#look like you just spilled scrabble tiles on the table and picked a few

[i-will-not-be-caged]

Have you ever seen an author you really like recommend another author and get a chapter or two into the book and wonder “how can someone who wrote something so brilliant recommend this???”

Anyway, that’s two books I’ve DNFed so far today and it’s not even noon

[omiyagiri]

obit is not a word | atsumu x reader

pairing: atsumu miya x reader cw: swearing word count: 2.1k

"Obit is not a word."

You pause midway of slapping down your "o" tile on the gameboard. A brow climbs all the way up into your hairline. "Yes it is."

"No it ain't."

"It is now."

Atsumu squints real hard at the scrabble board, fingers bone-white and encasing his kneecaps as his body hunches in deep, lumbering thought. You give him a moment to really think things out, because you're confident 'obit' is in fact a word, and not some sort of hallucinogenic manifestation.

A few minutes pass and he lets out an aggrieved whine, hand raising like he's about to upend the board off the table. You protectively cage your arms over it and glower at him.

"You're mad because I'm winning," you said. "I told you I'd kick your ass."

"Yeah cuz you're cheatin'!"

"Am not."

"Are too."

You harness the power of pinpoint ballistics to dramatically slam the "o" onto the board. Then, you grin up at him. "You just suck."

In silent retaliation, Atsumu reaches for your glass of lemonade on the coffee table and downs it in one greedy sip. His face contorts, and you worry he's about to literally hurl on your game of scrabble, so you quickly launch yourself up to retrieve him a bottle of water. He uncaps it, eyes watering, and hoses down his throat with its contents.

While Atsumu is using all his energy reserves to not keel over and die, you turn to your phone and look up if "obit" is defined as a word in the scrabble dictionary. Surprise, surprise. It is. You smile sweetly at Atsumu as he wheezes and gags from the sour aftertaste of your stolen beverage. It's his fault. You always make your own homemade lemonade juice, and it's always stupidly sour because you're a masochist and enjoy the pain associated with your tastebuds being assaulted with corrosive acid.

"Guess what," you say.

Atsumu doesn't humor you. He petulantly looks away and crosses his arms, engaging full-on in brood mode.

"Obit's a word, according to the official scrabble website."

"That's such bull," he says. "If it's a word you gotta consult the official source for, then it shouldn't be a word."

"You're a baby. I literally let you use the word 'togo' and you still can't give me a proper definition of what it means."

Atsumu feigns picking at a hangnail, still refusing to make eye contact. Because he's guilty and he knows it. Not in the "I feel bad" kind of way, but in the "I don't want to own up to it, because if I do then that means I admit defeat, and I can't admit defeat because then that means I lose." The only reason you know he's thinking this is because you rigidly follow the same notions as he does.

"Togo probably means like, to go somewhere."

"Probably," you parrot. "Make a sentence with it, then."

Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut and thatches his fingers under his chin. "I'm going togo to the store."

"Oh my god you're so lame." You push out a sigh from your lips, leaning hard on the theatrics. Because you're not a sigher. You're a winner. "Fine, I'm a nice person. So I'll let you have this one. But you need to admit that 'obit' is a word."

"Yaknow what, how about you make a sentence with it."

Ridiculous. You straighten your back, disengaging from slumped gamer posture and into something that smacks of know-it-all. Easily, the words fall from your lips: "The earth is in obit."

Atsumu's eyes widen, and he freezes. The neck of his bottle of water is perched against his bottom lip, suspended in time. You stare at him. Then a mouthful of unswallowed water is showered upon you in a modern-day torrential approach of Atsumu-style Baptism.

You cry in disgust and because fuck, the scrabble board is now sopping wet and the pieces are in disarray. You could hardly comb through your memory to remember what you ate for breakfast, nonetheless all the bullshit words you and Atsumu came up with for your relationship-jeopardizing game of scrabble. Atsumu's too busy spilling out his innards in the form of uncontrollable laughter to respond to your vocalized woes.

