[neiptune]

here in the old therebefore

cw: 14k+ wc, hunger games au, female reader, oliver aiku is from your same district, enemies to lovers, blood, injuries, trauma, heavy angst. I worked really really hard on this and I genuinely hope you will enjoy peeking into this little world I created within the hunger games universe!

This year’s arena is a fucking nightmare.

You think of the afternoon of your reaping and of how similar but entirely different the rainfall currently sticking your clothes to your skin is. Everything here is carefully assembled to feel real enough to evoke a painful nostalgia, to craft the illusion of belonging to the real world still, where the air, the rain, the flowers and the sun are authentic.

But this rain is only falling because the gamemakers want it to fall and the real world is where they’re controlling this fucked up landscape from. You’re not sure you feel real yourself anymore, reduced to a pawn the Capitol will have its great fun watching as it slaughters or gets slaughtered.

President Snow must be really fucking proud of this special adult-only 45th edition, an experiment he was apparently dying to try out. While you’re relieved, thankful for the very first edition where Panem won’t have to watch as children get butchered, you’re also very aware of the actual, ultimate goal: a carnage that is more exciting, grown ups competing against grown ups, tributes who will hopefully make the games last longer and thus grant increased entertainment.

The dizziness forces you to lean against a pine tree, letting the cortex support your weight. You’re so tired and practically out of water. Being on your own has its advantages but it also means that you don’t really get to sleep or relax, ever.

As you watch the way heavy raindrops bend the ferns, you try to image what the other tributes are doing. What he is doing.

His face is yet to be projected in the sky, as opposed to the other 16 tributes who have already fallen. You try to ignore the weird relief the knowledge brings, associate it with the fact that you still want to be the one who kills him. As you promised both him and yourself.

The memory of the laugh Oliver responded with makes your nails angrily dig into the soft, wet soil. Neither mockery nor sarcasm had taken root in the annoyingly familiar sound: it was just a laugh. Someone who didn’t know him well enough could’ve thought he was content with the idea of you planting a knife through his throat.    

You, someone who does know him well enough and still doesn’t understand what that laugh meant.

One thing’s for sure, he’s currently doing much better than a lot of tributes. Despite being a career, Oliver refused all alliance proposals and made it clear that he intended to face the games on his own. Why? You have no idea. But you’re pretty confident his sponsors have been drowning him in helpful gifts: he got one of the highest scores from the gamemakers and his interview with Caesar was flawless. The Capitol adores him. Well, as much as a bunch of disgusting pigs can adore someone they sent to die anyway.

Part of your irritation attenuates. He was sent here to die, which is probably the only thing someone like Oliver Aiku has in common with this edition’s other unfortunate tributes.

Still, he’s spent his entire life training for this very moment, hasn’t he? You engaged in your fair share of training too but it was never because you saw the games as some glorious ritual you’d give your best to perform into. It was simply because you wished to face death with a shred of honor. You refuse to go down without a fight, give the Capitol the satisfaction of watching one of their most surprisingly hostile tributes die like a dog. You’re surely not going to emerge victorious from the games, nor you wish to do so in the first place, but you’re going to give them a show alright.

You read the incredulity in their eyes. Your mentors, the gamemakers, Caesar, some of the other tributes. You despise the Capitol and made no secret of it. You were simply smart enough to disguise your aversion with witty jokes and a cheeky demeanour, one they could consider scandalous but in a fun way: audacious, bold, never intimidating.

Unfortunately, being smart about it wasn’t enough to win you a good score or sponsors. On any other edition perhaps you’d have a chance but it is quite nearly impossible to shine when Aiku is the tribute coming from your same District. He put up the perfect show: talented, funny, immensely charming, painfully handsome. There isn’t a single chance in hell someone would decide to sponsor you over him.

Perhaps this is what is going to kill you in the end. You’d certainly prefer dying from dehydration rather than that District 4 girl’s trident anyway.

With a grimace, you remember seeing Oliver snatch a trident from the Cornucopia. Why are you even thinking about him so much? Focus, you tell yourself. It’s a bit late to regret the decision to leave behind the one water source you were able to find but the lake offered close to no refuge and you didn’t want to be murdered in such a stupid way.

You collect some of the rain with your hands and try to drink a few drops but you spit it out immediately: it’s disgusting, the product of someone deciding that dirt and mold should acquire a taste.

“Amazing work on the rain, everyone”, you’re certain some of the audience is cackling so much their stomachs hurt. Maybe at least one fo them will choke on their expensive cognac.

You hear it before you see it but it’s too late. The arrow now stuck in the tree, right by your head, was supposedly meant to produce bigger harm than the scratch now burning on your cheek.

Adrenaline kicks in and you quickly roll over behind the tree while grabbing one of your knives. The dizziness caused by dehydration may be contributing to the sense of disorientation because you are not able to locate where exactly the arrow came from. Whoever is in the forest probably knows a target is all you need.

“Let’s not do that”, it doesn’t help that the voice comes from a completely different spot from the one you’re currently keeping a careful eye on from behind the tree, “no use in hiding. I’ll come out first”.

He really does. Your fingers instinctively close tighter around your knife.

Bastion, District 1, dangerously skilled and unfortunately holding a long range weapon. Something tells you the blood splattered all over his clothes and face is far from being his own.

“See? I’m here. Now you can come out too”.

He says your name and it makes your stomach churn. Well, if this is it, you’re not going to hide like a coward. Face death with dignity. Maybe he’ll kill you but you can still give him hell.

You emerge from behind the tree holding both your knives, clothes glued to your wet skin. Bastion offers a smile.

“There you go. I can make it quick or I can make it excruciating, it’s up to you. Wanna give me those knives?”.

“Sure”, you smile back and toss one so quickly not even someone as well trained as him reacts fast enough to completely circumvent it. The gash on his arm is deep enough to bleed, bothersome enough to make him grimace.

“You think you’re so smart”, he nocks another arrow and you take a step back while he prepares to aim, “too bad you were too much of a bitch for any of us to want you in their alliance”.

The shot is good but not perfect. You can’t help the cry that bubbles up from your throat as the skin of your hip is lacerated. The arrow has a narrow point on it so you deem it safe enough to simply pull it straight out. The sharp pain makes tears well up in your eyes but you don’t give Bastion the satisfaction of hearing another wail.

“You’ve got some guts, I’ll give you that”, he grins, eyes darting to the wound your blood is dripping from. The crimson fluid blends with the rainwater at your feet, tinting a puddle in pale pink.

“Fuck you”, you try to put more distance between your bodies.

Bastion’s tone drips with condescension.

“Under different circumstances, I might’ve let you”.

Good, he needs to keep talking. You need him to be distracted just the right amount, enough to calculate the perfect throwing distance.

“You mean I would’ve been your type if we weren’t supposed to kill each other?”, you take a step forward, which seems to confuse him. Surely the oldest trick in the book will work on this giant idiot.

“I think you would’ve been mine”, just as you tentatively offer a smile, your eyes dramatically widen as they flicker to a spot behin him. You swiftly dodge an imaginary threat and if the bluff is not enough for Bastion to completely abandon his attack stance, it’s at least enough for him to waste a second by whipping his head around. An entire second offered on a silver platter, extended to someone who couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity. Poor Bastion. You’d feel worse if he wasn’t such a massive asshole. Oh, and if he wasn’t here to murder you, obviously.

The crossbow falls to the ground. He blinks and brings a hand to his neck, where your knife has been planted through a perfect shot.

“I’m sorry”, you murmur as he looks at you with wide eyes.

Bastion falls to the ground and you step closer, with the intention of granting him a quicker death by stabbing the carotid artery, which you clearly missed. Asshole or not, he’s still as much of a victim as you.

He is scared of dying, it’s written all over his frozen features. Suddenly, he’s not a career anymore: just a terrified boy who is loved by his friends, his family, who now have to watch him die. Just a boy who was willing to do anything to go back to them. You take his hand and squeeze it tight.

The pain that explodes in your leg is sudden, so intense you can’t contain the shriek that echoes across the trees. You collapse right next to Bastion, whose eyes are still open but no longer able to see. You’re barely able to register the horribly familiar sound of the cannon proclaiming his death.

Panting, tears now freely streaming down your cheeks, you roll onto your back and see the arrow planted in the soft flesh of your calf. It’s different from the ones Bastion used, this one’s a hunting arrow. You can feel the razor sharp blades extending out from the axis, the sensation probably matches being stabbed with a double edged knife. The head didn’t go all the way through, which means you can’t just break the shaft in half and pull the ends outwards. You can’t do anything but endure, well aware that the more your leg moves, the more internal damage those blades will cause.

It hurts so much you forget all about facing death with dignity, pathetically sobbing on the ground beside the corpse of the guy you just murdered. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You wish it was quicker, you wish they shot you through the head.

“God, fuck!”, you scream, fists closing around the pulpy, muddy ground underneath you, “finish the fucking job, it hurts!”.

Azora smiles as she steps into the small clearing, crossbow ready. Yeah, it makes sense that she would be part of Bastion’s alliance.

“It hurts?”, her derisory tone sets fire to your rage, “good”.

“What, are you too stupid to hit the target twice?”, the insult is barely a growl between gritted teeth. Azora reads right through it and doesn’t try to hide just how much she is enjoying the show.

Some of them are here for this, they find suffering entertaining. They think it makes them better than the rest of the tributes, an invisible line demarcating what is different about them. What makes them worthier. Poor, delusional fuckers. Azora is as much of an animal as you are, in the eyes of the Capitol.

She crouches down next to you, jaw tensing ever so slightly when her eyes dart to Bastion’s body. You briefly wonder why he’s still here, are the gamemakers refusing to collect him for the sake of the show?

“I think I’ll just watch you bleed to death”, Azora pushes the arrow deeper and you scream again, back arching as your entire body trembles, every nerve shooting off the same response to your brain. Agony.

You’re thankful your body is so worn out from hunger, dehydration and fatigue. You’re thankful it decides to grant you a merciful end.

Right before passing out, you think you imagine the trident that pierces Azora’s throat.

If you’re dead, it really sucks that the pain is still there. Is your soul really the one destined to eternal damnation when people like Snow exist?

No, this is not how death is supposed to feel like. You’re not back in your beloved mountains and while you hope from the bottom of your heart that your parents live a long life out of harm’s way, you were at least hoping to smell your mother’s freshly baked bread one more time in the afterlife. Not even your brother is here to welcome you.

Oliver Aiku is the one who welcomes you instead, back to the devastating meaning this reality holds. You’re still in the arena and, unfortunately, not dead yet. Three bad things at once? Fuck, it’s really not your day.

“It’s okay”, the way his worried eyes keep darting to your leg tells you it’s really not, “you’re safe here. I just need to-”

Pain explodes behind your eyes when he touches the arrow and you can barely hold the scream in, eyes filling with fresh tears.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”, you kick his hand away with the leg you can move, from where you’re lying on… what the hell is it? An old table? Where even are you? It looks like he carried you inside an abandoned building. You didn’t get to explore this part of the arena yet, therefore you feel completely denfeseless.

“I need to get that thing out”, Oliver takes a step forward and you kick again, delirious with anger and pain.

“Fuck you!”, your foot collides with his arm, then his chest, until he grabs your ankle with both hands. You wish you still had at least one of your knives.

“I’m sorry. It’s going to hurt really bad”.

“I will slit your throat open”, you can barely articulate the words from how hard you’re gritting your teeth, “just fucking kill me already”.

Oliver ignores you. Still holding your ankle with one hand, he uses the other to rip part of his shirt while securing the fabric over the shoulder between his teeth.

“Bite into this. If you scream, you’ll reveal our position”.

He doesn’t use the small ball of fabric as a cloth gag. Instead, he gently lets your fingers close around it. Your chest rises and falls too quickly, pain clouding any other sense.

“Fuck. You”.

Oliver looks at your leg again, the hand closed around your ankle giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I know you have no reason to trust me. But if you don’t bleed out, the sepsis will kill you”, he observes the sweat beads covering your forehead and under any other circumstance, if he was someone else, you could’ve believed the worry flashing in those eyes.

“Just kill me already”, you hiss, “I’m sure you don’t need more sponsors, spare me this fucking farce”.

He sighs.

“Okay. How about this? You let me take the arrow out and then I’ll let you kill me. Sounds fair?”.

You just groan, the throbbing in your leg unbearable as fresh blood keeps running down your calf. Out of everyone, it really had to be him. You’re going to die like a fool, a pawn of the Capitol and a toy that will grant Aiku even more sympathy from the lunatics currently tuned in for the show. Behold, the hero from District 2. Talented, funny, merciful. This year’s perfect victor.

“I hate you”, you manage to let out, “I hate you”.

“I know”, he offers a small, perfectly sad smile. Talented. 

You were wrong for thinking you’d be able to face death, let alone pain, with dignity. Whatever Oliver is doing puts you in such agony you find yourself gasping for air, fisting his shirt between your trembling fingers as you beg, beg, beg him to stop. He whispers his reassurances, asks you to bite harder into the fabric currently in your mouth. I know, I’m sorry, you’ll be okay, I’m so sorry. You cry, apologize, curse him, try to hit the back of your head against the table hard enough to pass out.   

Oliver pulls the arrow out slowly, to make sure he doesn’t break off any of it inside your leg. He considered pushing it through completely and break off the shaft to then pull the arrow out from the rear but he couldn’t bring himself to put you through such torture. You’re already shaking so much, as silent as you manage to be while keeping your eyes squeezed shut and trying to muffle your whimpers.

“You’re doing so good”, he pulls out a small bottle from a backpack that’s different than yours and pours some clear liquid over his hands, “I’m going to clean the wound now, okay?”.

You don’t have the energy to nod so you just keep your exhausted gaze on him.

Oliver does his best with what he has. Cleans the blood but recognizes that the wound is too deep to be treated with an antiseptic. The only thing he can work with is a topical ointment that came with the first aid kit he found in the backpack he snatched from the Cornucopia. You twitch when he carefully applies it over the laceration and then wraps your calf with hopefully clean enough gauze bandages.

“Okay”, he finally sighs in relief, “this should be fine for now. Get some rest, I’ll keep watch”.

You take the clump of cloth out of your mouth and let it fall to the floor, breathing less irregular now. It’s hard to process what happened in the past minutes (hours?). It doesn’t matter how hard you resist it, how drained your mind currently is, what hidden agenda he might have, if it was an act of mercy or not. The indisputable reality is that Oliver Aiku saved your life.

“Why?”, you ask with what’s left of your voice.

He meets your gaze and smiles.

“You have to get better if you want to keep your promise”.

Ah, right. The promise to kill him.

“Okay”, you whisper.

“Okay”, he’s probably still smiling but you are unable to keep your eyes open so there is really no way to validate that.

Oliver lies easily and it certainly wasn’t hard to convince someone on the brink of passing out.

He doesn’t keep watch at all. What he does instead, is watch over you. Day and night, whoever is watching this fucked up edition will probably find keeping up with him boring as hell but he hardly cares.

While he was hoping to find you under different circumstances, at least now he gets to make sure you survive. From day one, ever since your name was drawn at the reaping, all he wanted was to stay alive enough to keep you safe. The only tribute he wants to be killed by.

Oliver is there as your body fights the infection through fever and chills. Sometimes you wake from your slumber and he has to really focus to understand what you’re saying through incoherent, slurred speech. You thank him a lot, curse him again, tell him it hurts, that you’re cold, that he’s beautiful. He remembers when you were both kids, him so intensely focused on his training as all careers are, your sincere loathing. The afternoon you two inevitably got into a physical fight after all your poking and prodding finally made him lose his patience: you broke his nose, he crushed two of your ribs. You believe he’s still that kid because why would you not? Letting everyone believe that is an easy price to pay to protect his family. 

But being in the games changes everything. You being here changes everything. Oliver just hopes he’ll convince you to grant him a quick death, not because he’s scared but because he knows those who are dear to him are watching. They already had to go through the pain of losing a father and a husband, a brother and a son will also be gone soon. He hopes to make the process as smooth as possible.

The silver parachute surprises him. There are still people who want to deliver gifts to him? Your mentors, perhaps? They’re possibly the only ones who would care enough to try and save your life, it’s not like you displayed too much of an effort to win over anyone’s sympathy.

Oliver keeps your head up while you try to swallow the colorful antibiotic capsules, skin still far too warm under his touch. This part of the arena is fairly safe from other tributes, the plethora of mutts functioning as a terrific deterrent, but he still can’t bring himself to leave you to go on the hunt for additional food and water.

“Hey”, his head shoots up from where he was resting it on the table. Did he fall asleep?

You’re awake, fully awake now, gaze less clouded and voice clear.

“How are you feeling?”, he asks.

“Better”, you carefully sit up, try to flex your wounded leg. It still hurts too much but you can move it now, the crimson stained bandages tight around your calf. Pressure.

“Good”, Oliver exhales, relaxing his shoulders. You observe him for a few seconds, hold his gaze, then carefully push the half empty bottle of water next to you towards him even if you’re so thirsty your throat feels on fire.

“That’s yours”, he attempts to push it back but you tighten your hold around the plastic, resist his effort.

“Drink”, you click your tongue, impatient, “eat, too”.

He furrows his brows.

“Only if we share”.

“I’m leaving”, you ignore him, slowly swing your legs beyond the edge of the table and try to stand. Oliver watches are you tumble to the floor and tries his best to remain serious as he speaks again.

“Can I say something?”.

“No”, you shoot him a venomous glare, every muscle in your body tense as you try to pretend you’re not in pain. You hold on to the table to get up from the floor and all you can do is rest your hip against it as you stand on the one leg that still carries your weight. The simple action required so much effort your head is spinning already, black dots dancing in your line of vision. Your hand distractedly wanders further on the surface and finds something smooth, cold. Familiar.

Your knives.

Underneath the table, you now catch sight of your useless backpack too.

“When did you…?”, the question is left incomplete, your mouth suddenly drier than ever.

“Right away”, Oliver observes the way your trained fingers twirl one of the knives, the flick of your wrist rendering it almost invisible from how fast you’re spinning it, “thought you’d want them”.

You both know this could be it. This could be the moment you decide to plant a knife in his throat, it’d be so quick he’d barely have the chance to notice it. Despite all that, he still got your weapons for you.

The knives disappear somewhere underneath your jacket, in a hidden pocket. Oliver watches as you slowly shuffle past him, crouch down with a grimace and sit on the cold floor, right next to his backpack. You let your back rest against a half-destroyed concrete column.

“Get some sleep”, you say without looking at him, one hand holding your wounded leg, “I’ll keep watch”.

It’s a strange one, the tacit alliance you form with Oliver Aiku.

If you have your reservations about trusting him, he doesn’t seem to need to think twice about putting his trust in you. He has no problem sleeping, eating what you put together for dinner or breakfast, letting his guard down and offer you countless occasions to stab him in the back.

You don’t want it to hold any special meaning, the fact that he saved your life. What good would it do? You’re going to die anyway. But it’s hard to ignore the gratitude clutching your chest as he replaces the bandages around your leg, shares his supplies, explains what you were doing wrong when attempting to start a smokeless fire. It’s hard to banish the knowledge that he’s the closest, last thing you’ll have from home to a far corner in the back of your mind.

You look at Oliver and remember the arrogant kid he was, always too proud and confident that he’d one day win the games and bring honor to his District. Just like his father did. You remember the countless friends he had at school, the hours he’s spent training in the unbearable summer heat and freezing, numbing winter. You look at him now, some faded bruises on his face, tired eyes, playful smile, and remember the cookies his mother used to bake for the neighborhood kids. He’d always try to convince her to not give any to you, she’s a jerk. As punishment, she’d make him personally bring them to you.

He looks different now that he’s in the arena and you wonder if he believes it was worth it, spending his life adoring those who are now greedily watching the way you slaughter one another for the sake of their entertainment. You wonder if he now sees how little it matters, whether one dedicates an entire life to being a perfectly obedient, devoted little servant. In their eyes, he’s as much as an animal as you are.

You don’t know why he saved you, you’re not sure it matters. Fake or not, perhaps this is the last bit of humanity you’ll be granted in this life and you wish to treasure it. You don’t want your family to watch as you become the monster the Capitol wants you to turn into.   

This, of course, doesn’t necessarily mean he should have it easy.

“I can walk”, you grumble.

“But can you run?”, he asks casually, to which you scoff.

“I know an easier way to get water”.

“Which is?”.

