#'irrationality is but one of many feelings that bloom when it comes to romance' FACTS BABE FACTS

[grimmweepers]

ok shit after i sent this to my drafts i didn't realise it cut off some of my tags bc it didn't tell me that i had reached my tag limit LMAO. pls read under the cut after the tags <3

OH AND THE SMUT SCENE WAS FANTASTICCCCCCCC KJSUTGIWITGEWUGYUGWUYGWUGU BUT I WILL FOREVER WAIL AND THROW MYSELF ON WALLS AT THE MENTION OF HIS GRANDMOTHER AND PARENTS.

this fic pulled on my heartstrings. but it also made my heart race and jump. i laughed but some parts also left me clutching my chest. i cried but i also smiled. this just tells me that reading your work is always an experience <3 AND WHAT A WONDERFUL GIFT YOU HAVE <3 THANK U FOR SHARING IT WITH US

like a lotus in spring, you are mine to bloom — ft. alhaitham

synopsis: at twenty one, you’re just a girl he meets as he trains for the role of scribe. at twenty four, you’ve become everything he loves in this world. after three years of knowing you and nearly two and a half decades of life, alhaitham finally realizes why his father left letters for his mother instead of just saying the words outloud

❤︎ word count: 7.7k words — we find ourselves here in the same old situation again, i see LOL pls give it a chance though!! plssss

❤︎ before you read: female reader ; 18+ content — not suitable for minors ; not proof read ; strangers to friends to lovers ; mutual pining but not at the same time for a bit (he falls first <3) ; jealous alhaitham ; hinted drunk sex ; getting together + love confessions ; alhaitham character story spoilers + references to his grandmother and parents ; semi-clothed unprotected sex ; no prep ; some nipple play ; creampie ; the cringiest love letter at the end LOL

❤︎ comments: guys every time i write alhaitham it’s so corny and cheesy but . he is my fav genshin guy of all time i deserve to be allowed this okay

TWENTY ONE. 

You’re still a student when you first meet Alhaitham. (Not a student for much longer, but a student all the same. With a little luck on your side and good graces from your darshan’s sage on your thesis, you’re expected to graduate in just a few short months.)

You don’t have the best first meet. In fact, your impression of Alhaitham starts off entirely on the wrong foot. 

He’s newly graduated, just freshly rewarded a degree for his (impressive) efforts, and is now well on his way to training for the role of scribe—you heard he was offered far more prestigious roles, but for some reason, a genius like him settled for a role like that. You try not to judge. People have their passions, after all, and if that’s what he wants to do, well…who are you to make comments? (But amongst a school that only houses the brilliant, Alhaitham is, very undoubtedly, a standout. It’s hard to stand out in a school filled with only the best minds, but he manages to do so with ease. Sometimes, you’re almost jealous. You can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t aim a little higher than he does.)

He trains in the house of Daena. His first order of training is to fact-check ordinance drafts using books so he can better get the hang of drafting them himself in the future. You’re also in the House of Daena to find the last book for your thesis—after weeks of begging, you’re finally granted access to the restricted section to find it. 

And you do. Except your palm meets warm skin instead of the cold leather cover of a book. You pause, glancing up as sharp, teal eyes meet your gaze, staring at you expectantly as if you should be the one letting go. But you need this book. It’s the final research element to finish your thesis, and you’d like to be done with it. End of story. No matter how devastatingly handsome the man (because he is handsome, you’ll admit at least that much), you will not be handing over the last, final key to your academic freedom.

“Um, excuse me,” you say politely, “I was kind of reaching for that.”

“As was I,” he says, staring at you with a bored, almost uncaring expression. Your eyes narrow. “Now, if you’d please kindly take your hand off of mine.”

“I believe it should be you taking your hand off of mine,” you correct, huffing as you add stubbornly, “I reached for it first.”

He blinks at you, bland and a little irritated, as he points out, “Your hand is on top of mine, which means I reached the book first.”

Well.

Maybe if you were feeling particularly patient, you’d be inclined to admit that, yes, he does have a point. But stubbornness, combined with pure exhaustion, has you at your wit's end, and if you have to play the role of a difficult student, then so be it. You’re pretty sure you need it more, and you’re probably a much speedier reader anyway. You’ll have it done and returned in no time.

This guy, on the other hand…he doesn’t look too bright. You’re not willing to take your chances and let him walk off with a book that you might never see again.

“I started reaching for it first,” you scowl, “you just sped up your hand once you saw me. I should get it.”

“Unlikely,” he scoffs, “I didn’t even see you. Although,” he gives you a once over with his eyes, making you feel uncomfortably seen under his judging gaze, “I suppose you were a bit easy to miss.”

You gape at him. “Just what does that mean?”

“It means,” he smirks, taking the opportunity to grab the book as you stand in shock, “that I got here first.”

“Hey!” You glare at him, seeing red for a moment. What a perfectly good waste of a perfectly handsome face—and such an awful attitude coupled with his ridiculously smug grin couldn’t make for a worse combination. But, before you can even say anything, the book is being pressed back into your hands.

“You seem like you want it more than I do, though,” he hums, “I suppose I can let you have it. It’s a bit outdated for this ordinance, anyway.” With that, he saunters off. You push down the soft flutter in your heart for a moment and force yourself to hope you’ll never see him again. (Faintly, you hope your wishes don’t come true—but you refuse to admit it to yourself.)

Unfortunately (and fortunately at the same time) for you, you do see him again. Many, many times, in fact. When he works in the House of Daena as often as he does, and you like to spend all your free time there to study if you can, you’re both bound to run into each other often. Very often. 

And sometimes, it’s quite literally running into him. 

“Oof,” you hiss, staggering backward and hitting your head against the bookshelf behind you as you bump into a sturdy figure. You drop the books in your hand, blinking before reaching to rub your read as you start to apologize. “Sorry, I didn’t see you—oh. It’s you.”

“It’s me,” he says, looking mildly entertained. Alhaitham is everywhere. Everywhere. You can’t escape him if you try, and now, you can’t even avoid him in your own personal space. “Although, I think I should be the one apologizing this time. I was too busy reading to pay attention. This section is usually empty at this time.”

“How often are you in here to know what section is empty at what time?” You raise a brow. 

“Too often to be considered good for my well-being,” he says dryly, sighing in misery. You crack a smile at that. Oddly enough, so does he—you don’t think you’ve ever heard someone say they’ve seen Alhaitham smile. It must be a rare sight that only you, and perhaps a very few others, can say they’ve witnessed. “I was just about to take a break to buy a coffee—I’ll bring one back for you, too, to make up for the cranial damage I’ve supplied.”

“A most wonderful idea,” you perk up instantly, “I love when I get to drain the wallet of a man.”

He gives you an amused look at that. And somehow, bringing you a coffee along with his own during his breaks is a habit that seems to stick for a long, long while after that. 

────────────────────────

TWENTY TWO.

Alhaitham’s feelings are hurt. Not a lot of words tend to do that—he’s been blessed with thick skin and an unbothered attitude to a fault, sometimes. But something about today, for some odd reason, hurts his feelings. 

Your words to the waiter who took your order keep ringing in his head. 

Oh goodness, no, we are definitely not dating!

Most people mistake you and Alhaitham for a pair of lovers rather than a pair of friends. It’s just the way things go when a man and a woman are seen together for extended periods of time over and over. It doesn’t help that Alhaitham doesn’t really have any friends. He had one before you, but…well, things are complicated now. Far too complicated to think about it more than necessary. He has you, and that’s enough. But the matter still stands that most people tend to assume that something blossoms between the two of you that isn’t just friendly. 

He was starting to think it was true himself, too. He knows it’s true from his end, at least. But you say those words with such a sure, definitive tone that it almost sounds like you’re offended by the notion of being seen as his girlfriend. And sure, he would be disappointed—he’s no liar—if you didn’t feel romantically for him, but he’d understand. It’s not something you can help. But you brush off the idea like it’s an anomaly of sorts in the universe for someone like you and someone like Alhaitham to be a couple. It hurts his feelings. More than it should. 

(He knows deep down, in the depths of his heart, that you don’t mean it that way. You never would. But irrationality is but one of many feelings that bloom when it comes to romance.)

Alhaitham knows from a young age he’s different than most kids his age. This fact doesn’t change as he gets older. He’s brighter than most of his peers—which is certainly saying something because Sumeru is a nation filled with enough sharp minds, it’s as though brilliance were the average trait. People don’t typically like Alhaitham (which is fine by him, he doesn’t like most of them, either. They mostly don’t meet his standards). The kids don’t play with him in the parks that Grandmother would leave him at while she shopped around at the market, and they don’t sit with him on his one and only day at the Akademiya when he is but an elementary scholar. It never bothered him. He preferred reading under the trees and self-learning at home, anyway. When he’s older and enrolled in the Akademiya full-time, they don’t prefer to partner with him for projects for any other reason than simply being guaranteed a good grade, and they don’t spare him a glance when they all converse in groups outside of class. He never cared for freeloaders, anyway—he only trusts himself for projects, and he is at the Akademiya to learn, not make friends. 

It’s not until he meets Kaveh does he consider the idea that friendships are meaningful enough to spare some effort into. But the end result of that only solidifies that he is best when in solitude. 

But then he meets you. Some part of Alhaitham knows very early on that you would never be just a friend to him. If it was friendship that he craved, he would have looked for it elsewhere before running into you. Something about you from the very beginning makes him yearn for things much deeper than that. Things that remind him of his parents. 

Friendship is fleeting. People at the Akademiya go their separate ways and meet new people. They fall out and have arguments. They grow up and grow apart and become different. But love blooms like the Kalpalata lotuses on a vine, timeless as time itself. It starts and never ends, one root stemming into more and more vines until they never stop growing.

Alhaitham has fallen in love with you. Logic tells him it’s only a recent development, but his heart has known this outcome would be brought about for a long, long time. And, in all truthfulness, your words have hurt his feelings. 

