like Nanami’s footsteps. The sound is evident; there is a ghost in your house. 

When you first toured the house, long before Nanami signed his lease, the landlord’s son told you the house was old. 

“It dates back to the late 1800s,” the landlord's son explained. “We’ve done extra work on the house. When we first bought it, it was a dump. Now, it’s a very nice place to live, and it’s close to the city and work; good for young people like you.”

You had agreed, laughing along to the jokes the son shared. His cheerfulness dropped to a sombre expression when you arrived at the entrance of the upstairs hallway.

“This neighbourhood is known for strange activity, so be careful.” 

You had thought he was referring to the people who stumbled outside your home when nighttime fell. There would be scuffles here and there, sometimes between street cats, and scraggly yells from outside. It appeared the strange activity reached within your home’s walls, too.

If you knew him a little better, you’d worry for Nanami, but that broody expression of his would do enough to ward away the nightwalkers. 

With the sound of footsteps coming from upstairs, you kept yourself occupied in the kitchen. You could prepare your lunch for tomorrow. Now you’re thinking about calling in sick and finding somewhere to sleep, because there was no way you’d be functional at work. Neither could you sleep in this house with a pacing ghost outside your room. 

The hours in the kitchen have been long. Music continues to blast into your ears. You worry if you’ll feel the ghost’s breath breathing down on your neck. Would it be cold? Worse, what if you see a ghost?

It is three in the morning, and Nanami Kento finally arrives home. 

"Hi, Nanami."

Kento startles, keys rattling from his hands. You're sitting in the kitchen just as he opens the back entrance to the house, your headphones on the side of the table. Your hands are wrapped around a mug he's sure you can't find in a store. Did you paint it yourself?

Your eyes widen, watching Kento stumble to regain his footing.

"Sorry." He apologizes before you can. "I wasn't expecting anyone in the kitchen at this hour."

You glance at the oven clock. In green, it reads three in the morning.

"Yeah," you start, the word a bit too drawn out. "I'd be in my room, but I think there's a ghost walking around upstairs." You drum your fingers along the table.

Nanami blinks. “There’s a ghost upstairs?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know it’s a ghost? Could it be an intruder?”

You’ve never heard Nanami so serious. His voice is hardened, and he fixes you with a no-nonsense stare. You straighten up, adjusting yourself in your chair. “I got home around 5:30. I locked the door behind me, and I left for work after you and locked it then, too. We never use the front door, and that’s also locked. I don’t think anyone besides us is home.” 

“Okay,” Nanami nods. “Are you hurt?” He seems to soften.

You frown. Small. “No.”

“I’ll check upstairs then.” Nanami slips off his work shoes (so big compared to yours), sets down his briefcase, slips on his house shoes, and calmly moves to the stairs, passing you along the way. 

He does this so cooly, with no second thought, you watch with your mouth hanging open stupidly like a fish. You could never do that, especially without fear. 

Your eyes trail after Nanami as he goes up the stairs. “Do you want me to come?” you call after him. You mean it, but reluctantly.

“No need.” Nanami rolls back his shoulders as he climbs, back somehow straighter than when he entered the house. A serious expression crosses his face, but it does little to erase the dark circles under his eyes. 

Nanami disappears when he turns into the dark hallway towards your bedrooms. 

There’s silence, then the shuffle of feet. It’s the same lazy footsteps from before. You shiver. All you can hear are the ghost’s footsteps. 

“Nanami?” you call. You rise from your seat, about to make your way upstairs. There’s an edge to your voice. Concern, maybe, but the sound of concern for a stranger.

You hear heavy footsteps and the drag of house slippers. They’re Nanami’s footsteps.

You wait with bated breath, hovering over your seat.

There’s the sound of creaking again, then the tall figure of Nanami unharmed makes his way downstairs.

“You’re okay,” you say. You feel dumb for stating the obvious. Nanami rounds the corner and joins you in the kitchen, picking up his briefcase from the ground.

“I’m okay,” he replies. For someone who’s just encountered a ghost, he doesn’t look spooked at all. It makes you feel silly for cowering down here for so many hours and long into the morning. 

Nanami stands in the corner closest to the back entrance of the house, and a little too much like he wants you to leave. His face is pinched into what you think is annoyance. You remain seated at the kitchen table. The only thing keeping you here is the glue of awkwardness. 

The longer you sit, the more Nanami looks ready to retreat into his room as he usually does when he arrives home. Why wouldn’t he? He works for so long, and you don’t spend time with each other. You should go. He wants you to go.

Strangely, it’s Nanami who cuts through the silence. 

“There’s nothing to worry about. The ghost is harmless.”

“Thank you for checking,” you breathe. “But how do you know?” Another silly question, but you can’t help it.

Nanami shrugs. “Some experience.” He glances to the side, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “I have experience with spirits with negative energy. This one didn’t seem to have any bad energy, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

You nod. You didn’t take Nanami as one who has experience with the paranormal, but you don’t want to question it. Your heart slows to a steady beat, but your nerves don’t leave you. You haven’t been in the same room as Nanami Kento for this long before. You literally sit at the edge of your seat, making an effort to balance your pelvis on the chair’s edge.