"Atsumu Miya, I am going to murder you!" you say in the least murderous way possible.

"I'm gonna, die, haha"—Tears sprout in the corners of his eyes and he's holding onto his abdomen lest it divests itself of its organs—"you're so fuckin' stupid, haha!"

"Shut the fuck up I will literally set your side of the bed on fire."

"Sore loser alert! Loser! Lose-er!" He makes an "L" with his thumb and forefinger and presses it against his forehead.

Your hands clench into fists and you roll to your feet from the coffee table. Where is a lighter. You'll act on it. Atsumu is going to sleep on the ground tonight, with his side of the bed burnt to a bacon crisp. Only you can't actually engage on that line of thought much longer, because Atsumu is reaching for your wrist as you head into the kitchen.

He gives a single yank. Your world goes lopsided and you're sprawled over the cushions of the couch. His laughter is so consuming and shakes his whole body that it permeates through his arms and legs, and into the cushions under you. You shake in tandem with him because soon you're laughing, too. But you quickly stop when he opens his creased eyes.

"Still mad at me?" he says.

"Pissed."

Atsumu pouts and cages you with his stupidly volleyball-toned limbs. His eyes shine with impish delight. "You gonna send me into 'obit?'"

A scowl clenches your jaw. "I'm going togo kick your ass if you don't get off me right now."

Because it's Atsumu, and Atsumu willfully disregards threats, willfully disregards any form of rejection whatsoever, he takes the initiative to not let go of you, and anchors on harder. You try to wrestle out from under him, but he's got you pinned.

In moments like these, because yes, these kinds of occurrences are frequent in nature when you're dating a mean, clingy brat like Atsumu, you tickle his sides until he's screaming and yielding. But not this moment. You give up, fold your arms, and sulk.

"Why're givin' me the poutin' face," says Atsumu with a pouting face which has thrice the intensity of yours. His lower lip is puckered out.

"Because you're cheating!"

"You're the one using fake words, too!"

"So you admit it," you say, eyes squinting, "you did make up that word."

Atsumu shrugs one shoulder, palms still firm on the cushion under you. "C'mon, it's basic sounding enough that it prolly exists."

"So is 'obit,' bitch."

Atsumu gasps. "Ugly."

"You're uglier."

"You're ugliesteresterestest."

You crack a smile. "You're so ugly your twin lost his appetite and refused to eat you in the womb."

"Okay that's just low." Atsumu peels off you, his pout even more pronounced.

"Not going to clap back with a comeback?"

"Naw, I'm feelin' nice today. Generous, even. I'll let you have this win."

This strikes a solid chord of suspicion in you. You unfurl from the couch and regard him with a critical eye. There's no way he's taking this lying down. It's Atsumu Fucking Miya.

And it's Atsumu Fucking Miya who takes one askance glance at you, and with a flick of his wrist the scrabble board goes flying topsy-turvy and dead on the floor. Wooden pieces assail the ground, and you have to fight toe, tooth, nail, whatever to not wail in outrage and headlock him.

"Whoops," he says. "Accident. I guess this can be my win since ya had yers. Better luck next time, babe."

"I memorized the board. We can set it back up to how it was."

Atsumu's smile twitches. "No ya didn't."

"I did. Wild, era, joints, quay, hauty, file, milord, fen, tag, cover, nix, obit, togo, tab, week, begin—"

His hand clamps over your mouth and you're once again pushed against the couch, cushioned under his body weight. You spirit will not waver. You will win this scrabble game. Every word, every letter, every placement, it was all lodged into the wrinkles of your brain.

"Nope," he says, "we're done. Scrabble's a borin' game anyway. We can play somethin' else. Anything else."

You lick the palm of his hand, but he doesn't flinch.

He has the audacity to lean in and deliver an exaggerated, loud smooch onto the back of the hand smothering your face. You jerk up your knee and nearly knock him in the nuts. It's enough for him to forcibly rip himself from you with a high-pitched yelp of terror.