And yet, he still loves you through it. He thinks that even if you crushed his feelings with a cold, indifferent smile, he would still love you through it. 

A hand waves in front of his face, pulling him from his thoughts as you take a sip from your coffee. Puspa Cafe is not as busy at this hour, most people are in the middle of a work day, but Alhaitham is allowed to pick his lunch hour, and yours happens to be earlier than most.

“Sorry, I just have to ask—are…are you upset?” you ask gently, making him pause. 

Yes.

“No,” he says simply, “why would I be?”

“You seem upset.”

“I’m not.”

“You were fine up until…I don’t know, a few minutes ago. Is something on your mind?”

You know him so well, he thinks. How could you not see how perfect the two of you are together?

“I’m simply concerned about your sugar intake is all,” he eyes the cold, iced drink in your hands with more syrups than he deems necessary. You always have a penchant for choosing the sweetest drink off the menu, and Alhaitham will never understand how your teeth don’t rot.

“Well, that’s very funny,” you roll your eyes, “because I was just thinking about how low on vitamin D you must be—do you ever leave your study to see the sun?”

He spares you a soft chuckle at that, shaking his head before taking a sip of his own coffee—hot and black and with two spoons of sugar. Simple, like how he prefers. You make a face at his drink as he sets it down. 

“Have you ever thought about what you look for in a partner?” he asks suddenly, making you blink in shock for a moment. He flinches at his own forwardness just a tad. 

“Umm, I suppose a little here and there…why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he shrugs, “just curious what your type was, that’s all. You’re painfully single, so I figured your taste was rather distinct.”

“Rude,” you scoff, rolling your eyes enough that he thinks it’s safe to assume you’re not suspicious. “Are you here just to poke fun at my choices today?”

Alhaitham should not be asking you this. Not when the answer so clearly is going to hurt his already very bruised feelings. Of course, your type won’t be him. And, of course, he is going to mourn your answer the second you give it, which is his own fault considering he’s the one who asked. (He has to wonder, for a moment, if this constitutes as an undiscovered hidden kink of his and whether or not he really just gets off on some unnecessary pain. Why else would he willingly subject himself to this?)

But, he’s caught off guard when you shrug and simply say, “I suppose someone who’s intelligent. I’d appreciate some good discussions. And…and maybe someone who’s kind, y’know? I would be rather sad if they were mean,” you pretend to sniffle dramatically.

“That’s…that’s it?” He tilts his head in equal parts shock and equal parts confusion. 

“What did you expect me to look for in a partner?” You snort, “A three-story mansion? A rock-solid, chiseled chest to lay on?” 

“Well, no,” he rolls his eyes, “Maybe something a bit less generic to narrow down your pool, I suppose, but if that’s your bar, so be it. There are far too many men who are intelligent and kind, you know.”

“Yes, but none of them show me any signs of interest,” you pout, “I must be undesirable or something.”

I desire you, he wants to say. He can’t quite find the courage to get the words out, though—and as if the universe has it completely out for him, the same waiter from earlier who is responsible for asking you the question that kills Alhaitham’s mood for the day comes back with the bill. And something else, too. 

Something that kills his mood for the week. 

His jaw clenches a tad when you flush at the note scribbled on a napkin for you, eyeing your flustered reaction while you read over the words: I get off at eight if you’d like to find me. You stare for a moment before you murmur, “Well, look at that. A sign of interest—it must be the Dendro Archon’s divine power.”

“The Divine have no say over who you fall for,” he insists.

“You don’t know that,” you hum thoughtfully, “The God of Wisdom knows her people better than anyone else, you know. I’d like to think she knows when love is bound for two people.”

You fold the napkin carefully and keep it in your pocket, and Alhaitham fishes out his mora pouch with stiff fingers. He leaves a very shoddy tip on the table before he exits after you. 

────────────────────────

TWENTY THREE.

You wake up in his bed. 

It’s a foggy memory, but you know you fucked Alhaitham after more sips of wine than you can count and one flirty comment too many. It happened in a blur last night, and you can’t say you’re surprised that it finally happened at all. Alhaitham is a man just like any other, and mingling pleasure with friendship is a normal thing to do. Falling under him on his mattress is not something you never had daydreams of—but the truth of the matter is that your daydreams don’t just stop with the bed.

They end with a toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. A mug next to his in the kitchen. Your shoes kicked off along with his at the entrance of a home. Your laughter and his bouncing off of the walls. A ring, maybe. One on your hand and one on his. 

In your imagination, it starts with pleasure, but it ends with love.

Falling in love with Alhaitham is a peaceful ordeal. He’s dependable and inherently kind. Strong and impressively capable. Intelligent and objectively handsome. You’d bring him home to your mother and father, and they’d thank Lord Kusanali for smiling down upon their humble little family and their darling little daughter by sending such a divine man your way. 

You don’t think you can pinpoint when exactly it is you started to love this boy, but you know loving him became as simple as breathing. You never thought about it. Never learned to do it. Never questioned it, even. You inhale the scent of his spicy, woody cologne and exhale the warm breath of your affections stored in your lungs. He lives somewhere nestled so deep in your ribcage that you think you’d have to crack each of them one after the other before you could pry him out.

You love Alhaitham. You think you know everything there is to know about loving him. You think you’d do it right—better than anyone else. 

He only drinks his coffee when it’s piping hot, and his wine can never be one degree less than iced. He has dry hands, but he hates the feeling of lotion. He doesn’t like raw onions but he doesn’t mind them cooked. When the sun is in his eyes, he’s in a foul mood, but he enjoys napping under the warm rays, much like a cat. He laughs surprisingly boyishly from his belly if you manage to deliver a dry yet clever enough joke, and he clears his throat and gets a bit shy once he’s realized he’s let it out. He twirls his pen in his hand when he’s bored, and he only uses the kind with gel ink because they write smoother. 

You love Alhaitham. For you, it’s always been him. 

When you wake up to his bare, warm body next to yours, breathing peacefully with an arm thrown over your waist, you can’t help but selfishly wish he’d stay asleep all day. Just for a day. Just for the amount of time you get in between the sun’s departure and the moon’s arrival. Just so you can watch him exist in this moment where it’s you, him, and the liminal space between friends and lovers. Just so you can admire how beautiful he is without worrying about his eyes opening and the inevitable conversation of what you’re both doing is brought up. 

People (like Kaveh, or Dehya, or Tighnari, or…anyone) tend to insist that Alhaitham loves you. It’s obvious, they say, just as obvious as your love for him. You never believe it. It’s not because he’s bad at love or because you’re bad for him. You think he’d make a good lover—contrary to popular belief, you don’t think Alhaitham is uninterested in intimacy or affection. And you think you’d make a good girlfriend—unlike other people, you understand him and like what you see. 

But he doesn’t love you. That much is a fact you’ve long accepted. It’s not because you’re bad for him or because he’s incapable of feeling—but rather, it’s just that bitter, soul-crushing reality that you can’t help who you love and who you don’t. Alhaitham doesn’t love you—it’s not something either of you can really change. Because if he did, he’d waste no time. He’d get to the heart of the matter and quit dancing around the issue. 

It’s just the kind of guy that he is. 

So, because this is your first and likely last time seeing him this way, you slowly reach over and brush a few strands of messy, unruly bedhead from his forehead before cupping his cheek in your hand. His skin is soft and warm under your palm, much more delicate to the touch than you anticipated from how chiseled his features are. Your thumb gently brushes along the slant of his cheekbone, eyes softening at how he lets out a puff of air as he sleeps. 

“Morning,” he says hoarsely, eyes still closed and making you jolt in surprise. He lets out a quiet, sleepy chuckle that would make you melt if not for the way your heart still pounds from the shock. 

“You’re awake?”

“Mhm,” he hums, nodding before finally cracking an eye open. “For a while now.”

“Why pretend to sleep then, you creep?” You scoff, glaring at him as he sits up slightly and glances at you with a teasing glint in his eyes. No part of him seems to be shocked about you being nude in his bed. Or the fact that you’re even in his bed at all, nude or not. 

“You’re the creep if we’re being technical here. It’s undoubtedly a little on the creepy side to study someone with such careful touches while they sleep.”

“That’s your main concern…?” You stare at him—and for lack of better words, you’re dumbfounded. You and Alhaitham have been friends for two years and counting. You’ve never once crossed the line or even toed at it to step beyond the border of anything more. And, yet, here you are. In his bed. Completely nude. He was lying there and felt your delicate touch along his skin, felt you act like a lover and not a friend on a quiet, intimate morning when in fact, you both should be shamefully avoiding each other’s eyes in a moment that’s anything but intimate as you leave. 

He makes no move to ask you to leave or even question why you’re still here. You make no move to really leave—it’s not like you want to. 

“What should my main concern be, then?” he looks at you expectantly, like he really doesn’t know.

“Oh, I don’t know, Alhaitham—shouldn’t you be a little more panicked by the idea that I’ve trespassed into your bed and seen you…bare?”

“Well, to be fair, you didn’t trespass. I let you in—and also, to be fair, I saw the same for you, too, so we’re even.”

“You’re oddly calm about this,” you hiss. “This doesn’t bother you even a little? That things might change?”

He looks at you funny—like you’ve just told him a joke that hardly makes sense but makes him want to laugh anyway. “You’re too brilliant to be this dense,” he murmurs. “Maybe I’m quite open to the idea of change.”

You take offense to the first part enough to completely miss the second part of his statement. 

“I am not dense,” you huff, “I’m incredibly bright. I’ll have to send you my thesis sometime.”

“No need,” he responds through a low hum. He pulls you closer, flush against his chest. Bare skin on skin. Intimate skin, at that. You shiver for a moment as his warm, large hand wanders lower and lower before stopping just at the small of your back, rubbing slow circles at the dimple where your spine ends. “I’ve read it plenty of times. It was very insightful.”