Nanami moves to leave, bowing his head and suitcase in hand. He wants to go. You feel a pang of hurt, but for some reason, you stop him. 

“Really. Thank you for checking upstairs. It was silly of me to be afraid.”

Nanami stops in his steps, straightening up. “You have reason to be afraid.”

For someone who meant to retreat, his voice is oddly affirming. It’s comforting. This time, he looks you straight in the eye, almost to say he means it. You’d like to think he means it. 

Since Nanami has moved in, you have put the extra effort into avoiding him. Yes, you introduced yourself when the landlord’s son had been doing his tours, putting the effort into giving him an extra shiny smile, and you introduced yourself again when Nanami had moved in. You had offered to help him move his things in, but Nanami insisted he do it on his own. He was polite, gentle, but curt. Then progressively blunt. 

“That box is quite heavy,” he would say. “I can handle it.” “I don’t have much. I can manage on my own.” “Let me do it.” It was polite talk, but his monotone and unmoving expression made him feel cold. So, you backed off. He’s handsome, obviously, but intimidating. His eyes are stern and always a little focused on what it’s fixed on, and his mouth is as flat as a plankboard. Maybe you can try again. You scooch away, retreating into your house.

As Nanami moved his belongings into his room, you remained in the living room, a blanket over your legs as you curled yourself into the corner of the couch with a book in hand. Still open, still there if he wants to speak to you. You read lines from your books in chunks rather than fluid pages as you listened to Nanami’s shuffling upstairs and the rearranging of boxes. You want to at least be friendly with your roommate. 

When Nanami returns downstairs and moves to the kitchen, you call out to him. He stops in his steps.

“Would you like to get dinner together later? Something casual? It would be nice to get to know each other.”

“I have more unpacking to do,” was what he said.

“Oh! Maybe a raincheck then?”

Nanami paused, just about to leave. “I will be quite busy at work. I don’t think dinner will work for me.”

Oh, was what you wanted to say. Instead, you smiled and said, “Okay, I understand.”

Okay, he had just dismissed you and completely turned down any prospect of grabbing food altogether. Okay, maybe he has a girlfriend, and he thought you were making a move on him. Okay, but two months into living with each other, this man surely has no girlfriend, with how he’s always at work and never has anyone over. 

The longer he’s lived here, the more he gives you the impression he does not want you here; that he does not want to speak to you. He’s never in the kitchen at the same time as you, unless you're heading to work at the same time. As a result of Nanami’s obvious discomfort, you have done him the favour of hiding. 

It has been dancing away from each other, weaving past one another in the hallway upstairs, and listening for your roommate’s footsteps for two sickly long months.

It has been a lonely two months. 

Now, for some reason, you want to keep the ball rolling. Maybe he isn’t so bad, especially if he was willing to check on the ghost on his own for your sake (supposedly). You fiddle with the handle of your mug.

“I don’t think I like ghosts,” you mumble. Oh, why did you have to say that?

Surprisingly, Nanami gives you a small smile, but there’s a hint of sadness behind his eyes. "I think there can be worse things than ghosts." 

His tone is light. Maybe this is going in the right direction?

"That's true," you admit. "But you can't fight a ghost."

This time, Nanami smiles wider. He offers you a laugh. It’s a bit magical. "Why would you need to fight a ghost?"

"To protect myself," you answer like it's the most obvious thing. Nanami scoffs with a small grin, like he was trying to stop himself.

"And what if it's a friendly ghost?"

"You don’t know if it’ll turn on you.”

Nanami suppresses his smile. “You are very funny, aren’t you?”

It’s your turn to grin big and wide. This is nice, you think. Maybe you shouldn’t have been avoiding him the entire time. 

“Have you had dinner?” you ask. 

Nanami blinks, then glances at the time. “I did, at 9:00.” He purses his lips. “I am hungry, but I have no food.”

You rise from your seat. “I can make us some quick ramen.”

Nanami waves his hands in protest. “There’s no need for that.”

A part of you wants to agree, to submit to his protests. Yet, you’re scared this will go away. He probably won’t talk to you again. 

Why are you so scared? Why do you want to talk to him so badly?

“I’d like to make you ramen as a thank you,” you insist. You’re sure to add an edge to your voice to make your words final. “Sit. Please.”

He’s probably tired. Why are you doing this? You’re just being annoying. You’re in his way.

Still, Nanami draws a kitchen chair back and sits down ungracefully. You don’t know him well, but that feels out of character for him.

As the stove top flickers on and you rummage for a small pot, you hear a sound come from Nanami, but you don’t quite catch it.

“Pardon?” you ask.

“Thank you,” Nanami mumbles a little louder this time. “Thank you.”

He has been so lonely, but you’re here now.

happy birthday, nanami! :) there will be another part to this