"I don't want to play any other game. I wanted to win scrabble."

Atsumu eyes you cautiously, disbelievingly. "It really means that much to ya?"

"If it didn't then I wouldn't have been playing in the first place!" The fight in you is quickly evaporating, and Atsumu's not in an indulgent mood to surrender the fight. So you sink into the couch, cross one leg over the other, and harrumph.

Atsumu stands there, in the middle of the living room, looking like a lost puppy. All wide-eyed, confused, head tilted. He shifts his weight from one foot, then to the other. Then, the words leave him, face wrinkling with something reminiscent of pain and reluctance, "How can. I." He inhales. "Make it up to ya?"

"By finishing the game but it's fine!"

"Ya don't sound fine."

"Yeah because I lied!"

He raises his hands, exasperated. His eyes search the room for something, but eventually land back on you. "Why're ya lyin'!"

"Don't get on my case for lying! You habitually lie. You're a reflexive liar."

"No I'm not," he says, "I think? Actually maybe I am. But—"

"Did you wash the dishes today?"

"Yeah—"

You laugh, it's an earnest one. "See? No you didn't, I did."

"Well I washed 'em yesterday!"

"I know, but you proved my point. You lie, then correct yourself afterwards. You don't even lie to get yourself out of trouble, you just like, do it because it's ingrained in you."

Atsumu whines and flops down on the couch next to you. "Alright, fine." His brow is scrunched. "You can win this time."

"My, you really are generous."

He nudges you. "You suck."

You sprawl out over his lap. His thighs press against the back of yours as you rest your head atop the armrest and stare at the ceiling. "Since you gave me this win, does that mean I get to lounge while you clean up the mess you made of the boardgame?"

Cue another long, exaggerated whine crawling from his throat. He takes one of your hands in his. They lace together instinctively—a tight squeeze. "Gimme like, five more minutes. And then I'll do it. I guess. Maybe."

"Not lying are you?"

"No! I'm not a liar. For the most part."

"Let's settle on half part, then."

Atsumu opens his mouth to argue, but he yawns, and the lids of his eyes tread further down. "Fine. Half. I'm a half liar. There, ya happy?"

"Always. I'm always happy."

"See who's the liar, now. You were miss pouty pants earlier."

"I can be happy and pouty at the same time."

He laughs. "I guess so."

You turn your head and look at him. "Atsumu?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry for calling you mean names earlier, and implying I wanted your brother to cannibalize fetus-you."

"Holy shit could ya have made that sound even more disgustin'? Apology unaccepted." He flicks you on the forehead. "I like ya when yer a lil mean, anyway."

"Aww but baby I wanna love you and give you kisses and fawn all over youuuu!" You make mock-kissing noises at him.

"Ew! Fuckin' stop!" He fake gags, but you can feel his pulse rise in the fingers bunched between yours. Adorable.

"I love you sooo much, Atsumu. My baby Atsumu. My manly man Atsumu. Cool, strong, handsome Atsumu."

He leans down and shuts you up with a kiss. You clench, unclench, and strengthen your grip on his hand as his mouth steals the words resting on the tip of your tongue.

When he retracts, he draws his thumb across your cheekbone and smiles at you. No meanness. No cruelty. No competitiveness. "I love ya, too. Even though 'obit' isn't a word."

"I still win, though?"

He contemplates, forehead knocking against yours. Both of your breaths mingle in the marginal space between your faces. "As long as yer wins are my wins, I guess I'm okay with it."

"Then yours are mine? I'm an Olympic gold medalist, now?"

"Always, ya loser."

"Winner," you corrected.

"Winner," he confirms.

Finally, an agreement.

by wobbles

[docholligay]

For the Valentine’s Day prompt: HARUMICHI

In recent years, I have come to love the easy way Haruka has with me, the way she asks for what she needs, and gives freely of her emotions. In no way would I replace the confident, tender, open woman Haruka has become, and it makes me happy, as simple and borderline garish  as that sounds, to see her so at ease. 