“The lake-”

“It’s poisoned in the summer”.

That shuts you up.

The gamemakers designed this arena with slight modifications that manifest as the seasons change, which generally happens approximately every 2-5 hours. The change is not coherent with the natural progress of time: they split the seasons into meaningless, unnatural chunks they control according to their whims. Sometimes spring follows fall and summer begins in the middle of winter. You only stopped by the lake when auburn leaves traced strangely comforting patterns in the sky and crunched beneath your feet.

Oliver shoots you one last worried glance from over his shoulder on his way out and you pretend you don’t notice.

It only took a few days with him to get used to the familiarity of having someone to talk to. Every attempt at keeping yourself busy fails miserably, so you decide to put your injured leg at work to hopefully recover faster. You pace up and down across the space this abandoned building offers, slowly but steadily.

A brief pause by the broken window grants a better idea of what kind of landscape this part of the arena offers: overturned human infrastructures reclaimed by the wilderness, vines and their roots probably ripping apart floors that look exactly like the one you’re standing on. There are a few more abandoned buildings in the distance, what looks like an iron bridge almost swallowed by lush vegetation. The air has a metallic smell to it and it’s quiet, too quiet. They wouldn’t even grace this place with a few birds. But it takes you a few minutes to realize what’s really so unsettling about this scenery: all the greenery suggests vibrancy, liveliness and yet only serves as an eery reminder of how it’s actually filled with nothing but haunting absence. Are mutts the only animals around, is that why everything is so still? Or is it just how summer looks like here?

At dinner, by a small fire that wouldn’t immediately reveal your position, you find yourself constantly observing Oliver. He’s certainly aware but for some reason he feigns obliviousness, which irritates you.

You resent him for how kind and considerate he’s been. You resent him for not providing any reationale to loathe him, for not cultivating the most familiar knee-jerk reaction you’ve had to him ever since you were children. Hostility.

Is this his way to embarrass you, to trigger some fucked up sense of guilt? Does he want you to admit you were an asshole for judging him so harshly, ridicule you as Panem bears witness?

Your wound aches, leg still awkwardly flexed in the one position you can tolerate. An eternal, sour reminder that you owe Oliver fucking Aiku. Your exasperation could burn this entire arena down.

“You’re not eating”, he holds out a portion of mushrooms. You accept it with a frown.

“Let me guess, you’re certain they’re not poisonous”.

“Pretty positive”, he flashes a smile, “I’ve been eating these for three days straight”.

“Maybe you kept the non deadly ones to yourself”.

Oliver chuckles, because you’re already on your second forkful.

“I have no interest in killing you”.

“Why?”.

“Maybe I like you”.

You hold his gaze, astonished.

“I don’t know why I bother”, with a scoff, you lean forward to steal a few mushrooms out of his portion. He lets you.

“Not my fault you never take me seriously”, Oliver shrugs.

“You’re the last person in Panem I’d ever take seriously”.

“Really?”, he frowns, “Copper before me?”.

You don’t mean to laugh, you really don’t. But it’s too late and concealing it by clearing your throat makes you feel all the more ridiculous.

Copper from District 3 is probably the most annoying human being you ever had the misfortune of encountering. Oliver was there as the Peacekeepers had to intervene when at the gymnasium Copper engaged in an increasingly heated discussion with a tribute from District 9. You don’t think you ever saw him train once, he was always just jumping from station to station trying to pick up a fight with anyone who’d react to his endless prodding.

“Well. I did almost break his nose”, a Peacekeeper had to restrain you on the floor, one knee pressed to your back.

“I remember you being good at that”.

You offer a shrug. Oliver leans back, weight supported by his palms as he studies your expression.

“What did he say to you?”.

He watches as you stiffen for a moment, a less trained eye would’ve probably missed it. But he’s been observing you for so long, it’s like he has all your reactions memorized.

“Doesn’t matter. He was an asshole”.

Oliver hums, doesn’t insist. You appreciate the way he lets the discussion fall, gaze lost in the crackling fire separing your legs from his. All the while, you can’t seem to look away from him.

“How many people did you kill?”, the question is quiet. He meets your eyes, some odd feeling unfurling in his chest at the first, serious thing you have ever asked him.

“Five”, Oliver says, “six, with Azora”.

“Why did you do that, Aiku?”.

He wonders if he’ll die before getting to hear you call him by his name at least once in this life.

“You won’t take the answer seriously, so what’s the point of asking?”.

“Why don’t you try me?”.

Oliver holds your gaze for a moment, before speaking next.

“I don’t want you to die”.

You shake your head, in disbelief. There is nothing you currently understand about the man who sits before you and you’re not sure he’s playing a game anymore. If he is, you’ll probably won’t live long enough to learn the rules.

He lets you mull over his answer, reading all the wariness engrained too deep in your features. Oliver never wanted to put in the effort to change the idea you have of him, nor he thinks it’d be worth it. The planned outcome would still be the same and, regardless, time is a luxury neither of you have. But part of him still doesn’t want to die without being seen, it appears. You looked at him like he was a person and not something rotten only for a few seconds and now he’s desperate to prove it. He’s just a man, too. He gets scared at night, he misses the mountains that he knows are so dear to you as well. He’s flawed, so painfully defective in fact, but hasn’t he paid enough for his arrogance? He’s here to die, is it really too much to ask for you to catch a glimpse of who he is now?

“Well”, you murmur, “the mushrooms were good. And non-lethal, which is an obvious bonus”.

Oliver cracks a grateful smile.

“My dad taught me how to identify the edible ones. Not that anything makes sense here but I guess I got lucky”.

You take an apple, one of the very few remaining food supplies stowed in your backpack, and carefully cut it in half with your knife. Begrudgingly, you take note of how natural if feels to give him the bigger piece.

“I’m sorry about him”, you murmur.

Oliver’s dad represented everything you despised and more: a career first and then a victor who spent his life adoring the Capitol, raising his children to become exactly like him. As opposed to their mother, instead of being relieved his kids were lucky enough to escape the reaping, he only expressed regret. Disappointment. All he ever wanted was for at least one of his kids to honor the Capitol or die trying, for all Panem to see. He died due to a sudden illness a few years ago, surely still tormented by the regret of not being able to live enough to see one of his children brutally murdering someone or being murdered on live television. The irony. He would’ve been this special edition’s biggest fan.

Still, Oliver and his sisters loved their dad. He was their hero. You remember how he’d puff out his chest at school while recounting his adventures in the arena, always expressing just how lucky it felt for them to have such a special mentor. You remember watching the way they sobbed at his funeral, which you were forced to attend by your family. The Aikus were there for us when your brother died. You joined your parents and everyone else in sprinkling bread crumbs over his body, Oliver’s mom welcoming your condolences with a warm hug. Oliver and his sisters refused to even shake your hand, reddened eyes begrudgingly staring into the distance to avoid your gaze. You didn’t blame them.

“Thank you for saying that”, he mutters.

“You must miss him a lot”.

Oliver blinks a few times and suddenly you feel stupidly guilty. Why even push it? It’s not like you ever cared about him, let alone his dad.

And yet you know, without having to validate it, that the pain currently dancing in his stare is authentic. You hate that Oliver is being forced to give them this, something genuine and personal. Because of you.

“I do”, he admits quietly, “he would’ve loved mentoring us”. He doesn’t say what he actually feels, which is that he’s really fucking glad his dad is not here to witness what a pathetic disappointment his son has turned into. He was always the only one who could see right through him.

You look away because his affliction is too intimate, too raw.

“He was really proud of you”.

Oliver appreciates that you’re being honest without any unnecessary, fabricated commiseration. You’ve always been one to say exactly what you think and he knows that the pride his father held for him was something you could easily corroborate, despite how badly you despised him. While you purposefully avoid commenting on his observation, somehow you decide to offer him some comfort. It’s way more than what he deserves.

“Yeah. He was”, Oliver bites into his half of the apple, a tight lump in his throat. You shut your eyes for a second, teeth tormenting your lower lip before you decide to readjust the scale.

“Copper told me he felt sad that Ashlar died in a different edition of the games. Because he would’ve loved to be the one to kill him”.

There, balance restored. Now they can have your pain too.

Oliver looks up from his hands, genuinely surprised you’d willingly share something like that with him. He’s even more surprised by the aversion simmering in his stomach: if he was holding his trident, he would’ve probably tightened his hold around it. Fuck that guy.

“He’s an asshole”, he clicks his tongue, “Ashlar was one of the coolest guys of our District”.

You refuse to meet his gaze. The memory of your brother still burns, made all the way more painful by the echoes of all the moments you shared together. He was not exactly Oliver’s friend, they belonged with different social groups, but for some weird reason they respected each other. Whenever you complained about him, Ashlar used to repeat the same sentence without ever getting sick of it. Remember he’s a victim too. And then he left you alone to face this unfair, shitty world. Thank god you’ll leave soon, too.

Oliver’s foot gently nudges your ankle and you look up. The warmth in his eyes is unbearable.

“I’m glad you almost broke his nose”, he says. You blink back warm tears.

“Let’s get some sleep, we should set up camp somewhere else tomorrow. You’re keeping watch first”.

He doesn’t say anything as you slowly curl up on the floor, back facing the fire and him. Oliver hopes watching over you the entire night is enough to keep your nightmares at bay. You fall asleep thinking that you reached the end of yet another day without thanking him for saving your life.

Back in the forest you are, because you learn from the unfortunate experience of a tribute from District 10 that it’s best to stray as far from the shore as possible. Water that turns into viscous blood, mutts in the form of beautiful mermaids who try to drown you, beautiful rocks that turn into deadly giant crabs that patrol the beach.

Well, at least you would be back in the correct spot of the forest by now, if it wasn’t for you. You’re drenched in sweat, the fatigue weighing heavy on your limbs are you pretend to be perfectly capable of walking normally. Your leg is far from being healed and, under normal circumstances, you probably should’ve rested it for at least a week.

You refuse to acknowledge the pain but that’s the best you can do, really. It’s impossible to walk as fast as you should, which forces Oliver to be slower. Asking him to just go has been useless, the last 75 times you tried.

The sun filtering through a canopy of vibrant green leaves creates the patterns of light and shadow dancing on his back as he walks ahead, on the lookout for any potential threat. You have a feeling he’s trying his hardest to subtly keep his focus on you. There’s an oddly worried look he tosses over his shoulder every now and then, clumsily justified with the excuse of being vigilant. He’s just inspecting the trees, inspecting the ground, searching for possible enemies trailing behind you.

Oliver didn’t ask if you’d allow him to carry you simply because that’s not how he’s planning to end up with one of your knives in his neck. But when it starts getting dark and it becomes clear that getting back to the abandoned building area before the night falls is simply not going to happen, that’s when he suggests to stop.

You’re exhausted, in pain, frustrated. A dead weight. It’s exasperating, how helpless you’re feeling.

“Just go already”, you lean against a tree, trying to catch your breath, “you can make it back at a normal pace”.

“That cave looks snug”, he ignores you, indicating a shallow opening between two rocks nearby. You sigh.

“I’m being serious. Leave”.

“Would you abandon me here in the open? All alone, injured, vulnerable?”.

“Yes”.

Oliver snaps his fingers.

“Exactly. I’m a better person than you, so I won’t do that”.

You just look at him, genuinely startled. He grins, bright and warm, eyes shining with mischief.

“God, you’re so-”

“Kind. Selfless? Or were you about to say big-hearted?”.

It’s disgusting, the way he succeeds in getting under your skin enough to evoke the ghost of a smile. Enough to make you forget you’re two people stuck in a giant, murderous amusement park, destined to kill or be killed.

“Let’s find something to eat for dinner first, alright?”, Oliver lightly bumps your shoulder with his fist.

Tactful.

Why does he pick up on every single one of your unintentional cues so well? He just saved you the embarrassment of hiding that smile, of having to come up with something to say to disperse the awkwardness. On top of that, he offered you a chance to feel useful after what was clearly a very hard day. You don’t understand why he’s doing all this and you can’t bring yourself to ask.

Oliver lets you lead the way and be the one to analyze each berry and fruit you come across. A dead squirrel next to a wild strawberry bush suggests it’s best to switch to a different option. You manage to find a few innocuous plums and some chestnuts you will hopefully be able to roast: they should pair well with Oliver’s cheese and your dried beef strips. You’re sure he already knows how to open them but he still stops to observe the way you roll the burr under your foot, applying just enough pressure for it to fall apart and the nuts to come out.

It’s summer until it’s not. Winter comes in the blink of an eye, with biting wind gusts and a brutal hailstorm you are far from being equipped for. Your backpacks can only shield you so much and by the time you stumble into the cave you’ll be spending the night in, you’re both soaked to the bone.

“Are you sure no one else is in here?”, you whisper when Oliver re-emerges from the dark depths of the cave.

“Yeah, I checked everywhere”.

“What are you doing?”, in shock, you watch as he pulls his shirt over his head and starts unbuttoning his pants amid violent shivering. You’re not doing any better yourself, wet clothes sticking uncomfortably to your skin.

“Trying not to die from hypothermia”, Oliver’s clothes are dark pools by his feet as he is left in nothing but his underwear, “we can’t light a fire here”.

“Why not?”, you look away from where you’re hugging your knees on the hard floor. It’s not really necessary, the cave is pretty dark and the storm outside makes it even harder to single out something other than rough shapes.

“The cave is too wet, there’s water dripping from the ceiling and running down the walls. You should take your clothes off too”.

“Don’t be ridiculous”, you try to stubbornly protect yourself from the cold by rubbing your hands together and breathing through your nose. Oliver sighs.

“At least sit on this. You shouldn’t be on the ground”.

He gently grabs your wrist and guides your hand to touch what is currently beneath him, probably that canvas tarp he carries in his backpack.

“I have a blanket we can share”, Oliver murmurs as you quietly accept the invitation and reluctantly  sit next to him.

“I’ll get it wet”.

“I don’t mind”.

Suddenly, it all feels so ridiculous. You feel ridiculous. Why should it matter whether you’re wearing any clothes or not? This is not some stupid, intimate moment. You can’t feel your fingers or legs anymore, numbness slowly threatening to claim what that stupid arrow couldn’t, and you’re trying to preserve what, your virtue? Dignity? The Capitol already owns both. To hell with it.

Oliver doesn’t say anything as you start undressing or rather furiously tearing your clothes off, at least from what he can hear and barely see. Anything that is not your underwear is tossed to the floor.

You can feel the way he’s still shaking as you get close, so you heave a deep sigh.

“Okay. We need to share body heat”, you’re perfectly aware that he already knows and you hate that he was respectful enough to not suggest it from the start, “get the blanket, I’m going to sit between your legs. If you try anything-”

“If I try anything, you’re good with knives. I know”.

You try not to dwell over how empty the threat feels by now. Sparing a single second thinking that come the time you won’t be able to actually kill him is too dangerous and your brain refuses to process the possible implications.

His muscles are still spasming as you settle between his legs, the blanket draped over his wide shoulders envelopes you as well and you hold the hems to keep it from falling open. You instinctively lean back and he presses his chest to your back, the arms loosely wrapped around you now pulling you in.

“Imagine this is how we die”, you murmur, barely able to get the words out, “wouldn’t be really fun to watch”.

A beat passes and an unpleasant feelings crawls its way into your gut.

“Aiku?”.

He hums a feeble, quivering sound.

“Keep talking to me”, you try to position yourself differently in his arms, laterally enough for your breath to fan over his throat. Against your better judgment, you let the blanket go and grab his hands instead, squeezing hard. He’s still trembling.

“Okay”, Oliver whispers.

“What would you have for dinner if we were home?”.

He shuts his eyes, trying his hardest to focus instead of surrendering to the numbness slowly taking over his limbs.

“Sometimes we’d have roasted birds”, you feel the deep rumble of his voice vibrate against your skin, where you’re pressed to his chest, “mom filled them with her special orange sauce. Mashed potatoes also sound good right now”.

“Yeah. That’s nice. What else? What’s for dessert?”.

“Cinnamon bread. Apple and goat cheese tart”.

You groan with desire and he chuckles.

“What about you? What are you having?”.

“Mom’s carrot soup and rabbit stew. God, I miss that stew so much. It was Ashlar’s favorite”.

Oliver presses his cheek to your forehead and you don’t object, the darkness doing well in concealing the sick sense of comfort slowly swelling in your chest. You indulge it, nuzzling further into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. His skin is finally regaining some of its warmth, which for some reason eases your strain.

“And for dessert?”, he asks. Gentle, hushed.

“Peach pie”, you whisper back.

Oliver hums and it’s quiet for a while, your breathing patterns falling into a similar, regular rhythm. You listen to the water dripping nearby, the way it echoes. The air smells like damp and fresh dirt, it reminds you of the conifer forest your dad would take you and your brother to when you were kids. Sometimes it’d start raining and the air would smell exactly like this.   

“I think it’s snowing now”, Oliver doesn’t even try to conceal the fact that he’s practically hugging you now, purposefully keeping you close as his fingers trace delicate patterns across your arm. You don’t pretend it doesn’t feel good. You don’t pretend it’s not warming you up from within. You just relax further into him, nose intentionally brushing along the strong line of his jaw a few times. He wonders it the cave is silent enough for you to hear how hard his heart is kicking against his ribs.

“My mom would always make us a glass of warm goat milk with honey and spices whenever it snowed”, you recall sadly.

“Mine too”, he smiles, “best way to warm up. My sisters would always try to steal my milk after finishing theirs”.

You smile too, offer a soft hum.

“She made it whenever my best friend visited. Cecelia used to love it”.

Oliver stiffens against you.

He was there, everyone was there when Cecelia Wovey was hung in the town square by the Peacekeepers. A horrifying example to those who forget what type of consequences disobedience leads to.

Cecelia Wovey, with her blonde hair and colorful ribbons. Sometimes she’d sit next to him in class, with the sole purpose of pissing him off. Cecelia Wovey was intelligent but had a loud mouth, pretty dresses and flowy skirts. You two were inseparable, always together, perpetually whispering secrets to each other’s ear and then giggling about who knows what. Cecelia Wovey, suspected instigator. She was until the Capitol decided she ought to be no more.

He hates how indifferent her death made him at the time. The relief he felt at the sight of her empty seat at school now disgusts him.

Oliver doesn’t know what to say, none of the words he could conjure would ever make it right. He can’t say that he remembers how close you two were, how much you loved one other. He can’t say what he actually wants to, which is that he’s so painfully sorry.

You sniffle and his heart breaks.

One of his hands blindly reaches to find yours in the dark and when it does, he makes sure the palm faces your chest as his thumb starts tracing the words across it, slowly but with intention. To make sure you catch every letter, to make sure you’re the only one who does.

Your breath hitches in your throat when he completes the sentence. The way he squeezes your hand afterwards dissipates any doubt: you didn’t misinterpret the words or get them wrong.

I hate them too.

How is that even possible? That would go against everything him and his family have ever been. Is he lying? You know he wasn’t lying back home, why do it now?

“Do you actually like goat milk?”, you choose the words carefully, “you hardly seem the type”.

Oliver squeezes your hand again. He thinks he might die if you refuse to believe him.

“I swear it’s my favorite”.

You can’t wrap your head around what he’s revealing. If they saw what he wrote on your palm, they could very well kill him.

He presses his lips to the shell of your ear and his murmur is so quiet you can barely distinguish the words.

“They think they own me”, a whisper meant for you only. Oliver takes your hand again and you let him press it to his chest first, then bring it up to his forehead, where he taps your pointer finger against the skin two times. My body, my mind. They think they have them.

Oliver knows you’re probably not going to grasp the meaning of what he’s revealing in its entirety. This is the type of conversation he should’ve had in a different setting, where cameras and quite literally the entire nation are not recording his every word and move. But he couldn’t risk anyone back home finding out, ever.

He still remembers the day a man and a woman he had never seen before came looking for his sisters. Their dad had been buried less than a week before two strangers from the Capitol knocked on their door to inquire about Mia and Kaya.

Oliver was the only member of the Aiku family who happened to be home that day, his sisters busy with their Peacekeeper training, his mom out to run some errands. He remembers the way the woman with whiskers surgically implanted into her face looked at him, as if she was seeing a precious gem for the very first time. He remembers how the man’s long fingers dug into his skin when he grabbed him by the jaw, to inspect his face from different angles. Oliver was too excited, too honored to recognize that they weren’t expressing admiration, that they weren’t looking at him and seeing a young man worth praising. They were appreciating him the way one does with a pig that is particularly high in quality.

