He’s confident he’ll ace the next test. You’re pretty sure he spent every tutoring session staring at you instead.
-> wc 650, @phantasmaebg , I’ve decided I’m likely deleting futakuchi related things after this event is over because what the freak
The library was a place of silence. It was the solitary structure that swirled with peace and the way your thoughts ran wild at your lonesome, the endless stories meant to live only in your head lining rows upon rows of wooden shelves. Dust clung to them like the plague written about in the history section—stubborn and invading every sense you could use. It collected at your fingertips and dissipated into nothing, though, unlike the lingering sickness that led to the demise of so many. It was simple; temporary. Its presence was as light as the next breath you drew in, insignificant, yet holding its own importance all the same.
You hated things that broke the silence, penetrated the deep tranquility residing within the four walls you’d become so acquainted with. It was a piercing force that disrupted the order of it all and sent it spirally into an erratic cycle of chaos. Everything else about uni life had become as such, the library was your sanctuary.
You hated things that broke the silence. But for some reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to really hate him.
“And then,” you instructed quietly, voice hushed as if afraid to push itself any further. He could barely hear you, but the whisper was sweet all the same. He had a dazed, far away look in his eyes as you spoke, every word in one ear and out the other.
Your lips pressed into a thin line. “Are you even listening?”
“Hm?” he blinked, abruptly jolting from his (lovesick) trance. His eyebrows raised as if he was the one asking you a question—as if he wasn’t the one being scolded. “Yeah, I’m listening,” he said after a moment, undeniably a lie, but you were more focused on the way it echoed through the quiet of the otherwise empty space.
“Shh.” Your eyes narrowed in a berating manner, screaming ‘shut up’ without going through the trouble of straining your voicebox.
He pressed his cheek to his palm, almost lazily leaning against it. “Sorry.” He wasn’t sorry. Not in the slightest was he sorry. He radiated an air of unapologetic nonchalance, as if there weren’t a thing in the world mighty enough to irk him. It was enough to draw a long, deep sigh from your lips.
“More listening, less yelling. You can’t fail this test,” you murmured.
His elbow shifted against the table, sleeve of his sweater rubbing thickly against the material. It tugged at it—the old, splintered wood catching on the loose threads, but if he noticed he didn’t seem to mind. “You worry too much. I’m acing this exam, a hundred percent,” he shrugged.
You had to suppress a chuckle at his confidence, because in your eyes, there wasn’t much to back it up. He had a tutor for a reason other than to ogle, right? He had to. Surely he wasn’t that willing to blow his money on a pretty face.
“Hundred percent,” he repeated. “I’ll bet on it.”
You paused for a beat, but ultimately decided to entertain him. You figured your life could use a little more than the quiet of dusty bookshelves, you could toe at the edges of the shore, just a bit. With a hum, you prompted him to continue.
“If I ace it…” he stilled to contemplate, as if he hadn’t made up his mind long before this opportunity even came to light. “You have to kiss me.”
A snort nearly crawled its way up your throat, the irony so thickly laced in his tone you thought he was joking. “Like the princess and the frog?”
“I’m serious!” he said. “You’re gonna lose. Just wait.”
That night, he went home and spent late hours with his nose in a textbook. He did in fact ace that exam, and he walked out of the building later that day with a lipstick stain lingering on his lips.
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