All that being said, I often recall the awkward and bashful energy that accompanied our first Valentine’s day together. 

We were both such idiots. 

I thought of myself as a woman, then, though of course that was only the utter nonsense of some young thing pretending to something greater.  We were not quite living together, not yet, though I was anxious for the opportunity. It was tiresome, I thought, to have the driver go all the way over to Haruka’s dreary little apartment, only to occasionally be told they had to leave, for her mother was in some state of intoxication, or with her boyfriend, or more than likely, both. It was also ridiculous, the wisdom of my younger self imagined, that I had to play at stocking Haruka’s kitchen, or buying her new linens for her sad mat on the floor, or anything Haruka clearly needed but struggled to accept. 

And so, Valentine’s Day gave me a bit of an excuse to lavish things on Haruka that otherwise she might have been forced to create an elaborate pantomime around. I strolled about the Mitsukoshi department store, picking up things here and there, having associates bring them to the front. A set of dishes, for romantic dinners, I would say. A pile of fine pajamas, for all of our sleepovers. A silk kimono–really more a gift for me, Haruka, that you might accompany me at the mundane events my brother holds. A set of luggage, which you simply must have if I am to take you to Paris. 

Haruka had little, and I found it utterly exhausting, This first holiday was a chance to change that, and if we had only been together a few months, it made little difference to me, a swipe of my  allowance that barely made a dent. 

Haruka had already refused to let me take her out to dinner, insisting she would cook herself. After much negotiation, Haruka had at least conceded to allow this silliness to take place at my first apartment, which I had dubbed small, with mediocre appointments, compared to my parents’ penthouse, but dwarfed Haruka’s. 

Oh, I know. I am well aware that I hardly come off as the heroine in this story, but if we are being quite frank, there are few stories of my youth in which I do. I was spoilt beyond belief and thought nothing of pride, for mine had never truly been at issue. I saw Haruka as a stubborn fool, albeit a stubborn fool of whom I was growing very fond, and could not imagine why anyone would be proud over the issue of a few thousand yen. 

In any case, she agreed to my wishes, and I had the gifts wrapped and delivered to my home. I treated myself to demi baguette with roe butter and a glass of wine. Haruka, you see, had asked that I not return until later that evening, that she might surprise me with the things she had created. I had little doubt in my mind that I would be surprised, and, in case of a surprise to us both, picked up a fine tart from the bakery before I left for home. 

When I arrived, the kitchen was a flurry of activity, Haruka in her little apron running back and forth between things. It was charming, though unnecessary, to see her work so hard. Our small table was set with a white tablecloth that had a few spots on it, unable to be resolved from whenever she had purchased it. A pair of ceramic candlesticks were in the center, candles burning down quickly inside them. There was a single rose inside a cheap porcelain bud vase. 

Snottily, I though, ‘well, at the very least she’s used my china.” 

You have to understand, in those days, I thought it was I who had everything to give to Haruka, and did not realize that she had plenty to give to me as well. I will not attempt to make an excuse for myself, but when one is raised as I was, one tends to get the idea that lowering yourself to the little people is only done out of a sense of noblesse oblige. It is for this reason that I was so resistant to have M.A. marry back into society, though she certainly seems to have threaded that particular needle with far more grace. 

So, as I was saying, Haruka was working very hard, and I took my appointed seat as she began to serve. I remember that it was not particularly elegant, but ti was clearly made with a great deal of effort and love, and as you know Haruka is not without some talent in the kitchen. It’s silly, the way memory works. I remember so much of this night and yet I have completely forgotten what it was exactly that she served. Perhaps that is the least interesting part of the story, after all. 

I do remember dessert. She presented a sweet, small cake, with a pair of uneven hearts made of chocolate in the top of it. The raspberry filling was spilling from the sides a bit, and you could see the spots where the crumb coat had not quite covered. I brought out the tart I’d purchased–you know, Dominique Ansel had a space there, at the time–a dark chocolate and matcha torte, the chocolate shell tempered to perfection, even and smooth ganaches, elegant dusting on the top. 