“Well, in that case, you should know not to insult my intelligence—”

“If you don’t notice my affection for you, I’m afraid you might not be as observant as I initially thought.”

You pause. Your heart flutters. Then it feels like it decays. Your eyes widen a fraction. Then they feel like they need to be squeezed shut for fear of tears. You feel your fingers twitch to reach for him. And yet they stiffen in distrust. 

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” you whisper. Because you don’t.

You really fucking don’t. You thought you knew. His feelings and how to read them. His thoughts and how his mind works. Every little quirk of his and how he approaches every damn thing in this world. You thought you knew.

Now you feel like you don’t know much of anything, especially not what he means right in this moment. 

“You don’t?” He whispers, hand moving to grab your wrist and bring it to his cheek so his lips can brush along the delicate lines of your palm prints. (If he was brave, he’d tell you that his destiny and yours are written in those very lines. Maybe someday he’ll build the courage.)

“No,” you say through a shaky whisper. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I love you. Just like you love me.” He says it so plainly, that you almost feel like it's a dry, cruel joke. (You know him a little better than that, though, to know he’d never.)

“How do you know I love you?” you challenge just because it’s all you have left to cling to—easy, instant denial. 

He laughs. Soft. Quiet. Melodic. So fucking sweet. “I’m too smart to act dense,” Alhaitham teases. And then, for a moment, his eyes soften enough that they almost look vulnerable. “And only someone who loves me could deal with my… peculiarities. Though, I will admit, it took me quite a while to reach this conclusion. You made me work for it.”

“If you’ve known all along—” 

“Not all along,” he corrects, “like I said, it took me a while to come to this conclusion. But once I did, it was rather obvious.”

You scowl with a finger prodding into his chest, eyes misty with relief and the faintest traces of agitation, “Well, regardless, why haven’t you said something all this time? Obviously, I wasn’t as aware as you seem to be, so the least you could have done is spared me the pining and heartbreak of wondering if you’d ever look at me—”

“I wanted to make sure I could offer you a peaceful life first,” he says gently. You blink. He smiles, eyeing something in the distance—you don’t quite catch it, but you think it might be the old, worn-out stack of envelopes sitting on his desk. 

“What?”

“When you’re with me,” he whispers, leaning in so that his lips brush over yours, “I can lead a peaceful life. I wanted to make sure I could give you the same.”

“And what does that consist of?” you raise a brow. 

“Well,” he murmurs, pecking the corner of your mouth, “A stable job with a generous income, which I now have. A fixed schedule, which I have also negotiated. A proper home to house the both of us, which you are comfortably laying in. And…” he grabs your hand, bringing it to his chest where his heart is beating erratically, “A rock-solid, chiseled chest to lay on, which I have dedicatedly worked to add to my physique for you.”

“Haitham!” you squeal, shoving him away with a horrified shriek as he laughs with a wide grin. You don’t even know why he still remembers that comment to poke fun at it, but you suppose that is the tragedy of falling for a prodigious scholar. His mind is sharp. And so is his memory. “Enough!”

“Okay, okay,” he grins smugly. “I want us to lead a peaceful life.”

“There’s not a lot of peace I am counting on with you.”

“I will elect to ignore that statement,” he says dryly, “But that’s why I waited this long,” he buries his face into your neck, nose pressing into the skin as he inhales, “I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer, though. Won’t you accept my frugal attempt at a serene life with you?”

“Perhaps I can make do,” you fight back a stupid grin.

He smiles into your neck. You can feel it. You can practically see it. You hope you’ll grow old with it, too. 

“Then I suppose I’m forever indebted to your graciousness, my love.”

────────────────────────

TWENTY FOUR.

When Alhaitham was eight, Grandmother told him the story of how his parents had fallen in love. It was a typical love story, he thought at the time—nothing overly special or unique. A simple, sweet bond between two people who became friends and something more along the way.

What stood out were the letters. Not very much at first, but with time, he’d realized how special they were. 

Grandmother handed him the letters with a soft, melancholy look in her eyes that made him realize he hadn’t just lost his father and mother. She had lost her son and daughter-in-law. Alhaitham felt the absence of his parents often. It was hard not to at that age—he didn’t have a father to throw a ball to or tag along with to the market. He didn’t have a mother to hum him a melody or make his favorite dish for dinner. But Grandmother filled the gaps in those places well enough that even if his heart bled, not too much blood spilled between the cracks.

But he was no son. Not a proper one for her at her age, anyway. She raised him like he was her own, but she grew older every day, and he didn’t grow fast enough to keep up. He couldn’t take care of her in her old age the way his father would have. He couldn’t do much besides bring the vegetables for her to cut or set the table while she cooked. He couldn’t offer her the mora when she went to the market or carry too many of the heavy bags while they walked home. He couldn’t let her rest in her old age too much because, regardless of how mature and bright he was for his age, Alhaitham was just a child. Her child, nonetheless—Grandmother didn’t let him forget that fact. But a child.

When she died, he arranged the funeral alone. He didn’t cry throughout the whole ordeal. Her old colleagues from way back in her Akademiya days came, as did some of his parents’ old acquaintances. No one he knew too familiarly, though—no one who really mattered when they clasped his shoulder and told him to hang in there.

She was a good woman. He knew that already.

She was very intelligent. A very obvious fact.

She was exceptionally kind. A rather unsurprising observation.

She loved very deeply. Well. That one stung—as true as it might have been.

He remembers it so vividly still. How he had walked home alone after it all. How he had taken off his tie (a very poorly tied tie, at that—Grandmother had always helped him before) and silently entered his room.

It wasn’t until he had eyed his desk that finally, it all sank in. The notes—the ones his father had so carefully written his mother while they were still just starting to fall in love, sat there as if waiting for him. He read them one by one, just like he had so many times before. He didn’t realize he’d started crying until a rivulet of his sorrow landed from his cheek to the page, staining the paper a darker shade of heartache. 

Alone. 

That’s all Alhaitham had ever been since the tender age of four. At least, that’s what people had always thought—but he’d never felt the sorrow people tended to feel for him. Not having a father and mother was okay. Hard at times, but okay. Grandmother had been everything he needed. More than what he needed, in fact. 

Grandmother was everything. And she had left him just the same way his parents had. He’d cried that night—alone in a house that was nothing more than just a house. Not a home, not a place where he could return to and look forward to it. Not a place where love was waiting for him to shelter him as soon as he came back from the cruel, outside world.

Grandmother was gone. Mother and father had left so long ago. But they all had each other—in whatever world they’d crossed to, they’d had each other. 

He remembers it all so vividly still. How he’d read his father’s words, and for the first time in all his life, he’d craved it. What his parents had. 

To my love, my soul, my heart. I am yours, always. 

He wondered that night, through teary and blurry eyes, if love like that would ever find him. If he’d one day be able to call someone his love, soul, and heart.

He thinks now, as you laugh with your head tilted forward and a tweezer in hand while sitting on his lap, that he can. 

“Hold still, you,” comes your teasing remark, “you said this would be nothing. Now look at you.”

“You’re being too harsh,” he grumbles, pouting slightly. With a smile, you bend your neck down and press a soft kiss to his jutted lips, humming before pressing an extra one to the corner of his mouth for good measure. (And yes, the grand sage—acting, you can almost hear him correct in your own head—can pout. He is rather frequent at curling those lips of his in your presence when he wants something, in fact. Or when he is teased too much. Something about you brings about a side of him that is much less stoic and far more dramatized.)

“You can just admit it hurts, you know,” you say through an amused snort.

“It won’t hurt if you just do it right.”

“I’m an expert at tweezing eyebrows,” you huff, “I do mine all the time. And I would know that it hurts.”

“It can’t be that painful,” he clicks his teeth, “just be gentle.”

“I cannot gently pull out a hair from your follicle, Haitham—I don’t know what you want me to—hey!”

He grabs the tweezers from your hand and pulls you close, hugging you tight enough that his nose digs into your skin a bit as he buries it into your neck. It’s Saturday. His first out of two days off for the week—standard scribe work weeks are nine to five on weekdays, and he very much appreciates his weekends away from the bustling, lively Akademiya nonsense. 

Saturday happens to be your day off, too. 

“Where is Kaveh?” you ask quietly, playing with the hem of his shirt. He raises a brow, eyeing the suspicious movement of your fingers.

“Working with a client in Aaru Village. He won’t be back until tomorrow evening. Why am I not enough company for you?”

“Oh, be quiet,” you roll your eyes, and this time, your hands wander under his shirt, palms slowly dragging along his chiseled, planed abdomen while he shivers slightly under your touch. “I was just asking if…”

“If…?” he urges you to continue.

You know he knows. But, for the sake of indulging his smug, teasing little game, you huff and push his shirt up to expose his chest before murmuring, “If we would be interrupted or not. I don’t fancy such awkward run-ins with your roommate.”

“Our roommate,” he corrects, “this is your home, too.”

“Yes,” you smile, brushing your palms over his pectorals, watching as he stiffens when you graze along his nipples, “I suppose it is.”

“Well, he’s not here. And he won’t be, so kiss me,” he demands through a breathy whisper. You do. You kiss him instantly—because kissing Alhaitham is what you do best. When he’s happy, sad, angry, distressed, or just plain tired, kissing him is how you know him the most. When your breaths exchange and your life force and his mingle to become one, singular unit. 

You sigh into his mouth, letting his hands cradle your jaw and tilt your head to better meet his mouth, all while your hands still explore his upper half. He moans under your touch, cock springing to life slowly below you through his pants. You angle your hips forward, inching higher up his lap to drag your crotch along his and help the erection grow against the friction. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, hard and heavy between his legs in no time. 

“Haitham,” you breathe, feeling that familiar ache build between your own thighs. 