On the train they gave him nice clothes, offered large portions of delicious food, sweet wine mixed with honey and herbs. They combed his hair, trimmed his nails, waxed his body hair and applied a thick layer of makeup to his face. He didn’t quite grasp what was happening until the train arrived to the Capitol and they locked him in a luxurious room with a man who was much older than him, reeking of alcohol. Oliver tasted the nepenthe on his lips when the stranger forcibly kissed him.

There were a couple more that day, men and women. Despite his clouded mind, courtesy of the wine, he remembers iridescent scales, tattooes, skin with gems implanted in it, colorful wigs, overwhelming perfumes. The way he violently threw up before boarding the train again, in the middle of the night.

They handed him an envelope filled with banknotes and told him he could decline any further trip to the Capitol if he wanted: they did come looking for his sisters, after all. Perhaps even his mother could serve them well.

It took Oliver some time to understand that what was left of the Aiku family had to be of use to the Capitol somehow, after the untimely death of the victor who could no longer be abused. It took him years to realize that winning the games isn’t freeing, doesn’t come with any real glory. There are no winners: only slaves who survive and can be controlled until their useless lives come to an end. Tools used to repay strangers for their loyalty, a reward for their supporters. Forever a step below. Because Snow always lands on top.

Oliver accepted every trip, embraced his role and played it well. He didn’t let anyone, let alone his family, peek into the depths of his shame. He smiled and moaned and praised his masters and took the money, he did what he had to do in order to make sure what was left of his family would be safe. And you? Turns out you we right the whole time, his entire life. The kid he’s been getting into fights with for as long as he can remember, grown into the woman he now admires.

You repudiated the system cleverly, adamant but never loud enough to be considered an agitator. The hostility you held for him and his family always told him everything he needed to know about your stance. And now he will never have the chance to properly tell you that you were right the whole time, he will never get to share the pain he’s been carrying for the past years. It’s only right. People like him don’t deserve sympathy nor redemption. He chose what he wanted to be in this life long ago: it’s only right he dies exactly the way he has lived. Like a coward. Like an Aiku.

So why are you grabbing his hand, securing his arm tighter around you? Why are you still willing to lean into him, lips grazing the spot where his pulse point is? There’s no chance you’re seeing him. He could never hope to die as someone you trust.

You jump when something suddenly lands in your lap, two sets of hands immediately finding the familiar shape of a silver parachute. A sponsor gift?

“Oh”, Oliver chuckles as he easily resumes his role, “I guess someone wants us to warm up”.

But you find yourself unable to pretend the weight of his sudden revelation isn’t threatening to shift your entire world’s axis. So you stay silent, quietly share the freshly delivered goat milk with him as his thumb keeps rubbing comforting, painfully intimate circles over your hip while the storm keeps raging outside. 

Unable to discern where you end and he begins, you find yourself slipping into the most peaceful slumber you have experienced the past week. If you’re too worn out to question why it was so easy, so natural to trust Oliver Aiku enough to fall asleep in his arms, your mind is certainly still plagued by questions you know he can’t answer. Whether you can admit to yourself how dangerously different you feel about him now, whether you can find it in yourself to inquire about the meaning of the way you touched, relied on each other, is a completely different matter.

You don’t recognize the foreign anxiety settling in your gut when you wake up alone, curled underneath his blanket. It’s probably spring outside if the birds chirping are anything to go by, a faint light bleeds into the cave and illuminates the belongings left on the floor the previous night.

As you slip into clothes that are still damp, you notice his backpack is still where he left it. His clothes are gone and so is his weapon, which tells you he will most likely be back soon.

You busy yourself with fixing a frugal breakfast: cheese, some of the milk left from the previous night, two boiled eggs, a few chestnuts.

When the cannon fires, you freeze. No movements outside the cave, the birds are still chirping, the sun is getting progressively higher in the sky. You sit on your heels, fingers nervously gripping the fabric of your pants as you wait. The fear clutching your limbs is steel cold and foreign enough to stagger you: there is not a single tribute you should be worried about, let alone him. But you can’t help the way your body is reacting, can you? You can’t stop your unsteady legs from pushing you off the floor. Right as you start limping towards the cave entrance, his silhouette materializes right by the opening. Your lungs expand with relief.

“Morning”, Oliver offers an easy smile, “going somewhere?”.

But you notice it right away, the hand subtly pressed to his side.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”, you rush to him, ignore the apples he whips out of his pocket.

“I’m fine”, he shuffles past you and attentively places the fruits next to all the other provisions you put together for breakfast, “let’s eat”.

You observe the way he sits in a weird, robotic way. Unnatural. He looks tired and abnormally pale.

“Tell me what’s wrong”, the urgency in your voice grows as you kneel next to him, your aching leg protesting against the position. You ignore it.

He meets your worried gaze with half-lidded eyes.

“Nothing is wrong. Please, eat”.

You grab his wrist to move his hand away and lift the hem of his shirt. Tiny, dark creatures are stuck to his skin, pulsating in a way that makes you think they’re feeding off him. They look like an unsettling mix between slugs and leeches.

“Oh, god”, you immediately pull one off but are horrified to find that part of his skin comes off as well. Oliver groans in pain.

“I’m sorry. Shit, I’m sorry but I need to take them off”, your hands shake as you grab another one, then another one. But there are so many.

He gently grasps your wrist and you look into his tired eyes.

“It’s fine”, he murmurs, “it doesn’t hurt. Let them do the job”.

“Are you fucking serious?”.

“There are worse ways to go”, he chuckles. A foreign, subdued sound.

“No”, you free your hand from his hold, “shut up. Keep your eyes open”, as if to give him a reason, you pull another one of the slimy creatures off his skin. You work quickly despite the pain you know you’re causing him, the idea of those disgusting parasites sucking him dry simply unbearable as you strip him of his clothes and feverishly search every inch of his skin to make sure you got all of them. The ones you remove are mercilessly crushed under your boots.

“Oliver”, you use up all your remaining water ration to carefully wash his wounds, “Oliver, open your eyes”.

He does. How could he not?

You sigh in relief when he looks at you, some weird emotion flashing across his features.

“You make it sound so nice”, he murmurs.

“What?”, you ask, dexterous hands fiddling with the bandages you’re carefully wrapping around his body. You can’t quite believe how many scars he has, the uneven skin foreign and heartbreaking beneath the pads of your fingers. Was it his training? His dad? Some bruises and cuts are more recent, courtesy of the arena. You find yourself tracing the outlines of wounds that no longer cause him pain, touch kept light and tender.

Oliver grabs your wrist again but this time to keep your palm pressed to his skin, thumb gently stroking the back of your hand.

“My name”, he says.

You shake your head, ignore the odd feeling invading your chest as you decide that helping him into his clothes again is more urgent than bickering.

Oliver lets you take the lead. He eats an apple and some chestnuts, lets you help him drink what’s left of the milk. You can only relax when some color slowly dusts his cheeks again.

“Let’s stay here one more night. We’ll move tomorrow”.

“Feel free to go”, he cracks a smile, “you did say you’d abandon me. Alone, injured, vulnerable”.

You roll your eyes. Yeah, he’s fine.

It’s frankly surprising, the amount of food and water the sponsors suddenly decide to gift you. You leave the cave, carefully try to find your way across the forest without straying too far from where Oliver is resting, the most defenseless you’ve ever seen him. You’re still weak yourself, which makes it imperative to urgently find some water and something nutritious, possibly non toxic, to eat.

The gamemakers are clearly having a blast since, despite it being spring, you can’t find a single fruit, berry or animal around. If they’re trying to give you an ultimatum, getting you to choose between leaving Oliver behind, possibly in danger, and finding any kind of nourishment, they’re going to end up being quite disappointed.

You don’t have a rational explanation for how ardently you wish to go back, be by his side and protect him. You don’t want to come up with one. Nothing matters here, your lives are not yours anymore, so you figured you can do whatever the hell you want without necessarily over analyzing the motivation behind your actions. Or your feelings.

Right as you’re busy inspecting an Elm, hoping to collect some edible samaras to bring back to the cave, the silver parachute lands by your feet. Someone sent you a picnic basket filled with two gallons of drinking water, fresh bread, nut butter sandwiches, oranges, cold chicken. You never thought you’d see so much food ever again and it makes you wonder what the motive behind such unexpected generosity could be. Do they want to help you? No, you wouldn’t have received any of this if it wasn’t for Oliver.

They want you to go back to him. Of course they do, what happened last night must have been quite the show for them. They look at District citizens and see animals to bet on but still enjoy the shit out of sentimentality and melodrama. You hate that they were part of it, probably one of the most significantly intimate moments of your life. You hate that they are now tacitly cheering you on, as long as you go back to him and provide further entertainment. They must be clutching their pearls in anticipation. What will happen now? Will the monkeys be brave enough to discuss their tacit, confusing feelings or will they pretend they weren’t all over each other the previous night? Oh, how delightful. How exciting!

Jaw set, you collect the basket and offer a small curtsy the audience will be too dumb to interpret as the mocking gesture you wanted it to come across as. As for the gamemakers, you can only hope they let you live long enough to make sure all this food makes it back to Oliver.

Part of your brain wonders if that’s why he’s been acting like he has in the first place: the Oliver you know would certainly be capable of such subtlety. The man you got to be close to during this madness? Perhaps not so much.

It just wouldn’t make sense for him to give you so many chances to murder him for the sake of establishing some fake, sentimental bond. If it wasn’t for that arrow, you would have killed him and he must know that. Something tells you this is not the Oliver you’ve known your entire life, the arrogant kid whose death in the arena you dreamed of witnessing. He is someone who feels entirely new and, most importantly, someone you feel like you can trust. Someone you want to trust.

Your palm still holds the secret letters his thumb traced on it the previous night and you just know you will guard those words, keep them safe. As for what you feel for him, strength and blind determination may not be enough to guide you, should you choose to venture into such uncharted territory. Even if that’s all you really have.

He’s still asleep when you make it back, so you take your time trying to conceal the cave entrance to the best of your ability: between your leg and his current state, should a tribute find your hiding place, making the cannon fire twice wouldn’t be particularly hard.

A cascade of vines serves you well and even if they end up significantly dimming the light inside the cave, they make you feel less exposed.

Oliver wakes as you’re halfway through your task and he just lies there, attentively observing your every movement. He feels perfectly fine, just a little tired. Tiredness doesn’t prompt such an uptick in someone’s heart rhythm, does it?

No, it’s probably just you.

He already craves the closeness you trusted him with the previous night, his fingers itching as they flex around nothing but the absence of your body next to his. Oliver doesn’t remember ever feeling such ache, heart throbbing painfully in his chest at the implications of its desires. He doesn’t know how to stop. Why would a dead man walking indulge in foolish appetites? He doesn’t get to do that, want something for himself. Even if he did, Oliver knows he’s far from being worthy of someone like you.

And so, you better stop looking at him like that before he does something truly irredeemable such as hoping. You shouldn’t be checking on his wounds, evaluating whether his bandages should be changed already, you shouldn’t be making the sweetest melody of his name. You should be far away by now, should’ve done exactly what you said you would: leave without ever turning back.

Oh, he hates himself. There’s always a new low an Aiku can hit, isn’t there?  

“Your sponsors have been exceptionally kind”, you mutter as you hand him a nut butter sandwich.

“How do you know they’re not your sponsors?”.

“I don’t have any”.

“You can’t know that”.

“Well”, you smile, “I’m not very likeable”.

Oliver huffs out a chuckle as he shakes his head.

“That’s not true”.

“Yeah? So you’d sponsor me?”.

“Definitely”.

“And what would you send me?”.

Oliver pauses for a moment, takes a few seconds to ponder as he finishes his lunch. He could easily say the uncomplicated thing, offer the wrong response. But his fingers are still itching and his heart is still throbbing.

“A red hair tie”, he murmurs at last.

I see you. So, please, see me.

Your gasp is quiet as you hold his gaze.

You’ve carried that red hair tie around your wrist for years, until the last remaining thing that could prove you once had a best friend at all, snapped.

Cecelia fought back that day, so fiercely they had to beat her to drag her to the gallows. You remember collecting the crimson piece that fell from her hair hours after the execution, from a muddy puddle. It had been stepped on countless times and it was still the most precious thing you owned for a long, long time. Ashlar helped you wash it clean, your hands were shaking too much, sobs barely giving you the break you needed to breathe.

“How do you know?”, you whisper, incredulous.

Oliver’s hand finds yours, cool fingers closing around your wrist.

“I saw you buying it”, he lies, heaven forbid the gamemakers catch on the wrong words, “I’d think maybe you’d want your lucky charm in the arena”.

It was much more than that and he’s perfectly aware. Your heart aches.

“You remember that?”, the question is a hesitant whisper.

Oliver hums, hand carefully rising to cup your cheek. He frowns as his thumb skates over the skin beneath your eye, brushing off uncharacteristic wetness.

“I remember”, he cracks an uncertain smile, “I paid attention, y’know”.

You lean into his touch like it’s all you’ve ever done, like you don’t know how to do anything but.

“Why?”, you ask.

“I don’t know. Maybe I had a crush on you”.

Now, that makes you chuckle. A sound he never thought he’d get to hear close enough to practically drink it.

Maybe Oliver’s hostility truly always stemmed from his frustration. You were so determined, silently fighting for ideals he was too foolish to comprehend, forever miles out of his league. You deserve so much better than this, than him.

“I always hated you”, it’s barely a murmur that doesn’t wound him the way it used to. Oliver strokes your cheek gently as your gaze falls on his lips.

“I know”, he murmurs back.

You never thought it would sneak up on you one day, his beauty. Oliver Aiku, notoriously one of the most attractive men of District 2. You never thought you’d find yourself appreciating it and you certainly never thought he’d ever look at you like he is now, with such tenderness. You don’t remember ever seeing him look at anyhing the way he’s looking at you.

You lean in and your nose brushes against his, the hand cupping your cheek slides down to cradle your jaw. And then Oliver pulls back, leaving your face cold and your heart thumping painfully in your ears.

“Oh”, gaze low, you try to pull back too, “I’m sorry-”, he doesn’t let you.

Oliver grasps the hem of the blanket you placed on his legs hours ago and carefully drapes it over your heads. You blink, trying to adjust to the exacerbated darkness.

“What are you…?”, confused, you try to draw back once again but Oliver’s fingers are still closed around your forearm as he pulls you in instead. He pauses just short of your lips because he still wants you to have it, the choice to change your mind.

“I didn’t want them to have this”, he murmurs. Not low enough, it’s highly likely the audience was still able to hear. Was it deliberate?

Pushed by a force unknown, you find yourself taking his face in your hands and pressing your lips to his. Yours are chapped, probably unpleasant and painfully inexperienced, but somehow his hand still rises to cradle the back of your neck to pull you closer.

You never thought you’d have a moment that would belong to you and no one else ever again. Oliver gave you that. He’s been given you so much, probably more than you can handle, and you’re not entirely sure you possess what’s needed to process the way everything changed ever since Azora put that arrow through your leg.

He presses his forehead to yours when you pull back, as if scared you’re going to disappear if he stops touching you.

“That was my first kiss”, you admit quietly.

In some odd way, it feels like it was his first kiss too.

“Sorry it was me”, he smiles when you chuckle, fingers gently stroking your hair.

“Are you really?”, the accusation is playful.

He should be. But he’s not good enough of a person.

“No”, Oliver is the one who leans in this time, to whisper the response against your mouth, “I’m just sorry for being late”.

Your second kiss tastes sour, a prophecy you can’t escape. Everything feels disturbingly inevitable now: the reaping, a special edition of the games, him. The irony of the Capitol giving you yet another thing they’re going to soon take away makes your veins throb with hurt. Everything belongs to them, everything will always belong to them.

Oliver gently takes the blanket off your heads and wraps it around your bodies as you scoot closer, let your head rest on his shoulder when his arm wraps around your waist. The cave is not bright enough for him to discern the familiar color of your eyes but he’s certain that, if he could see, he’d find in them the entirety of the starry skies he would observe on his beloved mountains.

“Will you take me seriously, now?”, he mutters.

“Of course not”, you click your tongue.

He huffs out a laugh and you can’t quite believe how good his real laugh sounds. The genuine sound of a man who is amused, not the extension of cruel mockery. You don’t know what changed for him, when exactly his reality shifted, but it must’ve been something drastic. And if he hid it that well, if he felt like he needed to keep the facade up, you can only guess it was probably something disturbing too. Forbidden, even.

“Oliver”, you sit up again, the hand on his chest as support.

“Mmm?”, he tries to not let the way you make his name sound distract him too much.

“Thank you for saving my life”, you say, chin tucked closer to your chest, “and I’m sorry, too”.

He frowns, confused. Nothing he could ever do would deserve your gratitude nor your regret.

“For…”, Oliver leaves the question hanging in the cold, humid air of the cave.

“Only ever blaming you”.

He scoffs.

“Oh, don’t”.

You grasp his chin to keep him from looking away.

“It was never just your fault”.

“You really don’t need to do this”.

“I’m not doing anything”, you fire back.

“God”, he shakes his head when you let him go, “forever the most stubborn woman of our district”.

“That’s right and you better not forget that”.

“How could I?”, Oliver snorts out a chuckle, “now, c’mere if you’re done”. His arm curls possessively around your waist, effectively pulling you in. You don’t resist it, choosing to curl up next to him, your head on his chest.

“I don’t appreciate that tone, Aiku”, you whisper.

“Don’t call me that”, it comes out harsher than he intends. A brief pause, then, softer, “please, can you just say my name?”.

It makes me feel like a person again.

You let the silence stretch on for a while, a few seconds to hopefully placate the butterflies stirring up a storm in your gut. Their traitorous little wings keep flapping, your fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt.

“Oliver”, you murmur, the taste of the word now oddly familiar on your tongue. His lips brush against your temple as he says your name too, reverently, like he’s invoking a spell that will protect him.

Neither of you sleeps, instead you spend the night talking to each other. Talking and talking and talking. While he conveniently avoids discussing anything too specific in relation to his family, you’re happy you get to learn some intimate details about his childhood, the silly traditions that tied him close to his sisters as a kid.

They’d collect elderberry and lime blossoms in the mountains whenever their dad would act more as a parent than a trainer. Oliver used to help his mom bake his sisters’ birthday cake each year and they would always do the same for him. He thought going to school was a waste of time, shocker.

He asks you a lot of questions because it’s the very first time he’s allowed to and feels deserving of inquiring further about what’s yours. Oliver asks about your brother, your parents, how you’d spend your afternoons and evenings, your favorite herbs and medicinal plants to collect in the winter.

He loves mint tea, foggy mornings and the way his cat would curl up in his lap at night. Cassius is his best friend. He prefers swords to tridents but his father taught him how to make the most of basically any weapon. He thinks the way you handle knives is really cool.

Although the morning light can’t really bleed into the cave, glimmers still make it through the vines covering the entrance. A new artificial day begins and, as you make sure he eats more than his usual half for breakfast, you can’t help but think you could actually make it to the end together. Sure, you’re both hurt, but you’re also both lethal. Some of the remaining tributes are strong, not stronger and most importantly not allies. Would it be so unlikely? You’ll win this stupid edition and refuse to kill each other and wait for the gamemakers to panic enough to either crown you both as winners or kill you on the spot. Either option would bring you peace, an eternal escape from this nightmare.

“Can you walk?”, you ask, handing him his backpack and weapon.

“We need to move regardless of whether I can walk or not”.

“Okay but can you?”.

He smirks.

“I can. You’re cute when you’re worried, you know”.

“I’m not worried at all”, you scoff, “I just need to know if you’ll slow me down or whatever”.

“And if I do?”, he challenges, “you’re not gonna wait for me?”.

Your back-stabbing heart fumbles in your chest at his playful tone, at the fondness simmering beneath the question. Oliver studies your seemingly annoyed expression and notices how easy it is for him to now tell when you’re far from being actually irritated.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t get lost in the woods”, must be why you’re taking his hand, “so, yeah. I’ll wait for you”.

“My hero”, he chuckles when you roll your eyes.

The road that leads to the abandoned buildings area is eerily silent, which makes the unnatural fall season all the more depressing. Your footsteps on dry leaves leave behind a crunching sound that is hard to conceal and you start feeling restless: surely the gamemakers must have something planned, if not a natural disaster or particularly vicious mutts, at least a way to make sure the remaining tributes somehow meet each other.