Haruka looked at me and said, “Oh, you brought dessert.” 

I am, even now, not often given to shame, I see no point in it and have no use for it, but in that moment I realized that I had somehow undermined all she had wished to in my pursuit of that which was considered the best. There was a quality in her voice that contained an edge of hurt, and her enthusiasm faded for a moment. 

And then, of course, being as difficult as I was back in those times, she brushed it off, tossed her hair back and declared that this cake was fine and all but it was too much for just two people, is all she meant, a phrase which, i think you can agree, Haruka has never uttered in earnest in her life. 

The moment was gone, and even if it had not been I did not have qualities in me to soothe her. We truly did grow up together, she and I, and if there were a God, I would thank him for the miracle of our staying together while we tripped over each other. 

The parade of gifts came, and each one after the next I noticed Haruka’s discomfort more and more as she unwrapped them. I brushed it off as yet another of her little fits over the fact that from time to time I would like to provide for her, and rather ignored it. She was trying very hard to pretend it wasn’t bothering her anyhow, telling me she didn’t need the whole store and things of that nature. I told her it pleased me to do these things, and that, at least, was true. It has always pleased me to treat her, to care for her, only then I was not so good at realizing money is not always a substitute for the softer things, which she needed much more. 

At the end of it all she thanked me, although not with the enthusiasm I had hoped, but with a sort of awkward huff, as if I had somehow displeased her. She turned her face away from mine, and looked toward the clumsily-wrapped package on the windowsill. 

“Well,” I said, brushing off her moodiness, “I suppose it’s now my turn to open.” 

“Yeah,” she shrugged, “sure. I didn’t have a lot of time, so I’ll have to make it up to you, take you out somewhere nice.” 

“Oh,” I unwrapped the corner, “You’re being perfectly silly just now.” 

It was a picture frame with wide sides, whatever color it had been in a former life painted over with a layer of cheap acrylic, a soft turquoise color that matched the sheets of my bed. There were clumsily painted hearts on one side of it in pinks and reds, and across the top and down the other sides, old scrabble tiles spelled out ‘Michiru’ across the top, ‘Haruka’ down the side, our names intersecting at the ‘ru.’ In the center, a picture of us, at some holiday festival, smiling, colored lights gaily sparkling around us. 

I have told you previously, though, you have known me for so long I feel this hardly needs telling, that I was, an to some extent, still, an inveterate snob, who tolerated only the finest things in life. And, while this is true, I must tell you that I had never allowed that someone might spend time on a gift for me. The acrylic was cheap, but obviously carefully layered, and the tiles were so straight as the must have been set with a line and level. She had gone to great effort for me. I was deeply touched, my chest aching with love for it, with love for her. She loved me as a human, you see, and not as a doll, to be dressed and posed and mollified with gifts. 

I wish I could tell you this was the part of the story where I tell her how much a valued her gift, and all the reasons why. That would be a lie, I regret to say. I thanked her, and said I would put it immediately by my bedside, and she had chosen such a lovely picture. I wish I could tell you Haruka swelled with pride at the compliment, but she simply touched the edge of the pajamas I’d given her and shrugged. We polished off a bottle of wine, had sex, and went to bed. 

Oh, don’t look that way, it all turns out in the end, you know that. I tell you this to inform you that even the greatest highway begins as a dirt road, and so it was with Haruka and I. You know, this last Valentine’s Day, for I still have the frame by my bedside, though I change the picture year to year, she gave me another. M.A. and Kimi, it said, in English tiles that she had Mina help her work out, for of course the intersection is impossible in Japanese, M.A.’s full name being French. I nearly cried, when she gave it to me. 

I tell you this so that you will know the journey is worth making, and that things will be made softer, and better. A life can be changed, and a person can grow, however impossible it seems. 

I tell you this, for I have come to love Valentine’s Day.                           