You kiss him like that for a bit. Messy, deep, sloppy, and so, so slow. With all the time in the world. Languid strokes of your tongue against his as he rolls his hips up from underneath you, dragging his clothed, bulging cock against your dripping cunt. The fabric separates you, rudely so, and it’s not long until you both grow tired of it. 

“Off,” you whine, tugging at his pants, “off, off, off!”

“So demanding,” he chuckles, pecking your nose sweetly before he lifts his hips, letting you slide off his sweatpants. “Satisfied?” 

“Yes,” you beam, “You always give me what I want. It’s my favorite thing about you.”

His gaze darkens at that—not for any other reason than it makes him so incredibly filled with lust when you speak to him like that. So spoiled and happy about it because it’s him. Him. You’re happy that it’s him. And he’s happy that it’s you. 

You don’t even bother undressing yourselves fully—he pulls down your own pants just enough to expose your pretty, leaking folds, and his hands wander under your shirt, where he almost short-circuits for a moment. Braless. Because you just love to drive him mad, he thinks. This much easy access to your soft, delicate breasts and the pert nipples that decorate them is enough to make him curse under his breath as his thumbs tease over them. 

“You’re a tease.”

“For simply existing?” you gasp, making him crack a small grin. 

“Yes,” he hums, “Your existence on its own teases me at all times. I’m afraid it drives me mad.”

You hum, reaching forward to gently take his hard, leaking cock into your hand and give a light, teasing squeeze. “Maybe my goal is to turn you completely into a lost cause.”

“Then,” he groans, throwing his head back against the couch cushions while he breathes harshly, “then you’re definitely succeeding. Is that what you wished to hear?”

“Yes,” you whisper, kissing his jaw, “It is, actually.”

It doesn’t take long at all before Alhaitham has tossed you back against the couch, laughing as you shriek at the sudden change of position. You glare at him, fighting back your own chorus of giggles as he moves to hover over you, kissing and biting playfully along your cheeks. 

“I love you,” he mumbles.

“Aw, so sweet,” you coo, “say that again.”

He rolls his eyes. His lips curl into the brightest grin at the same time. My love, my soul, my heart—the words are ingrained in his memory always. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” you whisper.

He leans in for a soft, slow kiss as the tip of his leaking cock slides against your folds, tapping against your clit before rubbing along your entrance. You gasp, shuddering against him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. 

“You know,” he murmurs, “I could get used to this.”

“Sex on the couch? We can do that any time—”

“A weekend with just the two of us,” he groans, dropping his head to your neck as you laugh loudly. Bright. Airy. A sound the wind carries to him in his subconscious. He hears you even when you’re not there—even when you aren’t around, he searches for you. 

“Oh,” you say playfully, “Yeah, I guess that’s nice too, isn’t it?”

“I’ll show you just how nice it’s about to be,” he hums. The tip of his thick, blunt head is pressed against your folds—you’re leaking just as much as he is. You slick, and his pre cum mix for a messy collision of arousal as he presses into you slowly, so carefully, you feel like you could break at any second with how he handles you. 

He’s patient. When Alhaitham fucks you, he’s patient enough that you feel like his other half and not his means of pleasure. Like he fucks you for you and not for himself. 

“More,” you insist, impatient as you add, “I can take it.”

“Patience is a virtue,” he clicks his teeth, “I want to take my time feeling you.”

And he does. He rolls his hips slowly. So slowly, you feel delirious. It’s a painful, gradual build-up of pleasure that has you trying to roll your hips into him to meet him halfway, a pathetic attempt when he’s on top of you to press his weight down on you to keep you in place. 

“Please, Haitham,” you whine, sweat shining across your sweet, pleasure-hazed face as he stares down at you, “Please more. I need it—need you. Need all of you.”

“You have all of me,” he groans, feeling the tight walls of your cunt squeeze around him, the squelching noise of his thick girth bullying into your folds in and out, in and out, in and out, driving him to the brink of insanity. “You’ve always had every piece of me.”

“I want more,” you hiss. 

He lets out a breathy laugh that turns into a soft moan. “If that’s what you want.”

The next thing you know, two strong, muscled arms are grabbing your thighs and bringing them around his torso to wrap around him, and his large hands grab your hips and pull, practically manhandling you deeper onto his cock. You shudder, letting out a shrill, high-pitched gasp as he intrudes further into your cunt, nudging the head of his cock against your sweetest of spots and making your body tremble. 

“Haitham,” you gasp, “Haitham, fuck—fuck, you feel so good. So deep—love when you fuck me like this.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, kissing in between your pretty little scrunched-up eyebrows, “I love fucking you like this, too. When you take me so well, squeeze so tight, and let me feel you like the good girl you are.”

His words make your folds squeeze around him, and fuck—he’s close. So fucking close, the pad of his rough, callused thumb meets your clit as he rubs circles, trying to bring you to the edge before he goes plummeting himself. 

“‘M close—almost…almost there,” you pant.

“Me too, baby,” he groans. He slams into you, skin slapping against skin and the glistening sheen of it mixing your sweat together. His mouth parts with pretty, low sounds of his pleasure, and your face twists with the devastating rush of yours. 

Once. Twice. A third time, and you fall apart as he thrusts into you and presses the tip of his thick length against the spongey spot in the back of your walls. 

“Haitham,” you gasp, legs tightening around him as your nails press crescent shapes into his back. “Fuck, I’m c-cumming…oh, Gods.”

“Good,” he gasps, and with one last roll of his desperate hips, he spills into you, too. A thick, sticky, familiar rush of heat fills your cunt, ropes of cum painting you white within with every twitch of his aching cock. “Fuck—you feel so good. So perfect—you were made for me. Me.”

“You,” you whisper, breathless. 

You let him shudder over you, fingers running through his hair as he finishes releasing his load into you before he slumps his weight over your body. It’s a small couch—decorative more than functional. (All thanks to Kaveh, of course.) But you don’t particularly care when you’re under him. It feels right all the same. 

“We have the house to ourselves this weekend,” he reminds you after some time of catching your breaths. “So…so we can do this all you want.”

You giggle, rolling your eyes as you poke his forehead. “You’re obscene.”

“I’m romantic,” he corrects, “I just want to be with you and nothing else. Can’t blame a man when he’s been gifted such a beautiful sight before him.”

“And cheesy, too,” you huff. 

He smiles. My love, my soul, my heart. 

——————————

You wake up Monday morning to Alhaitham already gone—it’s rare that he’s ever up before you. He leaves the house just in time to make it to work exactly on the dot and not a moment sooner or a moment later. But, as is with any Akademiya position, there are quarterly meetings that even the scribe can’t avoid. You giggle at the image in your head of a grumpy Alhaitham carefully tiptoeing around the room as he miserably gets ready for an early morning of extra work, all while making sure he doesn’t wake you. 

You yawn, sitting up to start your morning for your own day of work ahead—but it catches your eye before you can fully rise from bed, making you pause. 

A note? No, you realize almost instantly. Not just a note—a letter:

To my love, my soul, my heart: Kalpalata lotuses will bloom soon. I forget how beautiful the world is sometimes, and I suppose it’s because I am always distracted by your beauty alone. Will you laugh as you read this? I suppose you might because even I must admit, it is a rather cliche thing to say. I can just picture your smile now, and I am certain I will have it memorized until my last breath. It’s easy to remember it so well when it’s all I see in my dreams. Have I told you how often I see you in them? It’s difficult to think that there was once a time in Sumeru when we did not dream. It seems like sleeping beside your body is no longer enough—your presence is required even in my slumber for me to truly be at peace.  Perhaps when the lotuses bloom, we can take a trip to the deeper parts of the rainforest to catch a glimpse of a few. They say the vines are blessed by The Lord herself. I was never one to seek out the divine, but perhaps with a gift as sacred as you, I should take the time to thank Lady Kusanali for granting such brilliance to take bloom in my presence. Only, the difference is that here with you, there are no cliffs to climb or seasons to await. You are mine to bloom, always—my precious, beautiful lotus.  Forever yours,  Haitham ♡

ITS DONE. HAPPY LATE BDAY TO MY FIRST AND LONGEST LOVE. YOU MEAN EVERYTHING AND MORE TO MEEEEE

[akiwisfics]

Dipping Her Toes In

Summary:  A snapshot of what freedom might look like for Kirari, and the next step of her relationship with Sayaka. Notes: Response to the Hundred Devouring Artist’s Prompt, “Kirari’s first ‘I love you.’” You can find the rest of the collection here. 

---

>> “What does it mean to be in love?”

“... With love being so closely connected to meaning and fulfillment, it's valuable for each of us to define love as an action or series of actions we can take to bring us closer to the people we value...”

A glance through the article doesn’t offer many tidbits. Warnings about not appreciating partners over time, fantasy bonds, things that she never considers. In any case, it’s been some time now, and just as quickly, she clicks the tab close.  She needs something more… concrete.

>> “Scientific studies on love.”

“...During the first love-year, serotonin levels gradually return to normal, and the ‘stupid’ and ‘obsessive’ aspects of the condition moderate. That period is followed by increases in the hormone oxytocin, a neurotransmitter associated with a calmer, more mature form of love…”

The medical benefits might interest Sayaka if she brings it up; they sound like things the girl would use to justify using the word herself, but by now, she knows better: Sayaka gives in to the feeling, surrenders to its irrationality like the true beast that it is. Though it isn’t useful, perse, she does bookmark it for later. Sometimes, Sayaka gets bored with her schoolwork, and something tells her she may appreciate a small abstract like this for bedtime reading.

The girl never learns to relax.

>> “Quotes on love.”

“ At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.”

Plato is a questionable source of advice, maybe. The quotes are saccharine and only fill her mouth a sickenly sour taste. They’re better suited for agonizing romance novels and pop tunes that Yumemi still sings on the radio sometimes. Perhaps a straightforward approach is necessary.

>> “Wiki-How ‘How to Confess Your Love’”

“Take a step back. Be rational for a moment, and take stock of the situation. Consider your relationship to this person, and try to predict how they will receive your words.”