This doesn’t concern you, though. You have no intention of looking for anyone, the plan is to hide and wait and defend yourselves only if absolutely necessary. You’re done hunting strangers down.

“Fall looks better back home”, Oliver observes the kaleidoscope of red and golden hues these fake trees are adorned with.

Everything looks better back home, where life is real and not something built in a lab.

“I miss birds”, you sigh, “I used to hear an owl right outside my window every single night, last spring”.

“My mom always says owls are messengers”.

“I wonder what the message was”.

Oliver shrugs.

“It’s cold. I couldn’t find a nice tree. You’re pretty. Could be anything, really”.

You chuckle, idly shaking your head.

“You’re so…”

“Charming”.

“Foolish”, you correct. He’s probably the most dangerous thing in this arena.

Oliver laughs like a free man, warm and casual and at ease. It hits something soft and patheticlly unprepared inside you. How can he feel like that, in a place like this? You don’t think you’ve ever heard the sound of his true laugh back home, perhaps there was always an artificial vibration to it. He’s always been the product of someone else’s projects and beliefs, destined to be whatever the world expected him to be. Except now, in the worst place ever created, where he’s only been everything you never expected.

His foot hits your back harshly and you find yourself on the ground before you can realize what happened, amber and yellow leaves hardly alleviating the pain of your chin hitting a rock. You barely care about the blood dripping from the open wound as you try to get up, your injured leg still bending awkwardly beneath you.

Someone grunts, a different voice curses. Your hands move before your brain thinks and your knives find their designated place in your hands. Then they disappear, flying only to end up sinking deeply in her chest. The woman has a knife too but it slips from her grasp as she falls to her knees before she gets to plant it in your stomach. So long, Ivory from District 1. One less obstacle in the way of your perfect plan: you didn’t come for her, she came for you.

“God”, you grunt as you rip your knives out of her chest with little to no care and clean the blood with the hem of your shirt, “did you really have to push me like that? I could’ve hit my head”.

“I’m sorry”.

You look up from Ivory’s body and your blood runs cold. You have never dropped your knives, ever, this is the very first time.

“Oliver?”, you rush to him, to where he’s sitting on the colorful leaves with his back against a tree and a hand pressed to his stomach.

“I’m fine”, he murmurs but his voice sounds wrong.

Ivory has never been good with knives, you remember watching her closely at the gymnasium. She’s always been the most precise with spears.

“Let me see”, you force his hand away and your heart misses a beat or two at the sight. The bloodied spear now laying next to his legs clearly pierced all the way through him before Ivory removed it.

You don’t know if pressure will be enough to stop such hemorrhage, yet your palms still press on the wound firmly. The blood seeps through your fingers, an incessant stream your trembling hands are too useless to tame.

“Hey”, he whispers, “leave it. There’s no point”.

“No, shut up”, you press harder and the blood flows between your fingers, tears clouding your vision as your shoulders start shaking.

“Crying? For me?”, Oliver lets out a small chuckle, “I never thought I’d die a lucky man”.

“Stop talking!”, you frantically look around in search for something, anything useful.

His cold fingers close around your wrist and you meet his dull gaze. It’s so unfair for those eyes to look the way they do now, no sight of their usual spark.

“Listen to me”, he says but you violently shake your head.

“No”, then, to the sky, “send something! You enjoyed the show until now, didn’t you? Is this dramatic enough? Is it worth his life? Where are your fucking gifts? Send something!”, you scream so loud your throat burns. But there are no silver parachutes welcoming your plea, no last minute changes of heart. His life doesn’t really carry any meaning for those who are watching, the sponsors had their fun and now it’s time for the grand, emotional finale. They love this shit. You wish you could burn this entire forest down.

“Listen to me”, Oliver says again, the hand not holding your wrist rising to cradle your tear stricken cheek. His touch has never felt this cold, not even in that cave.

“You’re not allowed to come where I’m going, do you understand?”, he tries to offer a smile but his lips are barely able to twitch.

“Shut up”, you say again, but it comes out a broken whisper, “you’re not going anywhere”.

He ignores you.

“You have to make it back home. Tell my family I’m sorry”, he shivers and you press your palm to the back of his hand, a desperate attempt at providing some warmth.

“No. You’re coming too, we’re winning the games together”.

“This is much more than I deserve anyway”, his thumb strokes your skin, “too bad you couldn’t keep your promise, huh?”.

You’re crying so much you feel sore all over, a broken thing with a futile little muscular organ somehow still kicking somewhere behind your ribs.

“Don't cry”, he murmurs, tender and gentle, “don't let them use your tears for their amusement”.

“You can’t go”, you whisper, leaning forward enough to press your forehead to his, “I just found you”.

Oliver lets out a shaky, weak exhale.

“I’m sorry”, he says and at this point you’re not sure what he’s apologizing for anymore. You just repeat that he doesn’t have to, he has nothing to apologize for.

“I’m staining your shirt”, he murmurs. You get closer, press further into his chest as you wrap your arms around his fragile frame. One of his hands strokes your back, wet lips press a kiss to his throat.

“Thank you”, Oliver’s nose nuzzles further into your hair, “for seeing me”.

For the very first time, you sing to him. The same lullaby your mother would sing to you when you were a scared kid, too afraid of the dark to fall asleep. It’s a whisper to his ear, breaks punctuated by your sobs as your heart breaks for the millionth time in this lifetime, the old therebefore, and warm blood penetrates the fabric of your clothes.

Be not afraid my sweet child Deep in the night the peril is mild Lay down your head and shut your bright eyes For when they open again, the sun will soothe your cries.

Here you are loved, your troubles hidden away Sleep, my sweet child The sun will rise to bring a new day.

In the unnatural silence of this year’s arena, a cannon fires.

[anbu-legacy]

Living in the Dark

Deep in Orochimaru’s lair, Kakashi embarks on an unpaid fellowship in the world’s worst graduate program. Ryouma earns some extra credit. Ma

Living in the Dark (Kakashi, Ryouma, Orochimaru, Nijo, Masuyo) — Deep in Orochimaru’s lair, Kakashi embarks on an unpaid fellowship in the world’s worst graduate program. Ryouma earns some extra credit. Masuyo is simply stalling for time. But time—and options—are running out for everyone.

Dear Readers,

Would we, your beloved writers, release a real chapter on April Fool's Day? Why yes, yes indeed we would!

We know these chapters are coming few and far between these days, as we continue to contend with Real Life Schedules and Obstacles™, but we are still writing and we really appreciate you patiently sticking with us <3

—Nezu (with Ki, Saunter & Aubrey)

[Support us on Ko-Fi

[lanfan]

Haikyuu panels that mean the world to me

[neiptune]

like real people do

cw: 2.8k wc, female reader, friends to lovers, literally black cat x labrador dynamic, you showed up one day and are still part of his life, it’s an axiom he would never expect to change. until one day you meet his brother for the first time and rin shits himself

“We should hang out tomorrow. Are you free?”.

“No”.

You frown.

“Would you have said yes, if you were?”.

Rin takes a moment to reply.

“Probably not”.

The grin you offer right away doesn’t surprise him, if anything it makes him roll his eyes with fake exasperation.

“I love how you never change”.

He nudges your shoulder with his arm, hands buried in the pockets of an expensive coat.

“You’re annoying”.

“I know, it’s my whole thing. You kinda agreed to it when you accepted me as a friend”.

“I never did such thing. You showed up one day and never left”.

Your giggle echoes across the empty street and Rin finds himself basking in your usual affection, something he’s well aware he hardly deserves.

It’s true, though. One day, back in high school, you were assigned to the same group project with two other classmates and that’s when the information of being in the same class in the first place was presented to him. You talked too much and smiled too often but when it came to doing actual work, you turned into a weirdly serious, responsible student. Instantly, too. Which would’ve been an interesting aspect of your personality, if he so much as cared.

You both ended up being the only two putting in real work to finish the project but the only thing Rin could think of was that he was relieved his perfect grades could stay perfect despite the dead weight. Except, you didn’t leave him alone ever since, apparently happy (always way too happy) to have found a new friend. He doesn’t remember how many times, throughout his high school years, he had to repeat that you two were not friends. Over and over again, the deterrent had failed miserably.

Rin has kinda made peace with your presence in his life by now, despite adulthood and your careers playing a significant role in keeping you apart, whenever he visits his hometown you’re there and whenever you happen to be where he is, you insist on seeing him. Stubborn as he’s always been, in his own mind Rin stands his ground that there’s nothing tragically wrong in allowing you to consider him your friend, still. There’s also nothing particularly dramatic in letting himself indulge in someone else’s obstinate fondness.

You’re a good person, he knows that much. Patient, generous, always the first to offer help and the last to ask for anything. You’re stupid. And gullible. Way too easy to take advantage of. It’s why he, to this day, still keeps an eye on you, walks you home in the middle of the night, doesn’t shut the door like he’d do with anyone else when you show up uninvited to his house. Sometimes he brings you something too, little mementos from his travels that hold no real meaning, despite the way your eyes shine with wonder when he begrudgingly hands them to you.

Rin knows you like him. Or at least you used to, so many years ago. He remembers hearing you confessing the secret to one of your closest friends. You never really told him, a good person but still too proud to give him the satisfaction of rejecting you, stood by his side when no one else would put up with his pissy attitude, always disregarding your feelings. Even when he had girlfriends you were there, feigning nonchalance. Stupid. He remembers how he immaturely tried to get you to admit it, shared petty details of his dates, told you he thought he was falling in love with other girls. Your smile barely faltered.

Why did you do that to yourself all that time, he still wonders. But then again he’d have to ask himself why his impatience, or rather lack of understanding, led him to kiss you when you were both visiting your families for the holidays, back from college.

Rin remembers the snow, the umbrella you were holding trying to clumsily cover him too. He remembers you were babbling some nonsense about how proud you were of him, of his career, the way you always knew he was destined to great things, his blue lock jersey still stored safely in the back of your closet. Rin remembers the way he took your face in his hands and pressed his lips to yours, dry and chapped from the cold. Was that truly the only way to get you to shut up? He doesn’t know. He just knows he didn’t expect you to take a step back, thank him for walking you home. The kiss was never mentioned again, the following day you acted like it never happened and he was glad he could carry on without the burden of weird expectations. Well, almost completely glad.

He didn’t kiss you because he liked you or desired something as unnecessary as a relationship, he’s sure of that. He just wanted to, in that moment. A stupid whim. And if the urge of shutting you up in the softest way has possessed him multiple times after that day and throughout the years, out of mere curiosity or simple convenience, he’s never really admitted it to himself. 

You showed up one day, never left, are still part of his life. It’s an axiom he’d never expect to change. Perhaps he finds some comfort in it.

“You really can’t hang out tomorrow? ”, you’re doing that thing you always do when you’re disappointed, furrowed brows over big eyes that are rapidly losing their usual glow as you blink a few times. He sighs.

“I really can’t”.

“How long are you in town for?”.

“A few days”, he pauses for a second, then decides to concede, “we’ll have plenty of time”.

The way your lips immediately curl into a sweet smile almost makes him crack one too. Rin also loves how you never change.

“Oooh, you wanna hang out with me so bad!”.

“Shut up”.

“We’ll have plenty of time! Because I’m your best friend in the whole, entire world!”.

“Now you’re really pushing it”.

You laugh again, something tender settling over your features. He once more recognizes the affection in your gaze and has to look away.

Rin has hated October 10 for as long as he can remember.

It wasn’t always like that, as a kid it was a special day he got to celebrate his favorite person on. His brother went from being his personal hero and best friend, to a stranger he couldn’t recognize, to an adult he tries to have a decent relationship with, now. Still, October 10 is a hassle. If Sae is in town, something he tries to do for their sake, their parents always insist on having a small birthday celebration at home.

His mother spends hours decorating the living room, orders a cake so big it would require at least ten additional guests, they have so many gifts ready and wrapped by the table. For the past few years, Rin has been getting his brother a gift too. Not exactly a peace offering but the promise of getting there, perhaps.

It infuriates him that Sae still acts perfectly normal around him, never hostile, indifferent at best. They barely talk to each other but Rin doesn’t want to spend his entire life seething, he doesn’t want for one single feeling to define him anymore. So he also accepts the birthday gifts his brother sends him on September 9.

It’s just a day, he mentally repeats, it will be over soon. But he doesn’t expect the doorbell to ring, everything has already been delivered and they didn't invite anyone.

Rin certainly doesn’t expect you, standing on his doorstep with a million dollar smile and clearly hiding something behind your back.

“What are you doing here?”, he’s frozen, in disbelief. You’re not supposed to be there.

“Surprise!”, you grin, “look what I finally found!”.

You’re suddenly holding something so close to his face he has to take a moment to focus to understand what he’s looking at. It’s a horror game, one he’s looked everywhere for because they don’t sell those anymore. Rin only mentioned it once but of course you mentally took note and conducted your own, personal research. It must’ve costed you a fortune. You’re such an idiot.

“It’s not a good time”, he takes a step back, hoping you’ll get the hint and do the same. Your smile falls.

“I know. I just wanted to drop this off. Here”, you hand him the neatly packed gift. Rin takes it, then meets your gaze for a second. He wants to say something, apologize, but you’ve already turned your back to him and are quickly granting his wish of being left alone. He asks himself how much patience you have left, how close you are to abandoning him and his asshole ways for good.

“Who are you?”.

Rin freezes a second time, the voice behind him so close and oddly interested. You stop in your tracks, whip around to look at someone who isn’t him. Something hard flashes across your features but it’s quickly whisked away when you offer one of your usual, polite smiles.

“No one, I was just passing by”.

Something inside Rin cracks. No one? You can hardly ever shut up about being his friend. 

Sae hums.

“You should come in. There’s extra cake”.

When their mom catches sight of you, she also invites you in and there’s really no turning back from that. You’re too well mannered, too acquainted with his family to refuse. So you indulge them.

From the kitchen, he observes something he never thought would (or should) happen. Sae, the most infuriatingly detached, impassive person on the planet, is sitting next to you on the couch, where you’re making polite conversation. He’s listening. Rin knows he’s listening because he keeps his eyes on you, stance relaxed. Who knows what nonsense you’re rambling about this time, unfinished cake in the paper plate balanced on your knees. He says something, you chuckle. Rin focuses on his own unfinished cake, suddenly nauseous.

All these years, this is the one thing he didn’t want to happen, you meeting his brother. It’s petty and childish and Rin isn’t even quite sure why the desire to keep you from him has burned ardently this entire time but the fact that his efforts have vanished in the space of one afternoon brings a strange weariness.

By the time you excuse yourself, his parents are begging you to stay over for dinner. You refuse, thank them, thank Sae the most and wish him the happiest birthday. He dismisses your formality with the vague wave of a hand, says he hopes to meet you again. You smile sweetly.

“There’s no need”.

Rin ignores your objection similarly to how you ignored him the entire afternoon, finishes buttoning up his coat instead. He always walks you home and today will be no exception.

The silence between you two is so uncharacteristic it irritates him, to the point of affliction. Are you that upset with him? Ah, the magic must’ve finally flickered out.

“So, how was it?”, he spitefully pushes, “meeting the legendary brother”.

You keep your gaze on the street.

“It was okay”.

Rin scoffs.

“Just okay? You two really hit it off”.

“He was kind to me”.

“I’m sure he was”.

You finally stop in your tracks to look at him.

“Just because we’re friends it doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole all the time, you know”.

Rin stops too, lips parted, breath condensating into a tiny cloud by his mouth. The serious look you’re fixing him with makes his shoulders slump ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry”, he murmurs. Your gaze softens and he hates it, how easy it is for you to cut him some slack.

“Can you tell me what’s really wrong, Rin?”.

He feels like throwing up.

“Nothing is wrong”.

You hum, pensive, take the time to kick a tiny rock with the tip of your boot.

“I really think you should give yourself some grace. You deserve some peace”.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”.

“It means you’re so focused on protecting yourself from imaginary threats, you can’t see”.

“See what?”.

You offer a sad smile.

“How bright you shine”.

Rin is so taken aback he doesn’t know what to say, surprise paralyzing his entire body. He hasn’t felt like this in a while, perhaps years. It’s not fair that you have access to such a vulnerable side of him, it’s not fair that he can suddenly sense a weird lump in his throat.

“I don’t shine-”, he spits the word out, disgusted.

You’re usually very careful about his boundaries, whether they’re a hoax or not. But this time? You do something you’ve never done before, roughly take his face in your cold hands to make sure he keeps his gaze on you instead of avoiding it like a coward.

“You shine, Rin. I’m so tired of you being the only one refusing to see it. You’re the most resilient, talented, hardworking person I know. You did good. But the challenge is over, there is no war anymore, you don’t have to persist in this stubborn seclusion”, your eyes are suddenly wet, tears precariously collecting in your lash line, “you get to rest, now. Please, be proud of yourself and rest. There’s nothing to be on your guard against”.

He doesn’t remember his heart ever squeezing as painfully in his chest before, the urge to take your face in his hands making the pads of his fingers itch. He doesn’t remember the last time he came so close to let a few tears fall.

He’s gonna take you too. Just like he takes everything from me.

The thought takes his breath away for a moment. He feels your thumb gently stroke his cheek.

“You’re the legendary brother to me, anyway”, you smile, then sniffle.

Has he split himself wide open for you or are you simply that good at reading him? Rin can feel his hands shake when they fist the fabric of your plush jacket.

“Why are you telling me this?”, he can barely recognize the desperation vibrating in his own voice, “why do you even put up with me?”.

You blink a few times, astonished. Then smile again, warm and bright like the sun. Oh, he doesn’t shine, you do.

“Because I love you, obviously”.

And Rin doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to wonder what you mean. He knows. He’s known all this time.

“Why did you never tell me?”.

“Because you wouldn’t have let me do it in peace”, you chuckle, “you don’t like me like that so you wouldn’t have let me love you. As if I needed something in return. As if loving you as a friend couldn’t possibly be enough, anyway”.

His fingers are hurting from how tightly he’s still fisting the fabric of your jacket. It feels like his insides are exploding with a million different emotions and he doesn’t have nearly enough time to interpret them. But does he really need that, after all? Time. He’s known you for so long. 

“Stop putting up a fight, silly”, you let go of his face but flick his forehead, to which he grimaces, surprised, “let me love you. I’m your best friend in the whole, entire world after all! Who cares about your stupid brother? No wait, that came out mean, I just meant I care more about you than-”

Rin’s sudden embrace is suffocating, you’re pressed against him so tightly you genuinely struggle taking a single breath. You don’t remember him ever hugging you, the most noteworthy intentional contact you can recall is his arm around your shoulders when you insisted on taking a cute selfie, once. Every other hug, you had always initiated. His arms were always loose around you, cautious, despite his forehead often resting on your shoulder.

His clothes smell nice. He smells nice. You close your eyes, bask in a warmth so strange yet familiar. You don’t think you’ll ever love someone the way you love him.

“You’re so stupid”, Rin murmurs against your neck. With a smile, you nuzzle your face further into his chest.

“So I’ve been told”.

He thinks his heart might be seconds away from slamming itself free from his ribcage.

“Can you tell me again?”.

“What, that I don’t care about your brother? Sure, fuck Itoshi Sae. Oh no, that was also way too mean, don’t tell him I said-”

Rin pulls away abruptly, hands kept on your shoulders to keep you there or maybe to steady himself. You shut your mouth, don’t comment damp cheeks dusted with pink. It may be the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him.

“Not that, you idiot”, his pitch is gentle, with a hint of amusement. One of his hands cradles your cheek, thumb gently skimming over your lips.

“I love you”, it comes out less bold now, timid. Something melts in his chest all the same.

“Will you pretend it never happened, if I kiss you now?”.

Your exhale is shaky.

“No”.

All these years and this is the first time you’re seeing Itoshi Rin truly, openly smile. The sight does something funny to your stomach.

“Good”.

[neiptune]

this town is fake but you're the real thing

cw: 11k wc, female reader, social media relationship, suna downloads an app that randomly matches anonymous users with each other because osamu thinks it'll help him open up more, strangers to lovers, romance, pining, so much texting, suna is as emotionally constipated as it gets

Against all expectations, it’s Osamu who managed to get under his skin.

An innocent night out to celebrate the new Onigiri Miya branch in Shizuoka, a few beers shared on a bench by the port, what started as innocent conversation about each other’s dating life soon turning into a painfully precise evaluation of why he can’t seem to find someone worth keeping around.