[nottodaylogic]

light.

Summary: EVEN MORE OF THE GAY LOGINCE! With a special question bECAUSE @shootingace / @ohbytheangel and I have NO. SELF. CONTROL. WHATSOEVER. Based on a post by @today-only-happens-once and dedicated, once more, to @sanders-sides-thuri :)

Pairing: Logince 

A/N: Takes place after sun., part 3/3 of the Logince Fluff series, written, again, with @shootingace :) this is the last part, super fun (and frustrating since I’ve never been to Olive Garden) to write! 

@hghrules @becca-becky @tinysidestrashcaptain 

Hope y’all like it! :D

The tile in one pocket and the box in the other seemed to almost, nonsensically, burn as Logan walked. They’d talked over this topic before, multiple times, so there was no logical reason to be nervous.

And yet.

“Date night?” he asked his boyfriend, kissing him on the cheek. Roman startled, accidentally mutilating the word he was typing. He just looked at it, betrayed. “I’ve prepared some activities,” Logan murmured.

Roman looked very excited. “Ooh, activities! I like activities!”

“I like you.”

Roman flushed, deep and red. “Aren’t you sappy today. What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion. I was simply stating a fact.” He hummed, extending his arm. “I have made reservations. Shall we leave?”

“Hold on, just let me finish this sentence.”

This meant “let me finish this scene because I have no self control and must write a lot even though there are other priorities.”

“Of course.” Logan dropped a kiss to Roman’s head and walked away swiftly to get his coat.

Ten minutes later, as he expected, Roman staggered in, haphazardly yanking his jacket on. Logan looked at his watch.

“Precisely on time.” He opened the door. “Come. Our destination awaits.”

“Where are we going?” Roman asked mischievously.

“You shall see.”

“Tell me? Pleeeeeease?”

Logan smirked, leaning in and pressing a short kiss to Roman’s lips. “Will that satisfy you for the time being?”

“Mmmm, I don’t think so.” Roman tugged Logan closer, kissing him deeply. He set his hand on the small of Logan’s back, like he was about to dip him, making Logan go breathless.

“Now will you tell?” Roman asked, pulling back.

“It’s a surprise,” Logan breathed, though he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it a surprise if Roman insisted on making him fall even more in love.

Roman leaned in and whispered, “rude.” He then dropped him.

Logan scrambled to his feet, thankful for his 18 Dexterity. “Hey. We don’t have to go on the date if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to! It’s incredibly romantic, my dear. Surprises are exciting yet it’s so hard to wait!”

“As Virgil would say, ‘because you are an impatient baby’.” Logan guestuted forward, towards the car. “After you.”

—

Logan pulled into the parking lot. There weren’t many decent spots, but he managed to grab one.

Roman turned to him excitedly, seeing their destination. “Ooh, Olive Garden?”

“I come prepared to woo the server into giving us extra breadsticks to take home.”

“You’re the best.”

Logan blushed softly. “Thank you. Now, our reservation awaits us.”

They entered the restaurant and were seated right away, thanks to Logan planning ahead and making a reservation.

“Your server will be right with you,” the host said, showing them to their table.

Roman pulled out Logan’s chair dramatically. “Monsieur, your chair?”

Logan rolled his eyes. He sat down, pushing out Roman’s chair with his foot. “There. Now we are even.”

“You’re a nerd,” Roman said fondly.

Logan inhaled, ready to refute this claim, but instead said only: “I know.”

“Wow. And you say I have an ego.”

“It is true, why are you pointing that out?” Logan was confused and a bit flustered by how sweet Roman was being.

Roman snorted. “You’re adorable.”

“No, I am very serious. I am not adorable. Patton is the adorable one.”

“That’s true, but it doesn’t mean you’re not adorable.”

That’s when a server came up to their table, preventing Logan from protesting more. “Hey, I’m Remy, can I get you anything to get started?” He set a menu in front of the couple.