Oh.

Was she supposed to confess before the relationship started? She doesn’t think Sayaka would reject her if she admits to it; not when the other girl had confessed her love… a year ago now? A year and a half? It feels longer, but she tries to block out the shades of things she doesn’t want to think about; it’s easier that way, when now she has something normal that’s hers.

But how would Sayaka react to it? It’s a thought she’s never considered, so she keeps reading.

“Make sure that you mean it. If you have never been in love before, it may be hard to understand the implications of this phrase. There are many types of love…”

What does that mean?

“Sister?”

Kirari pokes her head away from her laptop, and notes the curious look in Ririka’s eyes. She knows she hadn’t started that long ago, but it feels so much later than it is. There’s some cacophony of traffic outside their apartment window, drunk office workers bickering about the latest gossip around the office, her stomach grumbles at the sweet aroma of curry simmering in the kitchen, and Kirari feels at home. Her legs are stretched out in front of her, toes wriggling freely as she balances the laptop on her knees. Her glasses feel a bit crooked, but they have to wait another week or so before she can fix them.

But it doesn’t matter, because tonight, she has a bigger project on her hands, and she can see the way Ririka is already worrying her hands into her white apron.

“What are you doing?” her sister asks and peers over curiously at the laptop screen. Her face blanches just a tad as she scans the article.

Kirari can’t help giggling at the response. “Sayaka is coming next week. I thought

I’d do something nice, but I’m… having a bit of trouble.”

“You two are dating... right…?”

She nods, and keeps scrolling through the page. More social plays. Indirect confessions, gauging the other person. However, it just seems like Kirari skipped a few steps. She never has to worry about Sayaka not being receptive, because she must be. Yet… she keeps pulling up to that second step. The types of love. She doesn’t have many examples. She loves Ririka, for instance. Familial love. But she doesn’t know if the word sits right on her tongue the way it does anyone else.

She doesn’t recall ever saying the word before. At least not like that. She doesn’t recall saying it to her mother, her grandmother, to cousins, to pets, to Sayaka. It isn’t something that…

Ririka is stepping away, but the impulse comes to mind. “Hey, Ririka?” Kirari calls after her, enough to give her older twin some pause.

“Yes?”

Should she look at her when she says it? Would it be more natural? Kirari doesn’t quite make it, instead focusing on the small counter behind her, filled with calendars, homework, bills, and dates. Things to remember for later. The words however, come out easily enough-- even as they feel a bit weird on her tongue.

“I love you,” she says.

Ririka looks slightly disturbed. That didn’t seem right either. Is it really that odd to hear her say it?

“I think you’re supposed to say it back,” Kirari suggests.

Her twin still hesitates, as if testing the word for herself-- seeing how it tasted, if it really fit how she feels. She’s learning how to wear her heart better on her sleeve, and Kirari enjoys seeing it. They are two people now, and though love fitted them before now, it molds itself more naturally in her vocabulary.

Yes. She loves Ririka. She is her twin, her lifeline since she was a child and even now, when sometimes it still feels like the world is ready to swallow her whole and drown her in its murky depths.

“I… I love you too?” Ririka squeaks, though it comes out mostly as a question. It works for now, and truthfully, Kirari finds a bit of comfort in the fact that it’s foreign for them both. They are two people now, but something about their commonalities warm and comfort Kirari all the same. She still plays games, has dumb jokes, and sighs and grumbles whenever Kirari doesn’t think. It’s now that it’s only two of them, they can just be that.

Kirari always loved Ririka, but now especially, it doesn’t hurt to call her sister.

--

She’s known for a while, of course, but perhaps Kirari didn’t have a word for it right away. Fascination was a safer word. It sparked academic interests-- thoughts and feelings more akin to objectivism than the more dangerous realms of subjectivity and the heart. When she puts it like that now though, it feels… sterile-- a dry taste on her tongue, better suited for Terano’s voice, her speeches. Or maybe her midterm paper.

It started and ended with the tower. It always did. She knew the name she wanted for them when she fell, but it was a taste that she was familiar with long before then, a certain sweetness that watered her mouth, like fresh fruit in blistering hot summers. Her eyes had darted and memorized the resume with a rejuvenation she had never known, never felt, and from it, the first loops of a love letter began to form in her mind.

But she hadn’t known how to write a love letter, nor the word for her fascination, so instead, she constructed a tower, and let it loom over the entire school-- a beacon of her obsession and tether to this new humanity that encroached on her heart.

(She still has the deed to that piece of land. She keeps it locked tight in a small safe underneath her bed, along with other traces of the old life she left behind. The only two things she ever needs constantly are the things she has already. Ririka. Sayaka.)

(Sometimes the other things still come back. Sometimes the nightmares don’t stop. But there’s either warm arms around her in the morning, or a welcoming, defrosting smile waiting for her in the kitchen-- Ririka’s breakfast. Soft. Perfect.)

She could’ve told Sayaka after the fall, when she looked so divine in the shimmering moonlight, eyes shining and glistening. In a way, Kirari did? But it wasn’t… it wasn’t the same, was it?

Sayaka never does well with metaphors. Despite the constant reminder of this, Kirari seems to constantly forget. It’s easier to slip into those ideas and actions that she knows well-- a double-speak that was necessary in the clan, at the school. If a truth isn’t at least a half-lie, then its free information-- and information never should be free.

Sayaka is an open book, but the language is one she doesn’t understand just yet. She’s learning though, slowly. She prefers her glasses in the morning, she prefers earthy teas, and she fidgets without anything to do. Waiting is an action to her, but to have nothing planned is permission for her to fiddle. Sometimes that’s organizing and cleaning the apartment (much to Ririka’s chagrin, when it takes weeks afterward to find everything), sometimes it’s studying the big law books-- a few extra copies making a neat stack on the coffee table. Kirari isn’t sure what to do with them now that her entrance exam is done, but Sayaka keeps insisting on keeping them in case she needs the books again.

She puts things to reuse and cherishes what luxuries she can afford. It’s a skill that Kirari is learning, slowly but surely. She recycles, she’s started cooking lessons with Ririka, and though she loathes to do it, she puts more focus on what they need versus the excess and statements that she enthralled herself with growing up.

But Kirari has grown to enjoy parts of it-- beautiful aspects that were easy to forget when she was richer and more pressured. Acts of love, self-sacrifice. Coupled with rarer appearances, even the smallest of actions seem to carry a heavier weight.

It started with a picnic.  Early spring, with the white lilies in full bloom, petals fluttering in the warm breeze. Her nose itched from the pollen as she laid on a dark blanket and observed the open blue sky, cloudless and empty. The looming tower was the solitary object in her vision, the lone door they dove out of just the barest outline from so far below.  On a whim, she outstretched her hands, framing the door between her fingers. What would it have looked like from down below? Two girls in the throes of their own madness, plummeting to their supposed deaths.

“Pres-- Kirari!”

Ah. She hadn’t been used to the name yet. Kirari smiled still, letting her hands drop lazily back on the blanket and patted the empty spot next to her. “The weather really is beautiful.”

“You… you just graduated. Shouldn’t you be--”

“Who’s going to kick me out?”

Sayaka relented and piece by piece, she laid down next to her, shoulders stiff and an uncertain fidget as she observed the clear sky above them. It may have been moments, maybe hours. Kirari counted the breaths shared between them, memorized the warmth that spread where their fingers and hips brushed, and allowed herself to consider what forever would look like just like this. The thought was dizzy, unclear, always is, but it was a thought that was hers . A thought that no one could ever, ever take again.

Not even the girl that held that dream in her hands without even knowing, even as Sayaka had continued to fidget next to her, thoughts elsewhere as they always were. Now? She’s better about it, but some days--

“Are you nervous?” Sayaka had asked, though better for herself than Kirari.

“No,” she spoke evenly, “I know you’ll find me when you need me.”

“And--”

Kirari found her hand, fingers twisting and tangling in the sheet below them and tangled them with her own hand instead. She squeezed firmly, once, and tried to take in the softness along her rough pads, knowing that it would be empty come tomorrow. “I always need you.”

--

And she always does.

So Kirari tries to include her in other ways. They text more frequently now, and sometimes when Sayaka visits, they spend half the time just working on homework and studying. She tells herself it’s normal and that’s okay too. The classes don’t challenge her as much as she would like though, and sometimes her mind drifts. Kirari thinks about fish, thinks about the smaller aquarium she has in the apartment, what her and Ririka will learn how to cook tonight. There’s supposed to be a raid, and she thinks Sayaka is free for once to lend a hand. Thank goodness, but Kirari is a shit healer.

Her mind finds the article when it does wander though, and still, she has to consider everything that’s come before and now. She missed the chance to confess when the election ended, she missed it on her graduation day, and distressingly enough, Kirari missed it when they had their first anniversary just a few months ago.

It was pleasant. She had saved her money through the last couple of weeks before it to take Sayaka to an expensive restaurant downtown-- seafood. Kirari had gifted her a pendant necklace-- a heirloom she had stolen from her clan back when she was leaving it. … Still in the midst of leaving it she supposes.

Though Kirari didn’t have the funds (Sayaka would be terribly upset if she spent the money on her instead of fixing the very minor crook in her glasses of all things), she has to wonder if there is something that could create a moment for them. Not so unlike the picnic between them, a gesture so simple but still stikes at where Kirari needs it.

… Sayaka did just finish her entrance exam. The results wouldn’t be posted yet, but perhaps--

“Igarashi-san?”

It takes her a second, but Kirari is learning to get used to that too. She stands obediently, and feels relieved at the lack of curious, bewildered stares. No one blinks at her name. No one recognizes her face. She is just a classmate, a figure in the crowd. But she wonders, if she had kept the Momobami moniker, would they?

“Could you read the next two paragraphs for us please?”