“You don’t really open up to them”, his friend shrugged.

“I open up to them plenty. I’ve been with Yuki for three months”, Suna refuted such harsh remark with a scowl.

“Yeah”, Samu mused, “have you ever shared anything about your friends and family? What’s the most vulnerable thought or feeling you discussed?”.

Rintaro took a moment to reflect, begrudging silence weighing more each second spent quiet.

“She met Motoya”.

Osamu rolled his eyes, “Shit, you’re right— can’t believe ya didn’t propose. Meeting Komori’s the real deal”.

“You know, if I wanted to hang out with the twin who’d be a pain in my ass, I would’ve called your brother”.

With a snort and a handsome grin, Osamu lightly bumped his shoulder against Suna’s. “Ya love us”, then his gaze softened as he took a swig from the bottle, “I’m just sayin’. Maybe a relationship is not what you need right now”.

“Then what do I need?”, despite a fiery remonstrance, Rintaro found himself leaning onto Osamu’s judgement. He’d always been very good at reading people, much like his brother, but Samu’s approach was always balanced and, most importantly, sincere. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps there was something he’s missing about himself, something that shined bright for his best friend to catch instead.

“A connection, dumbass”, Osamu lightly pat his shoulder, “it doesn’t have to be romantic. It definitely doesn’t have to be sexual. You need to find someone you can talk to”.

“I talk—”

“Someone who isn’t us. Not me, not ‘Tsumu”, he ignored Rintaro’s indignant scoff, “not Shinsuke, not Aran. You need to get out of your comfort zone with someone new. A stranger!”.

“A stranger? You want me to stop someone on the street and casually ask them to listen to whatever trauma is tied to my fear of flying?”.

“Start small”, Osamu’s eyes glinted with the excitement that a good idea usually brings, “try that app Bokuto was trying so hard to get Sakusa to download. Matchpal, was it?”.

“Sounds like a great way to have a fifty year old creep flash me with a dick pic. No, thank you”.

“I’d think about it. Ya know, we’re not getting any younger. Like ‘Tsumu said, you—”

“I should hurry up before I grow old with only my emotional unavailability to keep me company, I remember”, Rintaro finished his beer with a grimace. Osamu chuckled, eventually dropped the topic, but the suggestion remained unpleasantly hanging over his head both like a succulent fruit and a risky presage.

So now he’s slumped in the living room of the spacious apartment the EJP provides, a quiet Friday evening spent cooking some stew for dinner and facetiming his family. The tv is on as a distraction and an easy way out should things get uncomfortable. Surely Dwight will keep him grounded.

Suna’s already downloaded the app but it takes one episode and a half to muster the courage to actually tap on it. 

The interface is pretty easy to navigate. It seems he’s supposed to create a minimalist profile first and then he’d be free to start a new, random chat. Users can opt out anytime or, if they wish to keep a specific person as their anonymous match, add them as a friend and pin the conversation within their personal directory. Nothing too complicated.

Suna’s patience wears thin easily and after a few attempts at picking unavailable usernames, he settles for crysnoopy. Finally, original enough at last.

Since not revealing one’s identity seems to be the point of the entire thing, he can’t upload a profile picture and instead has to select one random avatar from the default library. He picks a cartoon frog with big eyes and no mouth on a light green background.

There he is, an anonymous online presence on a stupid app. His profile only contains a nickname, he/him pronouns, age and a cute icon. No interests listed, no boundaries, not a single space where he could leave a polite note— please don’t send unsolicited dick pics. Not that he ever plans on requesting one.

Suna starts a few new chats, faceless identities either ending the conversation right away upon his dry and unoriginal hey or being as odd as one would imagine strangers in an anonymous community could be.

Lavenderhaze

-> Hi.

Lavenderhaze

-> How are you?

He sinks deeper into the nice couch pillows Atsumu forced him to get.

crysnoopy

-> hey. all good, wbu?

Lavenderhaze

-> Good, bored.

Lavenderhaze

-> Should we exchange nudes or something?

Rintaro sighs. Hesitation is laced into the delay of his thumb but eventually he taps the skip option, Osamu’s ominous words still ringing loud and clear in his head. It’s not what he downloaded the dumb app for, it’s not what he needs right now. Fuck, maybe he really should’ve called Atsumu instead.

A new chat opens after a short loading time and his nose wrinkles when he realizes that he’ll probably have to send the first message this time. The username staring back at him is original enough to make Suna take a few seconds to think of something equally entertaining to say. The whole thing is never going to work if he doesn’t take it seriously and actually puts some effort in it, right?

He looks up from his phone for a second. Then, a loud ping makes him jump.

Unfinishedusernam

-> When you shower, do you actively wash your legs or just let soapy water rinse down on them?

Rintaro almost huffs out a laugh. Original username and approach? A good enough start to ignite the hope of finally be talking to someone sane.

crysnoopy

-> I don’t shower.

A beat passes, then the small animation of a hand idly scribbling with a pencil indicates that you’re typing something back.

Unfinishedusernam

-> That’s hot.

-> Why the username?

Suna’s lips twitch, not a smile but almost. He wants to type an equally sarcastic reply, brush the question off and maybe ask something more interesting instead. But then he remembers what he’s doing and forces an honest reply out of his fingers.

crysnoopy

-> my little sister used to scream like an eagle when she cried, the one thing that always shut her up was a snoopy plush I won at the arcade.

Suna barely registers that his leg starts bouncing lightly as he watches the little hand appear on the screen once more.

Unfinishedusernam

-> I’m glad it’s something cute :)

-> Lowkey thought you were an incel

This time he really does snort out half a laugh.

crysnoopy

-> if I was I would’ve asked why your username is edging me.

Unfinishedusernam

-> Fair. So… you do shower, right?

crysnoopy

-> I promise I do.

Unfinishedusernam

-> Damn, my incel detector has truly failed me.

-> You seem suspiciously normal btw, I feel like we could have a conversation that doesn't involve dicks

Suna’s hand blindly reaches for the remote to lower the volume of the show he currently doesn’t seem to need as additional emotional support.

crysnoopy

-> likewise. wanna make it official?

Unfinishedusernam

-> Jeez, at least buy me dinner first

Rintaro’s beat to it, before he can even click on the option there’s already a colorful notification popping up on his screen, informing that he has a new friend request.

He accepts it.

It took some convincing for Samu to agree but, eventually, the spot on the pull-out couch became his. Between Hyogo and Shizuoka, with imminent plans of further expanding in Tokyo, he’s always travelling to make sure the shops are keeping their top quality standard high. The Shizuoka branch is still too recent for him to retreat back to his hometown for good, so he’s there most of the time. Suna had to call him an idiot a million times before Osamu accepted his hospitality, never one to ask for anything, always first in line to help others instead. Suna thinks he still didn’t call him an idiot enough times.

They’re both gone most of the day anyway, between the restaurant and training. The season is about to start and the trip to Osaka feels more imminent than ever, Suna knows he has to be at the top of his game to perform exactly how he’s expected to. Which means, no distractions. He does a good job at avoiding those, dating apps left unopened and the way home now shorter than usual, to circumvent his favorite bakery. Those blueberry muffins will have to wait. Samu’s healthier alternative with gram oats and bananas is one hell of a substitute anyway.

Suna loves his friend, he really does. The house feels less empty when he’s around and there’s always a homemade meal tucked somewhere in the fridge. They share breakfast when they get up at the same time and night conversations at the kitchen table if Rintaro manages to stay awake late enough to wait for Osamu to be back.

But sometimes, being alone is easier. No explanations owed for the one distraction he seems unable to give up, no curious raise of the eyebrows he’d have to confront when the familiar ping from his phone prompts an immediate reaction the wrong twin would tease him endlessly for.

He’s always been a dry texter or so his friends, teammates and relatives have always told him. Suna didn’t ever think he was supposed to make an effort to become better at written communication, or communication in general. But now, there’s you. A faceless, perhaps not entirely sane someone who makes him check his notifications way too often, insides spasming when the message doesn’t come from one of his groupchats and the Matchpal icon flashes across the screen instead.

Suna likes talking to you, so much that he often finds himself being the one to text first. It’s okay if you’ll take hours to get back to him sometimes, he knows for certain that the message is eventually going to light up his screen and that’s enough to make him smile. Sometimes you text first, at either ungodly hours in the middle of the night or during the day, if you’re bored at work. He doesn’t know what your job is, you don’t know precisely what Suna does either because, again, anonymity. The only detail he’s familiar with is that you’re often around “wearing but rewarding humans”, as you’d once put it. The one thing you know about him is that he’s an athlete, something you had briefly teased him for.

When he’s not talking to you, when parts or even the entirety of days that used to belong to him and his routine alone are devoid of your messages, Suna finds himself thinking. Or rather, imagining. There’s a lot he doesn’t know and he refuses to overwhelm you with questions, therefore his mind desperately tries to fill in the gaps to no avail. Are you spending the evening reading a book, watching a tv show? Did you cook dinner or order takeout? How happy are you that it’s been raining for three days straight on a scale of ‘I can only function if it’s sunny and bright’ to ‘leave me in a storm and watch me flourish’ ?

Most times, Suna simply plugs the charging cable into is phone, switches off the bedside light and hopes to wake up to one of your texts. They seem to be making an increasingly dangerous difference between a good day and a bad one. He’s not entirely sure it’s ideal.

Unfinishedusernam

-> The humans are testing me today. Whatever you’re doing, I hope you’re having fun!

-> Ah, look what my mom baked yesterday. Told her I have a friend who’d love these :)

-> [IMG_65209]

Rintaro, elbows resting on his knees and towel haphazardly thrown around the neck, smiles at the screen. God, he hasn’t had a blueberry muffin in over a month, but what he’s really focusing on is that you’ve mentioned him. To your mom. There’s a low, static buzz in his ears now, punctuated by the thumps of his heart growing louder. It makes you feel more real, it also makes something simmer in his stomach.

crysnoopy

-> I’m at training.

-> They look really good. Send me one immediately. How was family dinner?

He’s enabled auto-capitalization for the first time in his life, for god’s sake. The Inarizaki groupchat was so disturbed Atsumu decided to apply the same additional authenticator method used by his online banking and forced Suna to reply to a secret question. One only the real Suna would know the answer to.

He successfully demonstrated the needed personal knowledge concerning the color of Aran’s lucky underwear in high school and thus confirmed his identity.

Unfinishedusernam

-> It was nice! I love spending time with them

-> How’s training?

Rintaro finds himself wanting to give his identity shape too. It’s the first time he’s seen your hand, holding that tupperware underneath the dim light of your mom’s kitchen. He wants to feel more real for you, too.

He snaps a picture of his hand holding a half-empty water bottle, careful to hide his shoes. Not that you’d be able to immediately tell he plays volleyball from those, but just in case. You do get to see part of his legs though, shorts and their very recognizable colors kept out of frame.

crysnoopy

-> [IMG_65209]

-> Almost done, very tired

He watches as the little hand scribbles, then stops. It resumes the writing, then stops once more. His leg is bouncing again, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. He straight up jumps when, suddenly, someone loudly falls on the empty spot next to him and the bench creaks.

“We’re on a roll today, my blocks are almost as good as yours”, Washio grins, temples shining with sweat. He briefly glances down at the phone Suna almost drops when it vibrates against his palm.

“You okay?”.

“Yes”, Rintaro clears his throat, makes a show of shoving the phone right back into his bag, “you’re in shape today. Motoya too”.

“Ready for Osaka!”, Komori fist-bumps Tatsuki right before sitting next to him with an exaggerated groan, “hey, is your friend still in town? The Miya twin. We could go out tonight, get some drinks”.

“We literally leave in three days”, Suna’s fist lightly lands on his teammate’s head.

“Mocktails”, Motoya sticks his tongue out.

“I feel like I already see your faces enough. And I’m about to see them even more”.

“Rintaro don’t be a grumpy asshole, challenge once again failed”, Tatsuki rolls his eyes, “you’re always glued to that damn phone when you’re not playin’. Let’s go out, have fun, possibly get laid?”.

Suna sighs heavily. “Fine. I wanted to visit Samu’s new shop anyway, we can have dinner and take him with us afterwards”. He should get Osamu a gift, a nice plant or a maneki-neko. He’ll stop by a few shops on the way home, he decides.

“Now you’re talking!”, Washio smacks his shoulder with way too much energy, “let’s ask Nagito too, he’s gonna love some free onigiri!”.

“Hey, we’re payin’ for those”.

“Sure we are!”.

“I’m serious, you ass—”

“That’s enough gossiping, boys. Get back to work!”, by muscle memory, their legs react to coach’s boisterous voice and all three men jump up from their seats. Suna spends the rest of the late afternoon training thinking about the text message hidden in his gym bag.

It’s way past 6PM when training ends, the last half an hour was spent studying opponent videos and then simulating different match scenarios. Suna’s brain feels fried and on any other day he’d be so ready to get a massage, eat a well-balanced dinner and melt on his couch in front of a good tv show until his eyelids would grow heavy.

Instead, he takes the long way home, legs heavy as he explores different shops in search for the perfect gift. He settles for a very beautiful, handmade, porcelain maneki-neko, left paw raised instead of the right one because Suna knows Osamu will always care about having more customers who trust his restaurant rather than having more money.

The shop owner puts the gift in an elegant box and seals the bag with a delicate ribbon, he thanks the old lady with a deep bow and despite his limbs feeling heavy with fatigue, as he breathes in the cool air of the evening, Suna is content. He thinks of the message sitting pretty in his pocket as he heads home.

Unfinishedusernam

-> You have really nice hands

He didn’t open it, not yet. It’s reassuring to have the notification sitting there, untouched and polished against his lockscreen.

It shouldn’t matter that a stranger on an app is complimenting his hands, it really shouldn’t. Then why does it, somehow? Suna is happy you find his hands nice, which feels like a recipe for disaster. As he walks past his favorite bakery, he remembers you mentioning how you enjoy grabbing croissants for breakfast at times. When he told you that he was about to leave for a retreat with his team, after asking if their destination was one among Tokyo, Osaka and Yokohama, you proceeded to list all your favorite cafes, bakeries and restaurants for each of them. Just in case he had the time and wanted to check them out. As much as he tries to keep his distance, something as trivial as mentioning the correct city possibly resulting too risky, you always seem to go out of your way to reach closer. Taking the time to prepare three separate lists of suggestions while simultaneously respecting his boundaries is an effort he deems… unexpected. It feels weird in the best way. He almost wants to tell you it’s Osaka after all, give you something real, something new to hold on to. Maybe he’ll even tell you it’s volleyball.

“Coming home from another bad date?”, the unexpected quip startles Suna as he looks up from the sidewalk to find his not so friendly neighbor directing a saccharine smile at him, trash bags in hand. Not too long ago, he would’ve asked if she needed help with those.

“At least I still go on dates”, he purposefully eyes her attire, hoodie and sweatpants. Suna knows she’s just trying to annoy him, she can see the gym bag.

“With women who are blind, deaf, mute and desperate?”, she offers a sly smile and he rolls his eyes.

“That’s not a very flattering description of yourself, now”.

She huffs out a sarcastic laugh but Suna can see right through it: the irritation and the embarrassment.

“Always a pleasure running into you, Suna”.

“Likewise”, he smirks, “careful with those bags”.

Suna says goodbye with an unbothered wave of the hand despite her giving him the finger, positively happy that for a good while the chances of running into his neighbor will be reduced to zero. Osaka can’t come fast enough.

The thing is, he was surprised she lived so close when they first started chatting on a regular dating app. When Suna confirmed they were essentially in the same neighborhood, she was the one to propose a dinner right away.

Truthfully, it had been a bad day for him, for a number of reasons. Training was terrible, he was worried sick about his little sister’s sprained ankle, his own tendinitis was giving him hell and Atsumu had decided to call him to talk his ear off for an entire hour about the surprise party they were supposed to throw for Kita’s birthday. Yet, he didn’t feel like bailing on his date, so he forced himself out of the house with the worst mood.

Dinner was terrible. Awkward, tense, her growing increasingly impatient about his lack of responsiveness, him snapping at the tiniest, dumbest inputs. The entire night ended up being such a disaster she left halfway through her creamy salmon pasta, a few banknotes tucked underneath a glass of water, enough to pay half the bill. He remembers deflating in his seat, feeling terrible for five minutes, finishing his own dinner and then leaving as if nothing happened.

Suna thought about texting, maybe even apologizing, but he just never found it in himself to actually do it. It was just a bad date, bad dates happen. He’d never seen her before, or maybe simply didn’t pay enough attention to notice her presence, so there was no way he could’ve anticipated just how fucking often he’d run into her from that day onwards. She never failed to remind him of her resentment and, frankly, that ended up igniting his.

Of course Osamu’s leftovers are on his kitchen counter, neatly wrapped in tin foil. He remembers how hungry he’d feel after training, so when he knows Suna’s going to be busy until the late afternoon, he always makes sure to cook an extra portion.

Rintaro lets the gym bag fall onto the floor, right next to the couch he drops on with a groan. He’s already showered, he simply needs to change clothes and head out once more. When he checks the latest messages, his brows furrow in confusion.

Unfinishedusernam

-> Still at training?

Unfinishedusernam

-> Fuck, sorry, that was probably weird.  

Unfinishedusernam

-> I really didn’t mean to sound like a creep

Suna really, actually smiles at his screen. You’re insecure about complimenting him, which is sweet. He should’ve complimented you first.

crysnoopy

-> Just got home

-> You didn’t sound like a creep, I like your hands too :)

His heartbeat picks up in pace when the hand starts scribbling shortly after, indicating that you’re online and were probably waiting for his reply.

Unfinishedusernam

-> Ugh, see? Now you feel like you’re forced to compliment me

crysnoopy

-> No I don’t?

Unfinishedusernam

-> Liar. Here, if you’re sincere, compliment these.

-> [IMG_98279]

A laugh bubbles from his throat when he opens the picture of your feet in a pair of fuzzy fox slippers.

crysnoopy

-> They’re beautiful. I’d kill to have an identical pair

-> So you have nice hands and cool slippers, good to know.

Unfinishedusernam

-> You’re a flirt in your everyday life, aren’t you?

Once again, Suna hesitates. He is, clearly he is. In all likelihood, if he knew you in real life, he would be. You’re nice, intelligent, funny, someone he can easily see himself being interested in. But it’s not what he downloaded the app for, he shouldn’t wander in flirty territory, he really shouldn’t.

crysnoopy

-> Only if they own a pretty set of slippers

When has he ever been good at following judicious advice?

Unfinishedusernam

-> Knew it. Flirt.

-> Can I ask you something?

crysnoopy

-> Ask away

Unfinishedusernam

-> Why are you on this app?

He sighs. Flirty territory is easier than honesty territory. A quick glance at the clock on his kitchen wall instills a sense of urgency as he types a reply, as raw and sincere as it gets.

crysnoopy

-> I wanted to find out if I could open up to strangers more than I do with people I actually know

He really fucking hopes Osamu is proud. Let it be known that he’s trying.

Unfinishedusernam

-> Do you think you could open up to me?

Suna exhales from his nose. This is definitely not the type of conversation he wanted to have while on a rush.

crysnoopy

-> Maybe

-> I’d like that.

He waits for a few seconds, chat gone silent. Maybe you logged off, maybe you don’t know how to reply, either way Suna feels a weight lifting from his chest. It’s true, he thinks he might have a deeper conversation with you of all people. A faceless someone who sends him pictures of stray cats and nice sunsets, who makes him smile at silly jokes. He shortly wonders if you’d like to open up to him in the same way, if being vulnerable will ever be on the table. For now, he’s okay with simply letting you know.

Osaka ends up being extra motivating.

The EJP Raijin players have been training hard, religiously respecting their schedules: there’s no time for slacking off, days punctuated by a disciplined sleep routine, physical and tactical training, cool-down exercises, refuelling afternoons and evenings spent cross-training. The synergy within the team is off the charts, they have won every single practice match played so far and the excitement is palpable as the game with the Black Jackals approaches.

Their training sessions are usually shorter. Atsumu insists it’s because they’re in better shape, Suna’s almost punched him in the face over dinner.

When he’s not too exhausted, against all odds, he enjoys spending some time with old friends and acquaintances. He knows it’s going to be a difficult game, Sakusa is a pain in the ass to block and Inunaki, their libero, is very talented. But he thinks he’s ready.

