#this was an elaborate ploy to write an evil yuuta in glasses

[pileofmush]

cw: they're kinda toxic </3 suggestive discussion. grim humor (kys mention). also cheating vibes? …yeesh. dw she’s silly

“I’m tired of this,” says Yuuta, out of the blue.

The two of you are slumped over a wooden library table, locked away in one of the study rooms Yuuta booked ahead of time. It’s Sunday evening and you’re doing all you can to study for an upcoming Modern Philosophy exam, reading and jotting down notes on your too-tiny iPad. It’s not uncommon for the two of you to meet up like this; work on assignments for a few hours while exchanging dry quips. Your friend—and in this context, “Accountability Buddy”— sits across from you, hunched over his laptop doing God-knows-what. Probably completing problem sets for the mumbo jumbo he’s learning in Chem. 

You lift your head from the wall of text you’re slogging through, tired as well. Any second longer, your eyes’ll bleed from their sockets, slip out, and roll across the table. 

Slumped in your seat, you nod in concession. “If Descartes weren’t already dead, I’d murder the little Frenchman myself."

Yuuta peers at you from beneath his dark curtain bangs, chin lazily propped in a ghostly pale hand. 

“Cute,” he says, “but not what I’m referring to.”

You blink. 

“Well, fuck you then.”

And that should be the end of that. But the insolent man hums, so sickly sweet it rots in your mouth. “Maybe if you ask nicely.”

Ah.

Everything slows.

The pit in your stomach swoops. 

Your eyes flicker to your book, then back to him. From his wiry reading glasses perched delicately on his nose, to his subtly pleased countenance.

Alarm bells sound off in your head.

At once, your brain whirs and begins to re-contextualize the question mark that is Okkotsu Yuuta: Charming, inviting… and a whopping load of trouble. 

You squint at his prior insinuation. Roll the thought around in your head. “And when, pray tell, have I ever been nice?” 

Yuuta just tilts his head like a doe and stares at you with wide, unblinking eyes. They’re contemplative—unobscured by the thin frames of his glasses—considering you with an undercurrent of…pity ?

“You’ll still try for me, won’t you?” He asks, imploring you with those mopey fucking eyes.

It upsets you. Blunt nails dig into your thighs. Carve into your flesh. “I have a boyfriend,” you manage to get out. It’s a waste of breath.

(Who are you reminding?)

He doesn’t bat an eye. “You don’t really like him, though.”

You flinch.

 “I do.”

“You don’t.”

This fucking bitch.

Across from you, Yuuta tuts. “You’re not a very good liar,” he tells you, a flash of pink darting across his bottom lip. “Because we both know you don’t care for him.”

Anger—hot and dry—flashes and dies underneath your skin, leaving your body cold and brittle with nothing to warm you but the deep, heady embers swirling in your gut. Catching on dry leaves and twigs lying at the bottom. 

Enough.

“Yuuta,” you say, patience razor-thin. “I’m two seconds away from stabbing you with my stylus.”

It’s as if he can’t hear you. He leans forward and pulls, drawing your hands onto the table and saying your name like it means something to him. “Come home with me,” he urges you, snaking a nimble hand around your own and entangling his long fingers with yours. He’s messy like that. Tying your fingers and common sense into jumbled knots. Casually asking you to warm his bed.

“Kill yourself.”

Yuuta smiles coyly and hums in thought. He flexes his outstretched hand, flipping your palms up toward the ceiling.

“Double suicide?” He suggests.

A spark pops. Smoke starts to curl around your ribcage, enter your lungs. “No. Too romantic.”

You wonder if you can asphyxiate from the inside out.