Kirari speaks loudly and clearly, even as her mind continues to wander. It’s a habit she can’t break from high school, unfortunately. She can’t help it, really. Whatever they read today will be a distant memory, foggy shapes once she’s turned to bed for the evening. Instead, she remembers the way she heard that name the first time.

Sayaka doesn’t know. If she was better about herself, she would admit she’s embarrassed. But she likes the way it sounds next to her name. Kirari Igarashi. It doesn’t remind her of peaches rotting in trees, of drowning. It’s a name that’s hers, and Sayaka’s too.

One day, she’d like it to be legally hers. For now, a few forged papers for her college admissions let her live the fantasy.

--

Kirari knows the man that moved next door to them. He’s smart enough to keep gloves on his hands, hiding the brand permanently etched on his skin, but he doesn’t know enough to keep the weighty recognition out of his eyes as they cross paths in the apartment hallways.

She doesn’t bring it up to Terano when she calls her later, even as she makes plans to meet her. They know Kirari still has a foot in the doorway, just in case the clan tries something again.

The next time she sees him, Kirari waves. He ignores it.

--

They always meet in public. Kirari isn’t sure that’s for her own sake, or more for the sake of Terano’s pride. It’s a routine at this point-- Kirari dangles a particularly juicy carrot, one Terano can’t ignore as she works to repair the damage, and Kirari asks for a favor fitting the price. A public space allows Kirari escape routes, and it allows Terano to have watchers-- in case something goes wrong. Kirari counts the heads that look just slightly out of place, the ones that take a second too long to look away when she sits down.

They never meet at the same restaurant, but Kirari learns that Terano has a habit. She likes coffee, the way the beans reek and leak out of the store out into the open patio. Terano always orders it black, and uses careful sips to disguise her nervous pauses. She’s changed little in the year, now with a weary weight to her eyes that Kirari is all too familiar with.

Kirari settles with a chai tea, because sometimes the thick aroma is enough to distract her from the two very ugly things around her: coffee and bad company.

Today is no different. They’re closer to Shibuya, a dizzying circle of subway stations and commuters that dizzy Kirari some ways and fascinates her in others. Now that her aquarium is more reasonable, she occupies her time observing people like the fish. The commuters and works walk their perfectly etched paths with few variations or changes. If she tries hard enough, she can recognize a few-- those that share the same path she does. If she tries hard enough, she could tell what days they stopped to grab coffee themselves, or which ones had some skeletons in the closet that they weren’t trained as a child to keep secret like Kirari did.

But Kirari is supposed to be normal now, so she doesn’t try that hard most of the time. Terano never thinks she’s trying enough.

She sits down on cold iron chairs, swallows the bile down at the thick smell of coffee beans, souring her mouth, and offers a placid smile to Terano. Something more familiar to both of them. “Good to see you, Terano,” Kirari lies.

“Stop calling me,” Terano snipes. Always straight to the point. “Every time you call me, I keep thinking I was better off just killing you.”

Kirari chuckles and marvels at how her cousin’s eyes trail the white envelope naturally as she pulls it out of her jacket pocket. It’s much plainer than the old calligraphy that was drilled into them both, and she prefers it. “You could never pull the trigger,” she teases in return, naturally. “Do you have it?”

Terano scowls, deeper than usual, but she still digs through her suitcase. What she pulls out is an envelope with sleek black, sealed with clan kanji that she hasn’t seen in months. Something inside her sinks, but Kirari knows that’s the purpose behind it. She wishes she could shake the feeling. Instead she lets herself tread along the surface. Breathing room.

“She passed. That really shouldn’t surprise you.” And yet, Kirari releases the breath she didn’t know she was holding. Even as Terano continues, uses slim fingers to slide the cruel reminder of things she doesn’t want anymore, Kirari feels relieved. “Top score. The pre-law department has been busy trying to make sure the offer’s good. They’re worried someone might leak the score to other schools.”

And Terano hesitates. “... The name she’s attached to--”

“It’s not real anymore.” She feels the smooth paper against her own rough palms, and feels how her appetite drains with each inch that she feels. It stings, it burns -- a heat Kirari so desperately tries to ignore as she stuffs the envelope in her pocket for safekeeping. Later, she will smooth out the creases and take in each letter of approval. University of Tokyo. With her. The warmth will be better then. Light.

Terano swallows. “... Igarashi?”

Her smile blooms at the word. Terano doesn’t say it with the gravity it deserves, but in a way, Kirari appreciates it. She wants her to be hesitant. Uncertain of something that never belonged to the clan. It is hers. It is her and Sayaka’s.

“It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Her eyes trace upward, to silver hair, no doubt too bright in the open sun. Kirari likes to think that Terano is trying to observe her for the first time. Not with the chains around her neck, of that nightmare of Momobami. She grew so tired of it choking her, and though there’s still bruises, some maybe too deep to heal, she’s free.

Only once, Terano swallows her pride. “The short hair suits you.”

--

“Are you sure about this?”

Sayaka threaded her fingers through as if handling something far more precious. Perhaps like sand through her own hourglass, dreading cutting those seconds and years away with a clean shear. Kirari’s eyes slid closed as Sayaka worshipped. Sometimes she misses those mornings where Sayaka would carefully braided silver tresses, looping them with finesse that Kirari could never perfect on her own.

“I need something new,” and she looked up, offering a smile only shared between them. “I know I can trust you to pick something that suits me.”

Sayaka hummed carefully, and through her reflection in the mirror, she could see how furrowed and frustrated she looked. Eyes dark and frown deep. She knew how deeply she was thinking, and the idea of what Sayaka would come up with thrilled her. With gentle hands, Sayaka brushed her hair back, letting it pool behind the chair.

The glean in her eyes was remarkable. “I won’t disappoint you, Kirari,” Sayaka said with stark conviction, leaving a kiss to the back of her head before she began her work.

It took some time and experimentation, but Kirari loves the freedom. They have time to decide what they want. What Kirari wants. The bob cut took some getting used to, but she loves the way it fans against her cheeks when she hunches over notebooks or her laptop. She loves the way that when her and Sayaka are sleeping, Sayaka’s still finds her hands tangled in her hair.

Kirari is in love. She’s always been in love.

--

There’s an extra pair of shoes. Mary’s here. The relationship between her and Ririka confuses her. Mary is all spitfire, physical brushes and jerks. She’s careless and unapologetic with her touches. Perhaps it appeals to Ririka in some sense, that someone would be so comfortable with themselves after spending so long hiding behind a mask like a tortoise shell.

Mary is stretched out on their couch, blonde hair drawn back in a loose ponytail, tied in silk black ribbon. The hum out of her pursed lips is almost contagious as she scrolls through her phone, completely at ease in a space she would have shied away from before. Kirari likes to think that it’s Ririka’s influence, and she’s grateful too, that they seem to be happy together. She just isn’t sure how it works.

Kirari has seen them together of course. Ririka shies away from more overt affection when Mary first arrives, but she gets used to the affection, she sees her grow more into herself. Back to the agonizing babysitter in many respects. She remembers how openly Mary gaped when Ririka admonished Kirari for the first time in her company, and Kirari thinks that was when she realized how serious they were.

But she doesn’t know how they don’t find that constant dance exhausting. And that’s not even including the love mess. Ririka is just as lost by the terminology. She hardly ever makes the first move.

“Where’s Ririka?” Kirari asks in way of greeting as she crosses the threshold into the living room. Their coffee table is starting to lean in the weight of the big law books. There’s a fern plant that needs watering, and the window is open to the busy streets below. She smells noodles at the shop down the street; salty. Maybe they have the extra cash to grab a bowl this evening.

Mary doesn’t look away from her phone, disinterested as ever. “Grocery shopping. She wanted me to wait for you.”

“That’s nice.”

She puts the phone to sleep and sits up, allowing Kirari the space to sit. As Kirari takes her seat, she realizes Mary is wearing perfume and tries to bite back her smile. “I’d like to ask you something,” Kirari says as she sits there, stiffly.

“I’m gonna regret saying yes, aren’t I?”

“Has Ririka said ‘I love you’ yet?”

The way Mary chokes immediately at the question is fascinating as she lurches back, covering her mouth with her hands. The red of her cheeks fits her blond better than Ririka’s silver, but no less amusing. “ What? ” Mary croaked out.

“Has she?”

“Th-This isn’t any of your business!”

“What would you consider romantic enough for such a confession?” She turned closer to her, legs crossed, and studies the way Mary squirms underneath the questioning. There’s something lovely how uncomfortable both her and Ririka could be. “I was considering a devotion day of sorts. People like Ririka and Sayaka need someone to remind them to relax, don’t you think? Breakfast in bed, a nice walk in the park perhaps, and … how do I bring it up?”

“ Shut up, Kirari!”

“Have you said it to Ririka yet? How did you--”

“SHUT UP,” and Mary latches onto her collar tight with clammy red hands, stretching the fabric and shaking her violently. Kirari’s head thumps with the way it rocks back and forth, but really, she thinks the headache is more internal. She wishes Mary could be more honest, but perhaps they’ll learn to do that in time.

--

Some days, it hurts.

It hurts worse than any word Kirari can describe.

But for the first time in her life, she feels like she doesn’t have to be alone to deal with it.

--

Sayaka gets in late, and as they take the dizzying concrete pathways back to Kirari’s apartment, her eyes are already drooping and Kirari spends more time holding her up than actually walking there. She’s learned how to relax a bit more now that they don’t use secretary or president . It’s just them. Sayaka and Kirari. It’s a thought that bubbles pleasantly. Like champagne simmering below. When Sayaka is here, Kirari never stops smiling.

She’s grown too. Sayaka has never stopped training, and she feels muscle as she holds her weight, the weight of a taser in her pocket. Some habits never die. The same time they settled on a good haircut, Sayaka started wearing her own in a high bun with long dark banks framing her beautiful, perfect face. The scratches never completely faded, and Kirari has to stop herself from counting the scratches as she guides them.