As they stroll through the city when their free days or breaks coincide, Suna is sometimes hit with pangs of a sentiment not entirely foreign. Nostalgia, regret? He can never tell for certain. He misses having his friends around, being in the same place at all times, travelling less. As he thinks of Osamu currently being the only occupant of his large, painfully empty apartment, while he shares a portion of takoyaki with an ever annoyingly loud Atsumu, when he listens to Bokuto enthusiastically detail his relationship with Keiji, he thinks he’s missing out on too many things and he’s past feeling unperturbed about it.

“Shoyo says he’s very happy in Brazil, asked us to visit soon. Ya should come”, Atsumu lightly bumps Suna’s shoulder with his as they walk by the river, in search of a good viewing spot. The colorful procession carrying portable shrines is quickly filling up the boats to be paraded up and down the Okawa river. While it’s still early for fireworks, oh and bunraku performances are about to begin on different stage boats, and the air is filled with fragrances coming from the endless rows of festival food stalls. What an unexpected fortune, to be in town for the Tenjin Matsuri.

“Not gonna crash on your friend’s couch”, Suna’s peremptory tone makes Atsumu roll his eyes.

“Why are you being so pissy today? What’s up, scared you’re gonna lose?”.

Rintaro searches for something in his friend’s annoyingly familiar, limpid gaze as Bokuto snickers next to him. He finds his own affection, honed by years of joint quarrels, reflected in it.

“Rin?”, Atsumu’s worried now, head slightly tilted to the side. Suna offers a tiny smile.

“Do you ever miss Hyogo?”.

“No”, the answer comes quick, “I miss my family, I miss my friends. Yer ugly face especially. Places are just places”, he shrugs and Suna feels his shoulders relax.

“We’re lucky, we still get to catch up”, Bokuto smiles, “it’s okay to feel sad sometimes though”.

“I’m not sad”, Suna grimaces, “t’was just a question. Shut up”.

“Aw, don’t be shy! Keiji always says owning how we really feel is important”, Bokuto offers him one of his dangos and he begrudgingly takes it.

“I feel like… you should shut up”, he gruffs out. Atsumu snickers at that and Bokuto pouts. Suna doesn’t pay attention to any of them, too preoccupied with taking a decent picture of the boats. He wonders if he’ll be able to make the fireworks look as pretty as they’re in real life, to show them to you.

He doesn’t care that you’ll know where he is, it isn’t but a small part of himself he wishes to unravel for you. It’s what you two have been doing, no? Occasionally sending each other messages that go beyond jokes and memes. You now know he has twins as friends, just how much he loves his little sister, his favorite dish. Suna knows you live close to your family and visit them as often as possible, that you always bring a can of tuna in your bag should you come across stray cats on the way to work. He knows you’re scared of the dark and can’t look at blood without feeling dizzy. You’re trusting, extremely indecisive, a fierce procrastinator, you spend too much time on tiktok and are scared to death you’re not going to be able to keep those who are important to you in your life, forever. Suna gets it, really.

He hasn’t been able to say much, you opened up to him as if it was nothing and he still can’t bring himself to share much more than comforting words and feeble details. Who cares if he likes yakisoba? He hates how detached he feels from everyone else. He feels lonely. He wishes he still lived in the same town as his friends. Sometimes he goes to sleep with the tv left on, to simulate someone else’s presence in a cold, empty apartment. He misses his family, like, all the time. The thought of getting on a plane paralizes him. He doesn’t think he’s good enough at volleyball, his team may lose and it would be his fault. He doesn’t think he’s good enough.

“Taking cute pics for your mystery girl?”, Atsumu grins widely. Suna keeps a composed facade, calmly snaps a few additional shots, but internally he’s screaming. It’s his fault for expecting a twin to keep a secret, really.

“How d’you know they’re not for my instagram?”.

“You haven’t updated your feed in a year”, Bokuto points at his phone screen, sunarin profile open to prove a point. Rintaro almost snatches it from his hand to throw it into the river below.

“She’s not my girl”, he grumbles instead, “just a random person I talk to. It was Osamu’s idea”.

“It was a good idea. I’ve been trying to get Kiyoomi on that app too, you’re both so closed off”.

On any other occasion, Suna would’ve denied that and retorted with an abrasive remark. Not this time, though.

“Yeah. Trying to improve there”, he huffs, to which Atsumu’s ready-to-take-the-piss expression softens.

“Right. So how is she? Can’t remember the last time you texted with a stranger for more than a week before they were either ghosted or became your girlfriend”.

“She’s okay. I don’t know much”.

“Everyone on Matchpal is anonymous”, Kotaro fills in Atsumu’s knowledge gaps.

“She has to be more than okay if you’ve been talking for over a month”, the older Miya insists, prodding mercilessly at Suna’s discretion.

“She’s funny”, he finally concedes, “and smart. Makes opening up to a stranger look too easy”.

“Smart? Okay, ya definitely wouldn’t be her type then”, part of the tightness in Suna’s chest dissipates as his fist collides with Atsumu’s arm.

“I think that’s the point, though. You don’t know each other and will never meet, so you can admit things you wouldn’t normally mention. Be vulnerable”, Bokuto finishes his dangos and crumples up the small disposable cardboard box they came with.

“Yes but at this point she doesn’t really feel like a stranger anymore”, Suna pauses after saying that out loud, surprised by his own words. When has he stopped considering you a faceless someone on a random app, exactly? He realizes he’s given you a voice in his head. A smile he imagines reacting to his lame jokes, when he deflects tentative personal questions. He’s given you a routine, shared most of his. You don’t feel like a stranger anymore but you’re not exactly a friend. What are you, then?

“Uh-oh”, it takes a moment to realize that the teasing sound comes from Bokuto. Crap.

“And we could meet”, Suna pushes, “Shizuoka is not that big”.

“She’s from Shizuoka? Christ”, Atsumu lets out a low whistle, “does she know you live in the same city?”.

“She never asked”, if the justification sounds odd, his friends are kind enough not to point it out. He doubts Osamu would be as lenient. Truth is, he didn’t ask either: after some time, you had just randomly disclosed the information, probably because you perceived him as a very discrete person. Which, for the record, he is.

“I’m going to ask you this question just once. Do ya like this girl?”.

“No”, obviously not, “I don’t even know her”.

“Oh? But you just said she doesn’t feel like a stranger?”, Bokuto’s eyebrows shoot up.

Suna sighs. His limbs feel heavy but it’s a different feeling than the one he gets after practice, more draining.

“He’ll figure it out”, the weight of Atsumu’s hand on his shoulder feels weirdly comforting.

I don’t know what she feels like, Suna wants to say. He settles for saying nothing, as the hold on his shoulder grows tighter for a split second.

Coach is going to have an earful ready for Motoya if he doesn’t show up on time at practice, in the morning. He’s still out celebrating-drinking with other teammates, their first Tenjin Matsuri an excuse good enough to be late. Suna doesn’t mind having the hotel room to himself for the evening, a welcome novelty: he just hopes he won’t have to drag his friend out of bed the following day.

His hair is still wet, the bed way too comfortable to consider getting dressed. You, a distraction that fills his stomach with fuzzy warmth, something that for a second makes him forget why his phone has been exploding with notifications.

It’s that stupid instagram post he decided to share after a year of semi hiatus, online presence proven only by the occasional story he’d upload. Suna feels particularly caught in his feelings today, so why not post the selfie Atsumu took by the river? His comment is pinned at the top of the section, with over 8k likes.

miyatsumu brothers ❤️

Bokuto left a heart too, Samu and Kita some of their usual simple but genuine comments. Love you guys. Miss you :). It’s easy for them, a skill he wants to master as well. It’s not enough for the people in his life to simply know that he loves them, Suna wants tell them more.

He takes a look at other comments, smiling faces with heart-eyes emojis and inappropriate compliments from strangers that make him laugh. He shortly wonders what your instagram looks like. Filled with pictures of you with your friends and family, no doubt. A feed that showcases your favorite food and places, creative outfits, witty captions and sometimes no captions at all. It’d fit you.

His phone pings again.

Unfinishedusernam

-> Osaka!!!!

-> Fuck I’m so jealous, I never got to see the festival :( did you have fun?

crysnoopy

-> I did. Some old friends are in town too, we’re playing against each other soon

Unfinishedusernam

-> Your friends are also athletes???

-> Now I feel bad, this is literally how I’m spending the evening

-> [IMG_62371]

Suna smiles upon opening the picture. You’re sitting on your couch and the hand not holding the phone is doing a V sign, a lidded tray balanced on your legs, tv channel set on a show he’s never been interested in. The lights are dim, the room doesn’t seem too big but it feels so cozy. The way a home should feel. He sees a coffee table and some lit candles by the tv unit.

crysnoopy

-> Looks like a perfect evening to me

Unfinishedusernam

-> I only walked 200 steps today.

crysnoopy

-> I’m like trying really hard to find something nice to say

-> Every morning is an opportunity to create a masterpiece called life?

-> Stop surviving, start thriving?

Unfinishedusernam

-> Fuck you for making me laugh, I almost dropped my dinner

He laughs as well, out loud, then double taps your message to like it so that you know he’s still acknowledging it, despite something more urgent suddenly prompting the quick movement of his fingers.

crysnoopy

-> Hey, remember when we talked about how you’re really scared of losing the people you love?

Suna can almost sense your surprise, it’s evident in the way the little scribbling hand appears and disappears repeatedly as you probably try to think of something appropriate to say.

Unfinishedusernam

-> Yeah?

crysnoopy

-> I feel that too

-> Most days I wake up thinking I’m a bad person

Another pause. This must be the most exposed he’s ever felt and Suna is grateful your replies are not as fast as they usually are because his hands are suddenly cold, palms clammy and disgusting.

Unfinishedusernam

-> Why do you think that?

crysnoopy

-> I don’t do enough to show how I feel and one day that could make them leave

-> Maybe stability isn’t for me and that scares me

-> I get bored easily, I don't want to commit. What if what’s regular, easy for everyone else will never be my thing?

Well, that’s a whole lot of fucking baggage he just dropped on you. His first instinct is to apologize, to ask you to just forget it, deflect with some joke about having had too much to drink and being in his feels. But he doesn’t do that. Why? What makes him want to trust you with all that? Perhaps it’s just curiosity, wanting to find out what a complete stranger would think of the thoughts that eat him alive at night. Maybe he’s hoping for some miraculous solution offered on a silver plate. Or he just wants to check if he’s able to even do the whole being vulnerable thing in the first place.

Your response comes after a couple minutes and Suna doesn’t remember the last time he felt so nervous.

Unfinishedusernam

-> How did you meet your current friends?

He furrows his brows.

crysnoopy

-> Most of them I met in school

Unfinishedusernam

-> So they made the conscious decision of being your friends every single day, all this time

-> Btw getting bored easily is okay. A bad person wouldn’t be asking those questions about himself :)

-> You can always work on what you want to improve

crysnoopy

-> You make it sound too easy

Unfinishedusernam

-> Sometimes it really is tho

-> You’re not too late, you know. Tell your friends that you love them, tell your family that you miss them

Unfinishedusernam

-> It doesn’t have to be easy right away

-> You get to make your own regular. Create your new normal

Suna exhales, reads your messages over and over again. It’s oddly comforting realizing that he is, in fact, not too late yet. Why does he always think that he is?

His phone pings again.

Unfinishedusernam

-> I think you’ll find a person you’ll want to commit to

-> That’s what I tell myself after all my failed dates anyway lol

-> Remember, be the change that you wish to see on tinder

Suna snorts, heart lighter in the hotel room he sits alone in. He could get drunk on the relief suddenly filling his chest, it feels like the touch of a cool hand over a feverish forehead.

Unfinishedusernam

-> Still there?

crysnoopy

-> I’m here

How could he not be?

crysnoopy

-> Thank you

Unfinishedusernam

-> How’s opening up to a stranger feel? :)

Good, if the stranger is you. Apparently.

crysnoopy

-> Mysteriously comforting

-> How are you failing those dates? Do I have to beat anyone up?

Unfinishedusernam

-> Nah

-> It just seems the guys I’m into are never into me

crysnoopy

-> That sucks for them

It really, truly, actually does. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt as comfortable sharing something so personal over text, it’s all so natural Suna is convinced he’d be able to do that in person as well. How would it feel to meet you? Would the magic wear out, is this so easy only because an anonymous profile on a silly app?

Sure, Suna doesn’t know your name or what you look like, but that doesn’t make you a stranger. He knows you enough for the words to almost spill out of his hands, words that press threateningly against the pads of his fingers.

He’d be into you. He’d date you. That’s what he wants to say: there’s no need to know how you look or the name printed on some documents, he knows enough. It’s a weird feeling that scares him and clouds his mind for a brief moment, as he waits for your reply.

Unfinishedusernam

-> That’s sweet of you to say!

-> Last time I went out with a guy I really liked it was a disaster

-> He also lived pretty close to me, thank god he moved now

crysnoopy

-> Well, joke’s on him. He’s missing out big time

Unfinishedusernam

-> Stop being cute, I’ll fall for you

Suna takes a sharp breath. Reading the words does something funny to his stomach, something Atsumu would tease him for.

Shit, Atsumu. The game is so close. When’s the last time volleyball disappeared from his brain like that, with the snap of invisible fingers? Can he afford being this distracted?

Unfinishedusernam

-> This dinner fucking slaps btw

-> They opened a new place in my city, add that to the list of spots you have to visit if you swing by shizuoka

-> It’s called onigiri miya

Suna chokes on his own spit so badly he thinks he’s gonna die as he abruptly sits up, coughing fit that brings tears to his eyes. He stares at his screen in disbelief, sudden reminder of how tangible and close you actually are burning like a slap in the face.

Samu picks up after a few rings, it’s late enough for him to be either still in the shop or getting out of the shower.

“Hey, what’s up? Saw your pic with that scrub—”

“Did a girl come to the shop today?”, the question is uttered with so much urgency the line goes silent for a few seconds.

“My day was great, thanks for asking! I’m okay, eating dinner on your couch right now”, the fake singsong tone makes him roll his eyes.

“I’m sorry, this is an emergency. She just told me she was at your shop today”.

“Really? Did she like it?”.

“Osamu”.

He chuckles lightly.

“Okay. First, please tell me why we care so much that she came to the shop today?”.

Suna loves his friend, he really does. Sometimes he wishes he was close enough to be punched in the face. “Stop being a dick”.

“Fine. A girl did come to the shop today”, Suna’s heart almost stops, “… along with a million others”, he deflates against the pillow once again, defeated. He knows it’s something he really shouldn’t do but he still sends the picture to Osamu, slightly cropped to leave out everything that’s not useful to the investigation. The two things his friend gets to see are your dinner and a V sign.

There’s a pause, one Rintaro swears is filled by the loud pounding of his restless heart.

“I know who she is”, Osamu speaks quietly, in a tone that leaves no room for sarcasm.

“What?”, Suna’s voice comes out thin, incredulous.

“I remember her. Came in as I was about to close the shop, bowed and begged for whatever leftovers I might’ve had. She looked like she had a horrible day, so I just…”.

“Put something together for her”, as you always do.

“Yeah! I usually don’t use those trays but I didn’t have any of the regular ones left”.

“Well, how is she?”, Suna cringes at the impatience vibrating in his voice, it makes him sound desperate. Osamu hums, it’s a voluntarily prolonged sound that makes him scoff.

“She’s really sweet. Apologized a million times, left a generous tip. I think you’d like her”.

“Yeah?”.

“Yeah, Rin”, he’s smiling, “I also think you should tell her”.

“Tell her what?”.

“That you want to meet her, dumbass”.

Suna runs a hand through his now dried hair, lightly ruffles it. This feels dangerously real now, something he could grasp if he so much as decided to hold out a hand. You’re so close. There’s something else simmering underneath the fear and Rintaro recognizes it easily. It’s an almost forgotten eagerness that he’s not entirely stranger to.

“Samu”.

“Hmm?”, he’s smiling again. The asshole.

“I think I like her”.

“No shit”, Osamu full on laughs now, jovial and relieved. Despite the annoyance, Suna feels the exact same way.

Shizuoka seemed different upon his return, an endless pool of possibilities where something would inevitably remind Suna of you. He’d made peace with the fact that he had a crush on someone he’s never met and with that truth also came an endless list of associations his brain couldn’t help but make.

Texting you first, whenever he wanted, became natural. What’s more, it was almost as if you were encouraged by his newly loosened state, that one evening in Osaka opening the floodgates of something else, something different. You trusted him with your most intimate thoughts and so did he. There was no more wondering if you were bothering each other or texting at an unconvenient time. You’d once told him you felt self-conscious about that specifically.

Unfinishedusernam

-> Sometimes I feel like I’m too much

-> Would you tell me if I was too much?

crysnoopy

-> What do you mean?

Unfinishedusernam

-> You know, if I was pestering you

crysnoopy

-> You’re not too much

-> And even if you were, I could handle you :)

You were the happiest when he had told you they’d won the game in Osaka. Heck, you baked blueberry muffins (“to celebrate!”) and asked him to go get himself one so you could pretend he was there to eat yours. And Suna did: he got up from his bed, grabbed a jacket, put on some running shoes and made his way to his favorite bakery with a dopey smile on his face. He then suggested a toast and, what a coincidence, you happened to have a bottle of white wine left unopened for the longest time. The occasion seemed worthy.

And so you both ate and drank and celebrated until his cheeks felt hot and your texts started lacking proper grammar. Suna remembers how it felt, slumped on his couch, lights low and mind dizzy as his eyes blinked and blinked and then blinked again while the message sat on his screen, black against white. He just stared at it, not entirely able to discern reality from fictitious.

Unfinishedusernam

-> I wish you were here

-> I’d probly just kiss you

Suna remembers staring at his screen as a wild joy exploded in his heart and took over his entire chest, scorching and vibrant like festival fireworks. He stared at it for so long he still doesn’t quite recall if he wrote the reply or if the reply wrote itself, because the only other solid memory in relation to that moment is drifting off with an empty bottle of wine precariously balanced on his lap.

He woke up the next morning with a sour taste in his mouth, a throbbing headache and sore neck. His phone had fallen to the floor and when he picked it up, it was with a heavy heart that he noticed you hadn’t replied.

crysnoopy

-> I want nothing more

-> I’m from shizuoka too. let’s make it happen?

It wasn’t unusual for one of you to leave the other on read and it wasn’t like Suna to hyperfixate on not receiving a reply but this time, for some reason, it felt different.

As he got up with a groan and shuffled to his bathroom to take a shower, a strange feeling of dread strangled his body from the inside, his mind running a million miles a minute. Were you disgusted? Mad, that he had kept his location a secret? That would’ve been unfair, though, and you had always proved to respect his boundaries. Maybe it was all a joke, then. You thought of all that flirting as nothing short of a game, something stupid to pass the time with a stranger online. Something that wasn’t real. Worse, something you’d never want to be real, especially if given the chance to make that happen. Fuck.

Suna succeeded in keeping himself fairly busy for a few hours that day: he cleaned his whole apartment, did some meal prep, called his mom, called his sister, even called Atsumu. Your silence kept throbbing at the edges of each minute, it became so unbearable he ended up sending you a picture of an aspirin package with a funny caption, to test the waters.

You never replied. Not that day, not the following day, a week later your chat is still painfully empty. Or rather, filled with all the messages he’s sent before giving up.

crysnoopy

-> Killer headache town, population: me

crysnoopy

-> How are you feeling?

crysnoopy

-> Hey, everything ok?

crysnoopy

-> I’m so sorry if I made you uncomfortable.

-> I was really tipsy, I didn’t mean it

crysnoopy

-> Or at least I didn’t mean to sound so pushy.

-> I’d never pressure you into doing anything, let alone meet me

crysnoopy

-> I’ll give you space if you need it, can you just please tell me that you’re okay? It’s been three days

crysnoopy

-> Okay. I’ll be here if you ever come back.

He’s so mad at you. Weren’t you the first one coming forward with all that stuff about wanting to kiss him? Why would you disappear? He’s apologized, what else can he do? Was it all seriously worth so little to you?

Suna feels as if the days are longer now, training unbearable. Instead of keeping his mind occupied, all it does is remind him of how badly his blocks suck lately. He doesn’t pick up when Osamu calls, he’d read everything there’s to read in his seemingly inexpressive tone. He’s mad at himself, for not noticing how stupidly attached he’d become. Is it normal to miss you so badly? He doesn’t remember the last time he missed someone just as much. The world is cruel in relentlessly reminding him of you: an advert you’d find funny, that movie you’d recently discussed making a comeback in cinemas, sunsets painting the sky in orange and lilacs so similar to the ones you’d send him, a pair of fuzzy fox slippers on display in a shop window on the way to the gym.