“Breadsticks,” Roman said, at the same time Logan said, “water, please.”

“Of course. Some waters and a basket of breadsticks?”

They nodded and Remy left. The two chatted about movies that they hoped to watch, the drama that Logan heard from his students, how Roman’s characters were behaving.

“I try to get them to do something! And usually, they’re pretty good with cooperating. Just, these past few days, they just… won’t.”

“Can’t you simply… make them do it?”

Roman made distressed noises. “But I can’t! It feels weird then, and out of character! Okay, okay, enough about my distress. Spill the tea that you hear from your students.”

“Alright.” Logan adjusted his glasses. “You will not believe what Lizzie told me Justin K. did…”

Roman clapped excitedly. “Ooh, that idiot Justin! What did he do this time?”

“Well…”

Logan told him, Roman’s grin growing, becoming more and more mischievous.

“So let me get this gay. He told this teacher, who was literally eight months pregnant, that he didn’t think women needed a maternity leave?”

“Mhm.”

“Has he ever been pregnant? Or given birth?”

Logan laughed. He loved Roman so, so, much. “Not that I know of.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I know that teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, but Justin is definitely on my ‘not a favorite’ list. Not that I have any such thing.”

“You know, I think we’re supposed to be deciding what to order right now,” Roman mentioned.

“As if you don’t get the same exact thing every time we come here.”

“You got me there.”

“That’s a meme.”

“You got me there.”

Logan stifled a laugh. “I love you.”

Roman smiled. “Love you too.”

That’s when Remy came back to take their orders. Roman ordered spaghetti and tomato soup. Logan ordered lasagna and a Greek salad. A chat and two baskets of breadsticks later, their dinner had arrived.

Logan ate his lasagna and laughed at Roman’s jokes, but the weight in his pocket—why did he bring the ring, it might get lost, he didn’t need it, this is illogical—was very present in his mind.

And worse was the nagging thought that Roman might say no. Of course, they had talked about marriage, but you could never be completely sure of an outcome.

“Something on your mind?” Roman asked, his foot brushing Logan’s.

Logan smiled. “You.”

Roman laughed. “You’re so sweet. It’s great.”

And with those words, that laugh, Logan felt himself drawn back into the moment, the fears of a future yes or no gone for the time being.

—

When they returned back home, Logan brought out the scrabble board.

Roman raised an eyebrow. “Not even gonna ask me if I wanna play this?”

“You’ve been bringing up how you want to play Scrabble for ten days now.”

“True.”

They set it up, Logan allowed his boyfriend to pick the starting word (LADDER) (“what? It’s the only thing I can do!”), and the game began.

“Your turn,” Roman said, gesturing to the board.

Logan set down the letters R, O, M, A, and N.

“Hey, no! That doesn’t count, it’s a proper noun!”

“I’ve let you get away with many proper nouns over the years. Cut me some slack.” Logan sat back, gesturing to the board. “You go.”

Roman put down O, P, and E to write NOPE.

Logan tried not to take this as a bad omen.

He then added L, O, V to the E in NOPE, making it LOVE.

“Awww, you sap,” Roman teased, swooning. “That’s so sweet.”

They continued playing, Logan adding FOREVER and DEDICATION to Roman’s words (OCEAN and DISBELIEF)

“Is something amiss?” Roman felt his forehead, looking overly concerned for the comedic effect. “You seem to be exceedingly sentimental today.”

Logan brushed this off with a, “It was simply what I could make with my letters and the board.”

Roman eyed him curiously, but dropped the topic. “Your turn.”

Logan wordlessly set down his piece, putting it right next to ROMAN, so that it read ROMAN, will you marry me?

Roman started to protest about how “that’s not in the rules of the game, Logan!”, but then he stopped, obviously having read the piece.

His eyes snapped up, meeting Logan’s.

“You… you… Logan.” It seemed he couldn’t say anything more.

Logan slid out his chair, dropping to one knee, holding the box with the ring in front of him. “Marry me, Roman Princeton?”