“Did you sleep at all?” Kirari teases gently.

Sayaka stifles a yawn, but she doesn’t pull away to save face. “I wanted to make sure everything went well.”

It doesn’t surprise her, but there’s nothing disappointing about it either. Kirari is learning the language, even as it evolves and starts using words that used to be just hers. Sayaka is a book-- her favorite book. She thinks of it like one bound by old parchment and illustrations painted with beauty and dedication. A marvel of detail that frames each chapter in ways that could never be replicated again.

They collapse in bed together as soon as they make it, and Kirari welcomes the extra weight. She welcomes the warmth molded against her. She welcomes the fingers tangled in her hair and the butterfly kisses against her cheeks and lips.

Sayaka shows her love most here, and it’s moments like this that Kirari cherishes most.

--

The date hits a snag immediately when Kirari wakes up to an empty space next to her and the digital clock reading 11:30. She smells Earl Grey and eggs from the cracked door, enticing her to crawl out of the residual warmth of her bed and further into the reaches of the apartment. If she closes her eyes and concentrate, she can hear a light hum, carefully content.

She wants to listen to the melody longer, but she knows Sayaka doesn’t like the breakfast to get cold. Kirari gets up in starts and pauses, fumbling for her slightly crooked glasses and old sweatshirt and pants. She keeps her feet bare because she likes the feel of her toes against ground that’s hers. She yawns and she looks less than perfect. And that’s okay.

Sayaka’s eyes find hers as Kirari wanders into the kitchen, and something catches her by the warm smile. It curves her eyes, black hair wild and fussed from the way Kirari clings to her in her sleep. She’s wearing a t-shirt and shorts, bare legs twitching off and on in a nervous fidget. She pours the tea with a practiced perfection, steam billowing and clouding both of their glasses in the tight space.

“Good morning,” Sayaka says and the smile stretches just a wider, and all too sudden--

“I love you,” Kirari blurts. It’s not perfect, not even close to perfect. They both look like a mess, Sayaka’s dark circles under her eyes after months and months of studying and preparing. Kirari’s hair is tangled and fussed, make-up smeared across her face. But it slips out like a waterfall, one that Kirari can never hope to stop.

She doesn’t realize the tea cup slips out of Sayaka’s fingers until it cracks on the floor, and like a startled rabbit, Sayaka jumps back-- eyes owlishly wide and flabbergasted. Kirari isn’t sure if this is the reaction wants.

“... What?”

Kirari hesitates. “Is… was that a bad time?”

Sayaka cries and Kirari is never, ever sure what to do when it happens. She isn’t sure Sayaka knows what to do when she does either, because rather than responding, she starts bending down to pick up the broken ceramic. By the third piece though, her hands start shaking as the phrase hits her, and almost as if on instinct, her hands start gravitating toward her eyes to cover her tears.

Kirari takes them instead. A quick snatch up and a squeeze tight. She wishes it was to comfort the poor woman, but she wouldn’t-- “Careful. Wouldn’t want you to blind yourself, my dear Sayaka.”

“I’m sorry, I just--”

“Is it weird?”

“No! Never. I…” And her eyes well up again. “... I love you too.”

She kisses once. Forehead. Then along the curvature of one brow. She lets the small touches calm Sayaka down. The ceramic can be picked up later. The tea can be remade, and while the eggs probably couldn’t be salvaged, there’s always another time. She’ll send a better note later, especially after Kirari wakes up one morning to her glasses perfect and the tea cup replaced, but for now, she chooses to cherish the warmth between them.

It’s only one of many first steps in their lives. Kirari doesn’t mind waiting a bit longer for more.

[goldenscript]

35. there’s a first for everything

↳ prompt: the night we shared when i asked you to stay → delivery boy!jimin

pairing: park jimin | reader genre: college au / fluff, romance word count: 3,702 author’s note: most of this was written listening to taeyeon’s “something new” mini album, so feel free to listen to that while you read this (and when you aren’t because it’s lovely)! also, this was kind of messy but be kind since it’s been a while since i’ve written anything! <333

The way to Room 313 comes as second nature.

Each step and turn like a dance he’s memorized like the back of his hand. It has become so heavily embedded into his mind, he can practically visualize the décor and feel the dips before they can make him stumble. He has done this way too many fucking times, each moment somehow all culminating together in the back of his mind. But he has long since found the reason to stop caring, because every single step he takes is one distance short of being in your presence.

God, you. The tenant of 313. The very reason that keeps him coming every week. The same person who has almost always done everything in your power to keep him and whatever feelings blooming inside of him at bay in the worst possible ways. You’ve told him time and time again that relationships and attachments are foreign concepts to you, that being with anyone that isn’t yourself is fated to end in disaster, that there isn’t anyone in this goddamn world that can change that. But somehow, somewhere along the way, he fucked that up.

When you called Bangtan’s for delicious food and quick delivery, he’s sure that the last thing you expected was him. This isn’t to say that he’s some magical being with the ability to make anyone and everyone fall in love with him, because he is far from magical or being that lovable. It’s just him. He knows that he isn’t perfect. His friends tell him he is, but he doesn’t see it. He sees someone who does his best, even if it doesn’t feel like it; someone who cares with every ounce of his heart, even if can be a little too much at time; and right between the seams, someone who fears the unknown waters of love.

That’s how you two come together. The connection that entwines you both in this small, quaint tale of a delivery boy and a tenant that somehow spiraled out of the routine of just another come-and-go. Because love, for the both of you, is overrated and quite frightening. There’s a level of uncertainty that two self-sufficient people can’t seem to grapple with, especially with the unpredictability and irrationality of loving another person.

As someone who has only ever experienced love in occasional spurts, one of which took hold of him the greatest in his junior year of high school, Jimin remembers the sadness that came when he got stood up at Jack’s (only later to find out why he was stood up was over another boy from a different town who was better in ways that he simply couldn’t match up to). It felt surreal, disappointing indefinitely, and an epiphany struck him that he could’ve loved that girl as he trudged on home that day.

While you are someone who just doesn’t want to be in love. You don’t trust what it has to offer. In fact, you detest how blinding it is, how irrational it makes you, and how much power it entails to another person and their ability to hurt you. You experienced it twice before: first time through settling, and the second through misplaced trust. All before coming here for a fresh start, years before, but still there are still memories pressed deep within you, with reminders in the form of doubts and fears that perhaps forever is a trap and love is nothing more than a facade.

Still, equating that moment in his life to this current one is a far reach from being similar. After all, you’ve never stood him up. You never cheated on him. That was in the past. A set history that he has been trying not to let happen again.

Jimin shakes his head, trying to reassure himself that these moments with you are uncertain things, not set in stone.

When he gets closer to your corridor, he remembers how his knocks on your door with the food and a smile on his face, ready to greet you with the cheesy albeit mandatory, “Are you ready for Bangtan?” led to engaging you in some brief conversation at first. His consistency seemed to make it easier to open up. Falling in line with your range of who you can open up to being only a few-month-old tenant to the building for the school year. Your reason for the lack of desire in friendship: the notorious transfer student “Well, I’m going to pick up and leave in a few years anyway” mentality. Despite all initial doubts, he couldn’t shake his own urge to make getting to know you on these 20-minute deliveries his own personal goal. Especially after seeing you every Wednesday for more than a month straight.

Maybe you picked up on this inquisitive decision, and decided to humor him for the sake that he was your delivery person for a third of an hour. Or maybe you just couldn’t find it in yourself to reject that friendship that he was involuntarily offering. He still doesn’t know. And really? He doesn’t care either. What he does knows and what he has come to know is that with every step toward your door, with food in hand and his smile curled on his lips, Jimin can’t wait to see you today.

This is the first time you’ve called for him thrice in a week.

Usually you keep these interactions to at the very least once a week. Sometimes two if you’re feeling that generous. But it isn’t like he ever asked for your number. To him, that’s crossing a bridge like asking you out. And despite being somewhat confident that he isn’t the only one feeling something in these brief times together, he doesn’t want to push you and ruin such a good thing going on already. He knows he can’t keep blaming himself for what happened in the past, that you’re a completely different person to her, but he can’t stop the small bout of fear that wraps around his heart like a protective layer.

Apparently, that layer only seems to weaken when you answer the door with your smile in tow.

“Jimin! Long time no see, huh? I hope you haven’t missed me too much since we last saw each other.” You say this all with a smile before settling on his Bangtan hatless state with a raised eyebrow. “Is this a break in uniform protocol I see?”

He lets out a weak laugh. “Actually… you’re my last stop for the night. So, I figured the hat was unnecessary and still too  ugly. But please don’t tell Hobi. He’d probably kill me if he heard that I was shit talking his prized hat choice, again.”

You snort, nodding in recollection to the last time Jimin and Hoseok bickered over the stupid hat. Jin joined in and made the entire situation worse over the phone. But you agreed with Jimin that a giant llama didn’t exactly scream Bangtan and that was all he needed to get them to shut up about the llama even if it meant they wouldn’t stop pestering about you as soon as he returned to the shop.

“The hat has its… qualities. It has character too. It’s kinda cute in that way,” you comment with a small pout. He knows you’re just trying to tease him, but it still works.

The sight makes him groan in mild frustration. “Who’s side are you on? Now you’re starting to sound like Hobi and Jin.”

You shrug, shifting your weight to your foot closest to the doorframe. Somehow the hallway overhead lights illuminates your features in just the right way, revealing the glint of jovial mischief swimming in your eyes. “Perhaps they had some decent points… the llama is the attention grabber, after all.”

“Quit teasing,” he says with a scrunch of his nose. What was he worrying about again? He can’t seem to remember right now. It feels like those small anxieties become nothing more than a small voice in the background of his mind.

Only dissipating further when you giggle in response. Holding up your hands in surrender, you say, “You got me there. S’okay, Min. You’re the real attention grabber here.”