The toxic part of his brain is ruthless in reminding him that this is why he refuses to open up to new people. That this is why he never lets himself be actually vulnerable and simply plays along: it’s because he’d be left with nothing but mockery, humiliation and loneliness.

But Rintaro doesn’t want to give that part of his brain any more solidity. What he wants, is to be proud of himself. Relieved, even. He wants to feel happy for having been brave enough to take a risk, to trust, to open up. He wants to relish in the joy that the brief encounter with you, anonymous and all, gave him. So what if you never come back or talk to him again? That’s on you. He’ll miss you for a good while, will probably always wonder what you’re up to from time to time, but he’ll be okay. You gave him much more than what you’re probably aware of and truth is, he’s grateful. He just hopes you’ll always be okay too, he hopes life will treat you well. He hopes you don’t regret trusting him with your most intimate thoughts, ever.

It’s not like he doesn’t reread some of your messages, to keep himself company. The most recent ones still have the not entirely pleasant effect of twisting his insides. He’ll have to delete that folder of screenshots eventually.

Unfinishedusernam

-> I’m so glad I stumbled over you on this stupid app btw

Unfinishedusernam

-> You’re sweet, snoopy :)

Unfinishedusernam

-> Today was shit

-> Sometimes I think about how it’d be to have you here, at the end of shitty days

Unfinishedusernam

-> Stop flirting with me, it’s working

Unfinishedusernam

-> I feel so slilly

-> can you evne like someone you nevee met?

Turns out, you really can. He just never fully got around to telling you properly.

And then, one day, Suna’s blocks don’t suck anymore. In fact, they’re just as good as they’ve always been. He speaks with Osamu on the phone, a little bummed that his friend doesn’t have another trip to Shizuoka planned anytime soon: the shop is doing great, his presence is no longer required as often.

“I’ll miss you”, Rintaro still remembers the stunned silence following his words, “come back soon, shop or not”.

The younger Miya twin paused his ministrations, hands sticky with rice, and offered a surprised chuckle, “I’ll be back. Ya can also take a train every now and then, ya know?”.

“Maybe I will. Hey, next time you plan a trip to Osaka, can I come too?”.

“Hell yeah. I wouldn’t have to endure that dickhead alone”.

He talks to Kita and Aran way more these days: when he thinks of one of his friends, he simply grabs the phone and reaches out with a text, a meme or a funny reel. It seems to make them happy.

When his mom tells him that Kaori has been relentlessly asking about visiting her older brother, Suna assures her that he isn’t too busy to accomodate her for a week or for however long she wants to stay. Even if he was, he’d make it work. His mom clicks her tongue, gives her approval for a weekend only, less her daughter falls behind her homework even more. He grins when he hears Kaori scream MAKE IT TWO WEEKENDS in the distance.

Suna hasn’t seen his little sister in months and despite their relationship being exhaustingly conflictual (they are way too similar to each other and she gets a kick out of pissing him off), he loves her deeply and she trusts him just as much. Sometimes being home without him can become a lot and it’s not like she ever directly admits it but he’s pretty sure Kaori misses him, the little gremlin.

He was already 14 when she was born and little Rintaro had faced the news of a new addition to the family (a female, no less!) with infinite crankiness. He huffed and puffed and complained about having to share a room and a bathroom throughout his mom’s entire pregnancy, then a pink little bundle of dark hair and eardrum demolishing shrieks held his pointer finger in her tiny fist for the first time and he swore to guard her with his life, forever.

Suna wakes up extra early to clean the bathroom and his room, which he’s going to give to his sister, and make it girl-appropriate. He always goes on a tiny shopping spree before she visits: kitchen cabinets are now filled with her favorite snacks, there’s a colorful set of strawberry handcream, lotion and lip balm on his nightstand, a sweatsuit set neatly folded on his bed, the expensive vanilla body scrub their mom wouldn’t get her sits pretty in the shower.

He texts her before heading out for practice, demands she keeps him updated about her position. Kaori send a thumbs up and the picture of the blurred view outside the train window.

Unfortunately, as it often happens, coach announces the team is required to stay longer than he had anticipated and Suna doesn’t dare explain that he’s actually in a terrible rush because Motoya has been playing like shit and, of course, that becomes everyone’s problem.

“Get it together, man”, he hisses, way less patient than usual. Komori pouts.

“I’m trying”.

“Try harder!”, Washio snickers from the other side of the court.

It’s not until an hour later that Suna can dash through the gym doors, already forty minutes late to the appointment his sister had agreed on in the morning. When he notified her about the extra training, she didn’t falter.

-> No worries, I’ll find the house.

The train station isn’t at all far from his apartment, a mere 15-minute walk, but Kaori hasn’t visited in a few months and she’s not exactly known for her acute sense of direction. She’d get lost in her own house if it wasn’t impossible to achieve that in a small two bedroom apartment.

“Why is your damn phone going to voicemail?”, Suna grumbles to himself in the middle of the street, torn between running to the station or straight home. It’s not dark yet but the sun has set and Kaori knows very well the one thing she’s never allowed to do is turn her phone off, especially if him or their mom are not aware of where she is.

Right as he decides to head to the train station first, he hears her voice. There’s someone taller with her, which makes the hairs behind his neck stand up right away.

“Kaori!”, he damn nearly trips over his own feet as he rushes towards his sister in the opposite direction, gym bag almost falling off his shoulder while she chats with god knows who without a care in the world.

“Rin”, she stops right in her tracks, “sorry, kinda got los—”

“Why the hell is your phone turned off?”, as if to underline his point, he impatiently taps on his phone screen a few times, another call interrupted by immediately going straight to voicemail. He only now realizes how breathless he sounds.

“Battery died, I forgot my charger at home”, Kaori juts her bottom lip out. She’s the spitting image of her brother. “I was lucky to meet your friend right outside the station”, she looks up and so does he, features morphing into a horrified expression. Out of all people.

“You… what?”, Suna doesn’t know what to say. Was his neighbor even capable of smiling like that?

“It was nothing! We had fun, didn’t we?”.

Kaori nods. “We fed some stray cats on the way here. It’s so weird that you had canned fish in your bag, though”.

“I always carry some! Didn’t you see how hungry Mochi was?”.

For the following seconds, Suna is incapable of uttering another word. It becomes weird enough for his neighbor to wave a hand in front of his face, brows furrowed.

“Suna?”.

“Yeah”, he replies on autopilot, “Yes. I mean, thank you. Kaori, let’s go”, he eyes his sister’s large, pink, glittery backpack. Hanging from his neighbor’s shoulder.

“Uh, actually”, his sister coughs.

“What now?”.

“I kinda need to use the bathroom”.

“You can use it at home? It’s a ten minute walk from here, let’s get going”.

“I kinda need to use it now”.

“Kaori”, he sighs, “it’s ten minutes”.

“I live right here”, the woman from his nightmares indicates the house behind her, “wanna make a pit stop?”.

“Absolutely not”, Suna clears his throat, “she can hold it”.

“She can’t”, Kaori shrinks in herself a little, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Fine, I guess we are making a pit stop”, he mutters and his sister exhales in relief, grabs his neighbor by the sleeve and urges her to open the door, quick quick quick please.

Suna watches his sister dash upstairs with a snort as he takes her backpack. It’s heavy as a rock. The hell did she put in there?

“You’re not gonna catch fire if you come in, you know”, his neighbor fixes him with a sarcastic glare as she takes off her shoes, letting her own bag fall to the floor.

“Sorry for the trouble”, he steps in at last, with a low grumble that allows a chuckle to surprise him.

“Don’t be too hard on her. She was panicking, I offered my phone but she didn’t remember your number. I asked where she was supposed to go and when she mentioned the neighborhood, I inquired about her brother’s name. Pretty lucky, huh?”, she’s not looking at him, busy taking off her jacket as well. Suna’s gaze softens.

“Yeah, really lucky. Thank you for taking care of her”.

“I also have a younger brother, I know what it feels like”, she smiles, looking at him at last, “one time we went to a festival without our parents, he thought it’d be funny to play hide and seek without telling me. I think I aged ten years that night”.

“She also used to run away so much as a kid. It’s in our blood, I was the exact same”.

“Doesn’t surprise me for some reason”.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”.

“I’m done, we can go now”, Kaori hops down the stairs, two steps at a time, then glares at her brother. Golden, foxy eyes narrowed. “You’re not being rude, are you?”.

He rolls his eyes but, before he can reply, someone beats him to it.

“He’s never rude to me. We’re friends, remember?”, Suna watches her wink with a smile so warm. Is that really the same person he runs into almost on a daily basis?

Astonished, he witnesses that little, usually quiet, reserved gremlin smile back at his neighbor. Then, remembering how important formalities are in their family, she thanks her with a deep bow. It’s only then that he notices them: fox slippers. Cute, pointed ears, bushy tales and everything.

They both jump when the steel water bottle hits the parquet flooring, Kaori dramatically clutching her chest. “Can you not be a weirdo for five seconds?”.

His neighbor (could it be…???) furrows her brows in genuine confusion. “I think volleyball finally started affecting his brain. Better take him home”.

“Yeah. Let’s go, loser”.

“Shut up, be thankful mom’s not here”, he fires back, fake annoyance to cover the fright that gnome’s actually caused. Suna’s heart is racing for an entirely different reason as he takes another furtive look at those slippers while pushing Kaori out the door, mind racing.

He is completely, absolutely unable to focus. Over dinner, he distractedly listens while his sister paints vivid pictures of boring classes, the art course their mom wants her to give a chance to, the latest fight she had with her best friend. He asks questions and fails to register the answers he gets, over and over again. It’s a relief when Kaori sprints to the bathroom, calling the shots for who gets to shower first. Suna is left rinsing the plates, with a brain that can’t think.

Would it be possible? You’re from Shizuoka. You have those exact slippers. You always feed stray cats. God, the fucking slippers. What are the chances?

He could call Osamu, ask a few questions. Instead, his sister’s voice keeps chipping away at what’s left of his sanity.

Your friend’s cool. I wish my teacher was that nice.

A teacher. Could kids be the wearing but rewarding humans you often mentioned?

He goes back to that disastrous dinner, desperately trying to recall how the conversation felt. What did they even text about prior to that evening? Was that woman as charming as you are? Fuck, he doesn’t remember a single word exchanged that evening. He just remembers being an asshole.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes”, from her comfortable spot on the couch, Kaori watches her brother march to the front door, then bend down to put on the same shoes he wore a few hours before, “lock the door, don’t burn the house down”.

“Where are you going?”, her brows are knit in confusion, never in worry.

“None of your business. Lock the door”.

“Sure, sure, bye”.

“Right now, Kaori”, something in his weirdly brisk tone makes the fourteen year old pause the show she’s watching, not without a dragged groan, and get up from underneath the blanket she had stolen from her brother’s room.

You’re so ready to go to bed early and declare the day officially concluded.

Work was tough, managing a new classroom of overexcited kids had proven to be particularly difficult. Between the increasing pressure from school administrators and the daunting task of creating engaging lesson plans for the new semester, you felt a heavy weariness threatening to swallow you whole.

As you brush your teeth, tired reflection staring back at you, he worms his way back into your thoughts once more. Saying that hearing his name and then seeing him again was unexpected would be an understatement: you were absolutely convinved (and thankful) he had moved. Where the hell did he disappear for over a month? Just to come back and show up like the annoying, irritating nuisance he is. One you can’t seem to whisk away.

Your date was one of the most disappointing nights of your life. Suna, the guy you had talked with for days, the same Suna who was so witty, intelligent and nice, was also just so blatantly uninterested. Bored. He didn’t even make the effort to ask about your day, eyes distant whenever you tried to initiate a conversation. And of course, because life hates you, you have to be reminded of that night every single day because you now see him every single day.

What’s more, you had failed the one person you’ve been able to feel interested in after that big, fat disappointment. Someone who just found himself trapped in the crossfire of your thoughts and stupid, stupid fears. Someone you were selfishly not ready to have so close. Someone wonderful who didn’t deserve your self-serving worries.

You’re already in your pjs when the doorbell rings multiple times, so insistent you almost trip down the stairs as you hurry, terrified that you’re gonna have to face an emergency with pandas printed on your pants.

“What the hell?!”, you instinctively step back as he leans forward, his entire weight resting against the doorframe.

“Sorry, I know it’s late”, Suna takes a deep breath but it’s not really needed. Prior warmup or not, he isn’t at all affected by the sprint through which he covered the distance between his house and yours. “I just had to… hey, can I come in? I’m probably gonna have a heart attack if I don’t sit down”.

You’re staring at him wide-eyed, completely startled.

“Yeah? Sure, come in! Is your sister okay? Did something happen?”, you’re quick to push the door closed as he heavily flops on your couch.

“No, no…”, Suna seems distracted for a moment, eyes scanning the room and zeroing on your tv, which is currently turned off. He stares at it for a while, then lets out a small laugh. “Actually, maybe it’s better if I stand up”.

“Suna, are you on drugs right now?”, the question is serious but his eyes, now fixed on you, don’t reveal any particular emotion besides genuine… amusement?

“I need to tell you something”.

The odd idea that he might be hiding a knife somewhere underneath that leather jacket crosses your mind for a split second.

“Sure…?”.

“When my sister was a baby, she’d cry a lot. I legit thought my ears would explode at some point”, he weighs the words carefully as he approaches you and, for some odd reason, you don’t take a step back. “She’d cry so much, all the time. And then, one day, I brought home a snoopy plush I won at the arcade. It became the one thing that would always shut her up”.

It feels like someone’s toppled a bucket of ice cold water over your head. Suna is standing so close while looking at you in a way you’ve never witnessed, a way so uncommon for him. You can’t focus on the desperation in his eyes and you’d never guess the hopefulness simmering behind a gaze that seems to be discovering you for the first time.

“It’s you”, barely a whisper, but it’s all the confirmation he needs. The relief in Suna’s exhale is intense as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in. Thank god he does, because your knees feel so wobbly.

It’s a weird sensation, being pressed against him, hanging onto his shoulders for support. He’s warm and smells so good, of bergamot and musk. Your brain can’t quite comprehend that he’s the person you’ve been talking to for the past months.

“I missed you. I’m sorry”, he confesses in the curve of your neck and the words dissolve underneath the thin fabric of your pjs, slowly sink into your skin and bones. “I’m so sorry”, he says again, carefully pulls back to look at you, eyes searching for any sign of discomfort. Mirth flashes across his features for a moment. “Hey, are you about to throw up?”.

“No, of course not!”, you take a tentative step back but he doesn’t trust your stability and keeps a gentle hold on your arms, “why are you apologizing? I disappeared. I should be the one… I should be…”, Suna’s gaze softens, one hand rising up to touch your face but then freezing mid-air, deciding against the risk of freaking you out even more.

“Please don’t cry”.

“What?”, you retort, “I’m not crying. Ew”, but when you touch your cheek, it’s shocking to find it wet. What the fuck.

“Oh, god. Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me”, a dry chuckle bubbles up from your throat, “listen, there’s no pressure on you. I’m sure this is a real disappointment so, like, we can pretend it never happened and just go on with our lives. I won’t—”

“Are you sure it’s you? The person I’m looking for is pretty clever”, he attempts a smile when you frown, familiar at last. “You think I’d leave my sister alone and race all the way here for a real disappointment?”.

“I think you just wanted to corroborate”.

Suna rolls his eyes, incredulous. “Well, I corroborated. I’m only gonna pretend it never happened if that’s what you want, because it sure as hell isn’t what I want. If you even care about that”.

You angrily wipe your tears, cheeks burning scorching hot with embarrassment. “I didn’t expect you to be so close. I freaked out. I’m freaking out right now because you’re even closer, apparently”.

“Are you disappointed?”.

You look at him, really look at him. His dishevelled hair, naturally narrowed eyes, the bridge of a perfect nose, full lips forced in a severe line. He’s searching for something in your gaze, with fierce determination. How can one person’s eyes be so penetrating? You feel naked, exposed. Vulnerable.

“No”, you reply, sincere, “no, I’m not”. If only you could feel the relief taking over his chest. “But… what now?”.

Suna feels as if he’s seeing you for the first time and, at the same time, it’s like he’s recovering something important, something precious. He’s already trusted you with some of the most important, hidden parts of himself. He hasn’t liked someone that way in such a long time and he’ll be damned if he lets this chance pass by. Again.

He’s not too late. Why does he always think he is?

You curiously watch as Suna takes his phone out and spends a few seconds tapping on it with a smile he can barely hide.

The familiar ping of a notification you haven't heard in weeks makes you stutter.

crysnoopy

-> Now we do this right.

[wordsofelie]

🏠one goodbye, a million hellos

A Phoenix and Ashes & Don’t you dare run away short story (can be read as a standalone)

Suna x f!reader

Summary: Suna is invited to the wedding of his ex. he goes there with a broken heart and leaves with a loving one.

Content warnings: alcohol consumption, non-explicit bed scene, swearings, timeskip, manga spoilers

Words count: 3.5k

Suna knew from the moment he woke up that morning, that today was going to be shitty day. First, his alarm didn’t go off—luckily, his lazy cat decided to scratch at the door, waking him up. Bleary-eyed, he noted that the noise outside was way too loud for it to be 6 a.m. That’s when he checked the time. It was 8 a.m.

He launched out of bed and stumbled as his ankle twisted slightly. He barely registered the discomfort because he simply had no time to waste. Then he checked the weather on his phone: a sunny day ahead, or so he thought. However, all he had to do was cross the threshold to realise that he’d checked the forecast for Hiroshima, not Tokyo, and that it was pouring rain in the bigger city.

The way to the gym didn’t help ease his mood. He had to wait for two overcrowded trains to pass before he could squeeze onto the third, only to watch in horror as his wallet tumbled out of his bag and skidded across the station floor. Two teenagers shot him a pitying look and smirked.

His coach made him run ten extra laps of the court as a punishment.

Anyway, it was shaping up to be the shittiest day.

Only two things could possibly redeem it, Suna hopes: the company of his chubby, grey cat and the arrival of his long-awaited new volleyball shoes.

When he finally reaches his apartment building, he rushes to the mailbox.

Fuck, the shoes aren’t there.

He sighs heavily and sorts through the stack of mostly junk mail. There’s an ad for the new yakiniku restaurant that opened in his neighbour, a fan’s letter (how did they find his address?) and then, at the bottom of the mailbox, a delicate, white envelope with his name inked in familiar handwriting. Suddenly, his chest tightens. Suna feels his lungs closing, as if they can no longer inhale the breath from outside. Because, even if he wishes he could unrecall the way his ex-girlfriend used to write his name, he can’t; and the letter is from her. He doesn’t need to open the letter to know what it is. She wouldn’t use such elegant paper for him—not anymore. So, he knows, even before reading a single word, that it is an invitation to her wedding.

Her wedding to Miya Osamu.

But just in case his hunch was wrong, in case she dumped his former teammate and wants Suna back in her life, he decides to unfold the paper, carefully.

Honda Airi & Miya Osamu are pleased to invite you...

That’s enough for today.

He shoves the letter into his bag, in a harsh move. Yet somehow, he can’t bring himself to crumple or shred it to pieces for it is certainly very precious to Airi.

When he enters his apartment, he mumbles a shy “tadaima”, it’s unusual for him. He never much cared for the ritual of announcing his return, but his mother used to insist on it, so he only does it with her and his younger sister when he visits them. And Airi once complained when he didn’t. He never knew why it mattered so much to her.

“It’s just… I love having someone to say ‘okaeri’ to,” she said.

Only now does Suna understand the warmth of having someone to greet when coming home, or rather, Suna understands the coldness of having no one to go home to. Not even Peko-chan, his cat, bothers to look up at him, it doesn’t seem like that ungrateful bastard is going to come and ask for cuddles anytime soon.

He finds a single lollipop on the kitchen counter and unwraps it, it’s sweet but somehow tonight, it tastes bitter.

The letter stays in his bag for weeks. Airi tries to call him a few times, leaving messages of “hey, I was wondering if you had received a letter?”, and “tell me when you have received the invitation… I’d like to talk with you about it.” Which turned into “everyone received theirs so I don’t know if you moved out or if you’re ignoring me… anyway, please call me back.”

