#ch: hiro la'ei

[mortala-if]

902-word drabble. Hiro ranting to CRUSHING!MC about Medusa for the first time. MC is flawed and has a semi-set personality. They are not perfect and never will be. They are possessive in this and in general. Possessiveness is not a good or healthy trait to have and shouldn't be treated like one. MC knows it's a problem, and so does Hiro. Feel free to ask more!

The sun creeps into Hiro's cluttered room from his rusty windows, the harsh light gazing onto his form. He and you have been sitting on his bed, the sheets sprawled half off the mattress, and he's been ranting about some girl named Medusa for over half an hour. The lovesick expression on his pretty features makes you actually sick, your stomach churning with suppressed emotions. At the same time, your mind races with defenses, and your tongue is laced with hypocritical remarks that you struggle to swallow.

This hasn't been the first time he's done this, blabbering about a newfound crush- not even close- but it always makes your throat close- and your eyes prickle, your demeanor bubble up into unbridled annoyance. But, it's not like you're going to say anything. . . you're just going to sit there, nodding along to each honeyed word that falls from his lips. He always listens to you, right? What kind of friend would you be if you didn't listen to him. . ?

Your name falls off Hiro's tongue smoothly, confusion drawn around each syllable, and it snaps you back into reality, your head tilting to the side while your eyes focus back on him rather than a spot on the wall devoid of paint. "Are you listening?" He asks, his soft smile tainted downward.

"…Yeah, of course," you reply, shuffling and tugging up one of the blankets he patched in a sewing phase in his early teens, "She seems nice." The compliment is practiced, lazy, and repeated- you have not been listening. You can tell he knows when his smile dissolves completely. You scramble to fix it. . . right your answer- to pull the corners of his lips back up. "I mean. . . like, you guys seem like you'd be really cute together." You offer up, a placating grin added along with it. The words don't feel right- they leave a sense of bitterness tanging your mouth. Your nails press into the skin of your legs where they lay idly.

"Really?" He beams, pointy teeth shining, "I think so too," he shifts forward, grabbing your hands like it's the easiest thing in the world. It is- to him- but it makes your breath hitch, your attention glued to the absent-minded touch. Your fingers twitch, "She's so pretty, and her voice. . ." he trails off, dramatically at a loss of words, as if nothing could describe it.

"Hiro," you say, and you catch the shake in your voice at the beginning, inwardly cringing. His brows furrow, cocking his head, doe-like eyes staring at you with traces of concern and puzzlement. You gently bring your hands back to yourself, placing them in your lap. With your withdrawal, worry attacks him, lips parting, no doubt with reassurements about to leave him. This has happened multiple times before- your jealousy showing itself- but it still manages to irk you every time, even if you're the one who made your discomfort aware. You wish you had kept your mouth clamped shut and let him ramble on about the girl, who you've already forgotten the name of.

"What's wrong?" He questions. He knows you're jealous, but not because you're in love with him. He thinks you're worried he'd get distracted by the girl and forget about you, let your friendship fade. You guess he's half-right, but the in-love part… has started to outweigh that. But you can't confess to that. You don't want to. So, you let the silence hang heavy in the air until he continues. He eventually does once he realizes you won't answer,

"You're my best friend, okay?"

. . .Yeah. That's the problem.

"I won't let some relationship ever change that." He promises, looking like he's about to reach for your hands again and squeeze tight, but he composes himself, keeps his hands to himself- part of you wishes he wouldn't. He's smiling gently at you, an expression reserved only for you, this kind of unmeasured love. Platonic love.

You force yourself to nod, a trembling grin plastered onto your face, "Yeah, I know. . . I'm just dramatic." You look at him, tight-lipped, and he shakes his head in disagreement with your claim. You're not dramatic- you're possessive. You know you are. You've been called it by him and Finn- jokingly, of course. You know they sorta mean it. They aren't wrong, though. Every time Hiro- or Finn- mentions someone new, all your breath leaves your lungs, and a tightness settles into your chest, swirling and clinging to you.

After a moment, he slants forward, pats your thigh, then leans back. "It's fine, don't worry about it. I think it's cute. It reminds me that you love me." He grins. He's teasing, but it still sends shocks down your spine and causes your posture to turn slightly rigid.

"Who would love you?" You retort, scrunching up your features with faux distaste. He laughs, eyes crinkling, the sound shimmering.

"You, duh."

You know you'll always be seen as his best friend, even if it makes you want to scream, but you guess being his friend is better than being nothing to him. At least he loves you in some way, even if it's not in the way you want him to. You're less than content with it, but it's not like you'll act on it- especially not when he's spewing infatuated nonsense.

[mortala-if]

Hiro uses he/him and is of Samoan descent. He's 21, the same age as MC.

Hiro's energy is addicting, one that you got hooked on quickly—his teasing nature, the rare grins that bare all his pointy teeth, the crinkled-eyed laughs. You've seen every side of him, good and bad— his aura is overwhelmingly familiar, but that doesn't make it any less enticing.

—

You met at age two, not that you remember, through your parents. Your brother said that you two became inseparable immediately, and the bond grew as you did. There isn't any holiday, birthday, or significant event that you two haven't spent together. You don't remember a time without him.

You're dizzyingly aware of his popularity- that he has many more friends than just you- but it still leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, even though he's assured you that you're the one he loves most. Every time you doubt him, he finds a way to prove you wrong.

He tries to get you out there and introduce you to his friends, but it never works out. . . You hang out with them once and then never again, and it's never that enjoyable. You tell him you're perfectly fine with just him, but he's nothing if not stubborn, so he continues to try.

You know him better than you know yourself.

—

His style is something you could call. . . disordered. His closet is cluttered with a dozen different aesthetics, and you couldn't single one out if you tried. . . and you have. It ranges from baggy graphic tees that reach his knees to tight, revealing crop tops that would make your grandmother faint. The only constant is boots. He loves boots, heeled or not.

His appearance is messy as well- pretty but messy. He has a tan complexion and doe-like brown eyes that squint whenever he's happy. Full lips that disappear whenever he smiles. Straight, black eyebrows that furrow whenever he's confused or upset. His dark brown hair is styled in something he refuses to call a mullet, even if it is one. His features weave together delicately, and it still catches you off guard occasionally.

Playlist Pinterest