“Yeah?” He perks up involuntarily, earning another small chime of bells from you. He blinks. “What?”

“You’re just adorable.”

“How so?” He tilts his head to the side, unable to fight the grin curling on his face.

“You’re the first person I’ve met that actually wants to beat out a llama.” You watch as he shifts the bag of food you ordered to his other hand. “And the only delivery boy that doesn’t judge me for ordering out every week.”

“What can I say? You’re Bangtan’s best customer. Who am I to judge?”

“Good, because my cooking ineptitude needs to benefit me somehow.” When he laughs, you crack a smile and step aside. “Come in won’t you?”

He slowly stops laughing and blinks. He suddenly becomes aware of how new this all is for him and you from the apparent flush tinging your cheeks. “Is that alright?”

“I—I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t,” you try to tell him nonchalantly, but he can’t even pretend that he didn’t see you just stumble over one of your shoes just now. He’s about to ask you if you’re alright, but you beat him with another question. “You said this was your last stop for the night, right? Would you like to stay for dinner?”

He manages a nod to your first question, only stopping when he hears the second one faintly to the loud beating in his chest. This is definitely new territory. It’s so new that he isn’t even sure how to comprehend his next course of action, because without a second thought, he’s telling you ‘okay,’ and letting you lead him inside toward the kitchen.

Jimin has never seen the inside of your apartment before. Save for the view from the doorway, but what greets him at his usual vantage point is a small tile floor to store your shoes, a side table leaned against the adjacent wall, and a hallway that leads to the kitchen, living room, and dining room hybrid area. The walls are all the standard white expected from the university apartments, littered with a few framed photos of you and who can assume are your family and friends from your hometown.

You’re neat, too. Your shoes are lined altogether in rows by the doorway, the keys on the doorside table are contained in a ceramic bowl with a blue stripe going all around it, and even your living area is in order without too many books crowding the far left corner of the black two-row shelf. Despite how crowded with schoolwork the coffee table is, it isn’t scattered beside your laptop. They’re simply stacked into one pile with your pens and pencils for note-taking.

“It’s a little messy,” you say with a sheepish exhale. “Sorry about that.”

He looks at you incredulously. Because this a far cry from messy. “If you ever want to see messy, you should see my place. I’m kinda jealous. I have two other pigs for roommates, so living alone must be nice.”

The counter that leads into the kitchen is sparse if not for the bananas and oranges tucked at the corner of it. There are stools positioned in front, two of them beckoning you two forth, so he sets the food there just as you direct him to. He also takes a seat, watching as you go to your fridge in search of beverages.

Glancing at him from the open doors, you ask, “Bottled water’s good, right? Or, well, I have Coke too.”

He nods, “Coke’s good.” He immediately stands and goes to help you when he realizes that you aren’t a two-trip person. Your attempt to make it with bottled water in hand, the liter of soda, and a cup could lead to disaster, so he makes use of his nerves by pouring his own soda and laughing at you.

“I could’ve made it! I was only sort of tipping.” It’s a weak defense, but he can see your embarrassment and he simply shakes his head.

“Sure, if you say so. I don’t mind helping anyway. I’m equipped for kitchen aid, y’know.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say as you open the water. “But you do enough for me already. I wanted this to be a thank you.”

“I’m just doing my job,” he says, flushing once again. He uses the excuse to put away the soda to avoid letting you see his face, but he can’t seem to stop staring at the sight before him. “Y/N, is your fridge always this empty?”

“Er, maybe?” When he glances at you, he can see you already standing and going over to close the door. “I just haven’t gone to get groceries in a while.”

“A long while, apparently.” He looks at the closed door and back at you with raised eyebrows. “You should take care of yourself too…”

“I—I know. It’s been a busy couple of week with school and work picking up.” He gets it. The end of the quarter is always the hardest. With only ten weeks of classes, the important stuff builds up and gets overwhelming if you let the workload wash over you. And it’s even more harrowing knowing how hardworking you are with your assignments and projects, because you don’t half-ass any of it, not even when your body craves rest and nourishment, you simply work your way around those things with caffeine and take-out.

He tuts you still. Shaking his head when he remembers the bareness of the shelves and replies, “Well, it’s almost over, and I know you got through those two research papers already. No excuses this time.”

Despite the roll of your eyes, which he knows is nothing more than your way of expressing how right he is, you tell him you will. “Thank you,” you also say as you two make your way back to the seats.

“It’s really not a problem,” he reassures you, taking the initiative to take the extra paper plates out of the bag. You ordered your usual: the House Special chow mein and a side of still fresh sweet and sour pork with the sauce on the side. But he realizes that the amount is a size larger than your normal when you spoon enough noodles on your plate and his own. His eyes narrow slightly and he asks, “You planned this huh?”

Jimin tells you he doesn’t mind that you did this for him at all. Actually he’s glad you did.

“Why?” you ask him, slurping the noodles as he begins to talk.

“I mean I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you these past few weeks. It’s kind of been the highlight of my shifts, well, of my Wednesday shifts. But still, it’s nice. I like this. I like you...”

You stop to wipe your mouth and look at him with wide eyes. It seems he has finally (well, sort of) addressed the giant elephant in the room.

“You do? I mean you like me?”

Putting his fork down, he nods. He decides that he should just be honest. If he really wants to know if you feel the same way, then he has to take a risk and just tell you how he feels first.

“I mean I thought I was pretty obvious about it…” he points out shyly. “It’s not every shift that I talk to just anyone the way I can with you. I don’t know if I’ve been reading into things, but I just feel like I can connect with you. You have this quality that I can’t stop thinking of. It’s nice. And, if you feel the same, that I’m not the only one feeling this way, then I’d like to see where this goes. Not have sex or anything but just talking, getting to know one another more, and maybe going out on an actual date… or something.”

He didn’t realize how much you were staring until he found his eyes wandering right back to yours. He sees relief, happiness, and… tenderness. It relieves him even when you don’t respond right away.

“I really don’t want to be that person who just says ‘same here!’ or ‘me too!’ but that’s how I feel, too. I dunno. I didn’t expect to get to know you like this or at all, really. No hard feelings. You know how my mindset was since coming here.”

“Was?” When you look away, he looks at the bananas and oranges.

From the corner of his eye, he can see you nod with a small smile. “Yeah, was. You kinda fucked up that ‘I’m not gonna get close to anyone’ thing. I mean ‘close’ close. Like this. I didn’t intend for this to happen. But it did. And as much as I’ve said that I wouldn’t be okay with it, I am. I mean I’m scared shitless of what might happen… but I’m willing to see what will happen this time. With you. If… that’s alright. I mean you just said you’d go out with me and all that, but even I’m still not sure of anything, really.”

There’s a long pause before you two meet eyes and laughter fills the still air.

“God,” you say with a hard exhale. “When did we become such shy little shits like this?”

He shakes his head, feeling the smile the laughter has elicited lingering on his lips. Even with all the uncertainty in the air, he still feels lighter in the chest. “I have no clue. I guess I fucked up your ‘no attachments’ thing, huh?”

“And I fucked up your ‘no relationships’ thing, right?”

“I mean I don’t mind. Whatever this is feels right. Whatever it becomes, I think it’ll be right too.”

Your lips twitch into a small smile, and he receives a nod in response. “I think so too, Jimin. I like it. I like you, by the way.”

“I know. Well, I had a feeling,” he admits a little sheepishly. “I mean I thought it was safe to assume that you didn’t treat just anyone the way you’ve treated me lately.”

“You’re right, this isn’t. I mean maybe at first but vibing with you over dance and music changed a lot of things. At some point, you weren’t delivery boy anymore, and at that point, I didn’t want you to be just that either.”

“I… I’m glad. Thank you.”

“For what?” You tilt your head in confusion.

“For humoring me, I guess. Letting me get to know you. And for this.”

“I’ve been meaning to thank you somehow. And yet here you are thanking me for thanking you.”  

There’s another opportunity for the two of you to laugh until the aroma of the House Special reminds you both to eat once again. It proceeds without silence, though you both nod at one another like profusely thanking one another is some kind of commonplace exchange for you two.

More conversation and laughter seem to waft the little island as the two of you find more things to talk about until the clock strikes well past midnight. It isn’t like either of you want to move from your spots, but Jimin refuses to let your food go soggy now that a substantial amount has passed and with a decent amount of leftovers even from both of your attempts to eat it all. You take care of his cup by putting it in the sink, watching as he carefully places the bag onto one of the shelves.

With you leaning there behind him, he can’t help but turn as the door shuts and look back. He wonders if he should ask you out now or wait until the next time he sees you. Or, he considers the fact that he should ask for your number now and ask you out tomorrow. Or do both.

“Maybe you should stay over tonight.”

He blinks, thoughts now going silent as he looks at your visage. “What?”

“I mean it’s pretty late and I don’t want anything to happen to you if you’re driving… and I… I don’t really know. I’m kind of going by impulse right now. We don’t have to do anything but sleep and talk, too. I just don’t really want this to be over yet, if that makes sense.”

“I’ve never done this before, but there’s a first for everything right?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yeah, why not?” he says, smiling.

“Then you can tell me what you were thinking so hard about just now.” Before he can ask about a very important issue, you add, “And don’t worry about a toothbrush, I definitely have extras.” 

(What happens after is simple. The two of you talk until the peak of dawn arrives, where limbs become entangled and breathing syncs, and Jimin awakes to you beside him, looking adorable with strands of loose hair clinging to the sides of your face and mouth ajar with soft breathes heaving your chest up and down. He really doesn’t know what will happen today or the day after and certainly not in a few weeks from now, but he likes the idea of the present, of the now you’re both in. And, he can’t wait to see what that will bring. Especially now that he has your number and a yes to that future date.

And Jimin’s first course of action besides brushing his teeth, of course, is sifting through your cabinets for some flour. He has decided that your first date together can be breakfast in bed.)