“Lo… Logan, oh my gosh. Oh my gosh.” And then he was out of his chair, too, stumbling towards Logan. He leaned down, taking Logan’s face in his hands, kissing him softly. “Yes, yes, of course, yes.”

Logan let Roman pull him to his feet, his arms around Roman’s waist, holding him tight. “Roman. I love you. I love every moment we’ve spent together. I treasure every memory I share with you. And I’d like to make more memories with you. For the rest of forever.”

Roman nodded, pressing his his forehead to Logan’s shoulder. “Yes,” he choked out.

“Hey, Ro, don’t cry,” Logan whispered, rubbing Roman’s crisp, clean shirt between his fingers. “Don’t cry.”

But he would be lying if he said that he wasn’t crying a little too.

Because finally, finally, he would be marrying the love of his life.

Because… because he just loved Roman so much, loved him so much that sometimes he didn’t know what to do with all the feelings.

Because Roman was going to be his, his, forever and ever and ever.

“I love you so damn much, Roman.”

“I love you too.” Roman pulled back slightly, holding his hand out. “You going to… you going to actually put that ring on me?”

Logan laughed softly and slid the ring onto Roman’s finger, then pull Roman’s hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. “I love you. I love you so much, Ro.”

“I know.”

Logan laughed, pulling Roman close and kissing him. “You're wonderful, Princey.”

“Mmm, I know.” Logan stared at Roman, deadpan. “Just kidding, you are too.” Roman nudged Logan’s chin with his nose then kissed his cheek. “Love you. So freaking much.”

“Dance with me?” Logan asked, the words spilling out of his mouth before he could really process what he was asking.

“Where’s the music?”

Logan tilted his head. “Sing?”

Roman snorted. “Well, we need some sort of background music, Lo. I can’t sing if I’m gonna kiss you, and I’d very much like to kiss you.”

Logan blushed, his breath catching in his chest.

“C’mon, babe,” Roman said. “Music.”

So Logan grabbed his phone, pulling up the “romantic songs for my nerd” playlist Roman had made for him.

On came As Long As You’re Mine from Wicked, and Logan pulled Roman close.

They danced and twirled and laughed together, Logan falling more and more in love. Roman was so beautiful, so loving, and Logan got to spend the rest of his live with him.

“I love you, Roman.”

“Yeah?” Roman whispered.

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

So Logan twirled Roman, then pulled him back, dipping him and kissing him softly.

Roman let out a soft gasp. “I love you so much,” he murmured, tangling his fingers in Logan’s hair.

“Love you too.”

—

Later, they lay on the bed together, staring at the ceiling, tired, content.

Roman curled up on Logan’s chest, so beautifully exhausted. “How long were you planning to propose?”

Logan thought for a moment. “A little while.”

“How long did you know you wanted to marry me?”

Running his hands through his fiancé’s hair, he responded, “Forever, probably. I just—I never imagined my future without you. And then a few weeks ago I realized that why not get married?”

Roman seemed to think this through for a moment when he asked, “Why me?”

The question took Logan by surprise. “Why you what?”

Roman looked directly into Logan’s eyes. The expression there was raw, unable to be described. “Why did you want to marry me?”

Because you’re the only person I’d ever want to marry. Because you’re the only person I’d ever want. Because you’re stellar. Because you’re funny and sweet and dramatic and unique and loving and thoughtful and romantic. Because despite loving you, I can’t find the vocabulary to express all of this. “Because I love you.”

“Aww, Lo.” Roman reached up, kissing Logan softly. “Now we get to plan a wedding.”

“But first we should go to bed.”

Roman’s eyebrows raised as he smirked, and Logan only slightly regretted his phrasing. “As you wish.”

Logan blushed, but nobody could prove it, so what did it matter?

—

Logan woke first in the morning, a stream of light illuminating the room. He glanced down at Roman, snoring, the ring on his finger shining.

And Logan knew that they would get to spend the rest of their lives like this.