She sounds so worried; it makes him feel bad and so, he calls her back.

Airi sounds so thrilled when she talks about the wedding plans. There’s this spark in her voice that reminds him of everything he once loved about her. For a brief moment, he almost forgets it is supposed to hurt.

She begs him to come because “you’ve always meant a lot to me, and… I still think of you as a close friend. And Osamu’s entire team from high school is coming. It wouldn’t feel right without you there. But I understand if it makes you feel uncomfortable-”

“I’ll come.” He simply replies. Suna has always been a man of few words. He believes he hears a sigh of relief in her voice.

She thanks him one, twice, thrice, Suna pretends it is a pleasure. Which it is (because he made her happy) but also isn’t (because all the regrets he pushed aside for years suddenly resurface).

That evening, he reads the whole letter. It is so quintessentially her— simple and graceful, the venue will be in the mountains, of course she loves the mountains. The wedding will be held in summer, near her birthday. Every detail seems to fit her perfectly, even the name next to hers, and despite the hurt and regrets, Suna Rintarou has to admit that Miya Osamu is a way better choice than himself for her; he had always been.

The day comes and Suna feels his stomach hurt when he arrives at the venue. It’s a small gathering, which only makes him more visible when he parks. He glances at the people that are already there, and takes a deep inspiration—yet, even in the calm, he can feel his pulse race. A few seconds after he hears Atsumu tapping on his window.

“Sunarin, my man!” Atsumu’s grin is wide as ever, and Suna’s response is his usual faint smile.

Atsumu explains everything to him from what’s planned for dinner to where the restrooms are but soon after that, excuses himself to go see his brother who’s almost done getting ready.

To stay close to people who are calm and won’t ask too many questions, Suna makes his way to his senpai, Aran and Kita, and nods through conversations, pretending to be his normal self, quiet and unbothered.

Suna doesn’t remember a lot about what happened after, maybe because he was to focus on trying to make the pain in his chest go away.

But when Airi arrives, he finds her beautiful, but he also admits to himself that his heart doesn’t beat the way it used to. The man realises that it is not her that haunts him, but the regrets and the “what could have been?”. It’s the longing to have someone by his side to cherish. It’s the fact that the only true love story he had experienced ended in tears—because of him—and when he tried to fix the broken glasses, it was too late.

This goodbye will forever hurt.

By the reception, Suna attempts to control his drinking—partly because he is a professional athlete, but mostly because he fears he might say something stupid to Airi, “Could it have been us?”, he nearly asks when he bumps into her at the buffet. But instead, “I’m happy for you,” comes out.

“Thank you, Rin. It means a lot coming from you.” the hurt eases even slightly.

Still the alcohol starts blurring his mind a little bit and he turns, only to find himself spilling his drink on someone.

“Shit,” that someone says.

“Oh-sorry!” he mutters, reaching for a napkin to help.

She says nothing back, and doesn’t even look at him at first, not out of annoyance, Suna concludes, but because her attention is glued to her camera, which took the brunt of the spill (and that thing seems the hell expensive).

After a minute or so, she sighs heavily and mumbles a “thanks gods, it’s still working.” As she raises the camera, she snaps one picture of Suna.

The man raises an eyebrow, genuinely taken aback.

“I need to remember the man who almost made me lose my job.”

She grins. And Suna can finally see her whole face. She’s more radiant than a thousand suns.

“Your job?”

“Yep. Honda-san, I mean, Miya-san now, hired me to be the photograph for tonight. My shop is close to her workplace.” She says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she extends her hand to introduce herself.

“Mmh, nice to meet you. I’m Suna.”

He’s cold. Suna knows he is, but it’s not like he can do anything about it, that’s just who he has always been. Somehow, she doesn’t seem impressed or upset by it. She simply scratches her chin and frowns.

“Are you here for the bride or the groom… Wait, let me guess. You’re pretty tall and handsome. Volleyball player, right? So, the groom’s side, I’d say.”

Suna doesn’t know how to respond to that because after all, he’s here for both.

“Actually…” He hesitates. “I was in high school with them.”

“Oh, I’m sure you were the mysterious type and cool guy all the girls had a crush on?”

Suna laughs, a short huff through his nose. “I don’t know. Were you the stalking girl who took pictures of her crush?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Did you take pictures of me tonight?” He wheedles and crosses his arms.

“Who said I had a crush on you?”

That girl is probably smarter than he would ever be, Suna concludes and just when he’s thinking about what he can argue back, she chimes in.

“But, if you want to know, you’ll have to stop by my shop sometime.”

He’s surprised when his heart skips a beat and finds himself wanting to know more about her. They chat naturally for the next half an hour, like old friends or something close to it. She mentions Momo, her cat, a clingy, high-maintenance furball that couldn’t be more different from his laid-back pet. He shows her a photo of said pet, and she laughs about how nonchalant he looks (“like his owner” she adds). She still thinks the felines would look good together. Suna wonders if they would.

“Well, I just forgot I’m supposed to be working and I saw that dude who looks like an owl doing a backflip on the dancefloor. I think Miya-san wouldn’t want me to miss this.” She leans just an inch so that Suna is close enough now to inhale a fragment of her scent. “Guess I’ll see you around… Mister Cool Guy.”

Before he can say anything, she slips back into the crowd. Suna thinks he catches a slight blush on her ears, he smiles, and it makes his cheeks hurt.

Two weeks after, Airi calls him.

“Rin, I hate to ask, but I’m in Osaka right now, and the wedding photos are ready. Could you pick them up?”

Suna wonders if she has some sixth sense or if fate is intervening, but either way, he decides to take the chance.

When he arrives at the shop, she’s there, and the man swears he caught her smile widen when she saw him. She’s helping a young girl with some identity photos, telling her jokes, and making funny faces to get a smile from the child. The way she acts with her makes him think that she has that ability of making everyone feel at ease.

“Here for the photos?” she asks and hands him the envelope.

He takes it, but something holds him back from leaving just yet. He’s here to do his ex a favour, but as he heads toward the door, he finds himself turning around.

“What are you doing after this?”

“Nothing,” she answers, almost too quickly.

The middle blocker holds back a teethfull smile, “There’s a new yakiniku place nearby. I’ve been wanting to try it.”

“I close in twenty minutes.” She informs.

“I’ll wait,” he replies, and finally lets a rare smile break through.

The dinner’s great, they talk about everything and nothing at all. He grills the meat, she eats it while telling him about her degrees and her previous experiences working in a rigid company, why she hated it and how her boss was a butthead. Suna notes that her eyes shine when she explains how she finally followed her dreams and became a professional photographer. She asks him about his dream, impressed when she searches for his name on the internet and sees the number of followers on his public profile.

By the time they’re walking back, neither is in a rush to leave the other. Their feet drag slightly, as if it would help delay the moment they part ways.

“Next time, I’ll try the karubi,” she exclaims, nudging him.

“Next time?”

“What? Aren’t you going to take me on another date, Suna Rintarou?” She smirks, bright and clear.

Everything inside him moves and his heart aches. But this time, the feeling soothes him.

And so, he agrees to go out with her again. The dates become regular and slowly, as the days pass, fingers intertwine, soft kisses land at the corner of lips, and “i like you” are whispered under the moon.

With her, it’s never awkward, never forced. And Suna thinks that maybe he isn’t cursed to be loveless after all.

A few months later, when her apartment lease ends, they move in together. Suna, with his ever-pragmatic mind, decides they know each other well enough to make it work. She’s clumsy, messy, and can sleep till noon—he often returns from his morning run to find her still in bed, though now she tries to get up and wait for him with two steaming cups of tea. She has a tendency to comment on absurd reality shows about people fighting in a villa, and while he doesn’t admit it aloud, Suna finds an odd comfort in her quirks.

At first, her cooking is questionable, bad even, but he finds her watching YouTube tutorials on “How To Meal Prep for Athletes.” Soon, her omurice (that was a bit too burnt in the beginning), packed with olive oil for good fats, protein-rich chicken and eggs, rice for carbs, and fiber-loaded courgettes and red peppers, becomes something he actually looks forward to. Her repertoire of healthy recipes grows, and they fall into a rhythm that makes Suna feels nothing less than at home: he handles the cleaning, and she deftly manages bills and taxes.

On the weekends, they play video games and go on hikes—though never too long ones, because she stops constantly to capture everything. “You already took a picture of that flower,” he points out, and with her innocent smile, replies, “But the light’s different now.”

She respects his boundaries, never pressures him to do things he dislikes, and doesn’t complain when his responses are short and of few words. She doesn’t make him feel bad when his training runs late. No matter what hour he comes home, she’s waiting—half asleep on the couch, two cats curled in her lap, an almost-empty packet of low-salt and 0% fat crisps by her side. He kneels before her, murmuring “tadaima,” and her eyes squint and then shine as she responds, “okaeri, my love.”

She never misses his games, always making sure to snap the best shots of him. Sometimes, she even sneaks alongside the official photographers, scolding them for not taking enough pictures of Suna.

“What a bunch of idiots…Can’t you see he’s the ace of the game?” (it got her to be kicked out of the gym once).

She learns all the rules from volleyball even though she still gets confused with the rotations. One day, from where he stands on the court, Suna hears her protest when the referee whistles for a foul he made (even though it was obvious he touched the net with his chest).

In return, Suna never fails to attend her exhibitions. He strokes her hair and kisses her cheeks when she cries because “no one came” and “I’m a failure.”

He lists every reason why she’s mistaken and how she’s the most talented person in this entire universe. It makes her cry even more, but with happy tears this time. He never stops believing that her art will be celebrated worldwide someday, but that he’ll remain the first to stand in line when queues of fans will show up to her exhibitions.

After a hard day, he runs her a bath, (always putting a little bath bomb that smells like roses, her favourite). When he’s away for matches, he brings back mugs from every country. The shelves are now overflowing, and they had to buy a new cabinet, but she still asks him for more.

He discovers what makes her feel good, the spots on her skin that sends shivers down her spine (her upper thigh, the back of her shoulders). He learns what words make her lose her mind, what pace she enjoys most.

When he messes up, she’s never afraid to call him out. “You’re a piece of shit,” she shouts sometimes when she’s pissed at him, and they burst into laughter because they can never be mad at each other for more than fifteen minutes.

During the Paris Olympics, they explore the city for what she calls their “honeymoon” (they’re not married, not even engaged, though Suna wouldn’t mind giving her his last name, or taking hers). She photographs every single croissant they try, and even makes him pose like he’s holding up the Eiffel Tower, much to his dismay. The man grunts but do it anyway (it’s a total fail).

She jumps in his arms when Japan wins against Argentina. He almost stumbles, but happiness overwhelms him at the same time.

He meets Airi’s gaze, who came with Osamu and his parents to cheer for Atsumu. She beams at him, and he smiles back.

(After all, going to that wedding wasn’t quite a bad idea.)

And just like that, a year transforms into two and into three. His career is stable while hers flourishes.

When he turns 30, she shows him a video montage that leaves him flustered. He laughs at her for getting teary-eyed even though she’s the one who made it.

“Where did you get all these pictures of me as a kid?” he grumbles, embarrassed.

“From your mum, of course! She was happy to help.”

“To help humiliate me?” he asks, and she tries to shut him up with a quick, “I love you.” He rolls his eyes but smiles anyway.

For her birthday, he gifts her the camera she’s been dreaming of her entire life. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Please, keep taking pictures. I love them... and I love you,” he tells. She answers she could die happy.

Her first picture with the new device is, shamelessly, Suna’s “beautiful and too-hot-for-public-decency back muscles.”

“Are you taking nudes of me, darling?” He raises an eyebrow when he catches her in the act.

“But this is my favourite scenery.” She tries to explain with a pout. He lets her snap more pictures.

She heads to New York for a major exhibition where she wins an award for best nature photography. From their shared apartment in Tokyo, Suna congratulates her over the phone.

But the week drags on and her absence is painful. He craves her omurice and the low-salt crisps (which taste suspiciously like cardboard), and even finds himself calling out “tadaima” to no one at all. And it seems like, he’s not the only who feels depressed since both cats have decided to start a hunger strike because apparently what Suna feeds them doesn’t meet their standards (even Peko-chan refused the tuna he gave him.)

He looks at the photo album she made of their travels before bed. Suna is convinced that one day, their shelves will be overflowing not only with mugs but with albums (because they have many years ahead of them, many more moments to share).

He forgets what his life looked like before her, not that it matters anymore, Suna wouldn’t mind erasing every memory from his head to keep exclusively the ones with her.

She finally returns home with the award, and he picks her up from the airport (driving a little too fast and barely stopping at red lights, don’t tell her). When they step in the doorway, Suna grabs her waist and pulls her against him tightly, his face nestles in her neck.

“Rintarou…” she chuckles and grabs his hair—he loves when she does that—“I stink because of the flight, let me take a shower.”

Her cat meows to get her attention.

But Suna wants her all to himself.

“Say tadaima,” he orders, sounding like a child.

She blinks in confusion, then takes his face in her hands, planting a soft kiss on his lips. “Tadaima, my love.”

Suna wants to breathe the words, make it his oxygen. His lungs open, his whole blood is filled with an air he never felt before.

Gosh, she’s everything, he tells himself.

“Okaeri.” He responds.

They take a shower together (until the water runs cold), they order take away (burgers with an extra slice of fries), they watch her stupid reality show (Suna starts to be invested in the drama), he falls asleep on her lap, the cats join him.

That night, Suna dreams that it lasts forever.

(It will.)

author notes: if you read Phoenix and Ashes and Don’t you dare run away you know that i haven’t depicted suna as the most loving and kind human being, but what i enjoy so much about writing is that we can develop complex characters who evolve, fail, get better or worse, and make them experience life-changing events. so i really loved describing this new version of suna and make him fall in love again.

anyway a lot of talking haha when i just wanted to give sunarin a happy ending <3

i hope you enjoyed reading this and I’m gonna go working on the kageyama fic now 👀

[georgettesand]

💝

[suckishima]

furudate watching that amazingly fun and gut wrenching match between italy and japan and then immediately dropping a new drawing to express just how fun volleyball can be?? furudate we don't deserve you 😭😭😭

[amjustagirl]

Chapter 2

pairing: hoshina soshiro x f!reader

genre: romance, angst

wc: 2.7k

summary: you've loved soshiro since you were seven. he will always place his duty above you.

chapt 1 / chapt 2 / chapt 3 / chapt 4 / chapt 5

The first step in your mission to reclaim your heart back from Hoshina Soshiro is to ignore his texts. 

// omg my blade got chipped in a fight //  // daikaiju with a ridiculously hard shell //  // so annoying!! //  // hmph!!! // // fix it for meeeeee //

<kindly send me your request through official channels please, vice captain hoshina>

// !?!?!??!?!// // u still have indigestion???//

You really should’ve foreseen his sheer stubbornness though, considering the mountain of rejection he had to claw through to get to where he is. He springs a surprise visit on you, breaking into your lab without warning. 

“Did you seriously ask me to fill in an official form for upgrades?” he demands, miffed. 

“Record keeping purposes”, you lie through your teeth. “My boss is on my back.” 

“Your boss?!” he repeats incredulously. “Aren’t you the head of your department?” 

A department consisting only of three overworked blade specialists servicing the entirety of Japan’s Defense Force and private security forces, but he has a point. “Well, the auditors might run their checks, and how am I supposed to justify spending budget on reckless improvements that a certain vice captain demands -” 

He slings an arm over your shoulder and a crackle of electricity zips up your spine. “C’mon, don’t be silly -” 

You shrug him off, waiting nothing better than to run for the toilets to fan away the heat spreading up the column of your neck to the apples of your cheek. “Fine”, you acquiesce. “I’ll get to it - just, stop bugging me -” 

He smirks, content at getting his way. “Great, now we can grab lunch. Food here’s so much better than on base -” 

That, you can fend off. “Can’t”, you say. “Lunch with colleagues. And no, you can’t join, Hana-chan wants to cry about her ex, and you’ll make her uncomfortable if you’re there.”

He goggles at you. “Since when do you have friends besides me?” 

“Always, you rude shit”, you say, though really, you’ve just been putting in more effort in being more social at work. “Now, get out.” 

At last, he leaves, so you can reset your heart to its factory settings. You fix his katanas and send it back via courier, when previously you might have delivered it to the base yourself as an excuse to see him again.

The next step is to find something else to preoccupy you. 

You sign up for pottery lessons on Sunday afternoons, which clashes directly with when Soshiro gets the majority of his time off. You aim to slaughter two birds with a single stroke, an excuse to avoid him coupled with a hobby for you that has nothing to do with him. 

It comes naturally to you, since you’re accustomed to using your hands and handling heat to create things, even if it’s usually steel, not soft clay. But it’s different when you do it for fun, for yourself. Blades can be beautiful, but your focus when hammering at them has always been its function, not form, so it’s a welcome change to just create things for its beauty. 

You make cups and bowls for your colleagues (now friends), a set of sake cups for your parents in a rust-red glaze. Your proudest creation is a tea set that you keep for yourself, displayed on the windowsill to remind you of a summer sky when it’s grey. 

Even Yamamoto-san gets a little gift since you now consider him a friend, a stone pot for a plant  he complained of having outgrown its home. He reciprocates next month with a plant for you, who he says needs a home. This you struggle with, not being born with a green thumb. You studiously research plant-rearing tips and plunk the monstera you are gifted with by your prized tea set, but it truly thrives when you bring another potted plant home. Pothos, at first, because they’re too-determined to live. Bird’s fern, for it’s graceful leaves. When you’re more confident, you top it off with azaleas, for colour, hydrangeas to match your tea set.   

(not violets, never violets)

“Huh”, you stare at the jungle on your balcony “Even plants need friends, I guess.” 

It’s still little too soon to put yourself out there on the dating apps and start searching in the radioactive waste pool of the Tokyo dating scene when your heart is still tethered to Hoshina Soshiro. Any willpower you have to stay away is shaken when you hear that Soshiro’s been assigned a numbers weapon, especially after hearing whispers in the lab that testing has been going terribly. You ask permission to be on base to watch one testing session yourself as a weapons technician. The Numbers Weapon 10 has a mind of its own, and it keeps clashing with Soshiro, causing their test results to be abysmally low. 

“Will he be safe?” you question Okonogi-san, the overworked third base operations leader. 

“If he doesn’t get his numbers up with the weapon, I doubt he’ll be allowed to wear it out on the field”, she shrugs. 

You slip away before he’s released from testing grounds. 

// did u srsly come to base //  // and not say hi!?!??! //  // i haven’t seen ur face in forever // 

<super bz, sorry!!> 

It’s the truth. Despite your pledge to carve out more space to live a life that yours, you make an exception, burning hours on a new weapon to match the volatile Numbers weapon that by all reports, only wants to be worn by Soshiro. Anyone who knows anything about Soshiro knows of his preference for twin blades, ‘cos it makes me look cool’, he jokes, so no one will anticipate a single katana as a backup weapon. 

// ty for the katana //  // it’s q cool //  // ok, v v cool //  // wld be cooler if you dropped by to say hi //  // free this weekend? //

You take a train all the way back to Osaka to visit your parents instead, lest he take it upon himself to commit larceny by breaking into your apartment. You don’t put it past him, since he has the combination to your front lock - his birthday, that’s another thing you need to change. 

“How’s Yamamoto-san?” your mother asks, none too subtly. 

You know your parents are proud of both you and your older brother for following the family’s traditions, and you’re lucky they’re progressive enough to encourage it even in you, but they’re of the age where they’re starting to long for grandchildren. Your older brother’s wedding scheduled for next year should distract them for now, but they’ll soon look to replicate their success with you. 

“He’s pretty nice, but I don’t think he’s the one”, you reply.

Your mother’s lips purse. “Are you still hung up on that Hoshino boy?” 

You’re stung into silence, your mother’s directness catching you off-guard. She tsks at you, pouring you tea that’s bitter from being steeped too long. 

“I’m not - that’s not -” 

Her gaze is sharper than any blade you’ve ever made. “Don’t insult me by lying.” 

“Ka-san. It’s hard but I’m trying to get over it- gods, it’s so embarrassing to say this aloud in front of my own mother -”

She sniffs imperiously. “Try harder.”

“Will do”, you reply dryly. “I’ll just walk into the nearest combini and pick up the first guy they have sitting on the shelf, shall I?” 

She raps your knuckles with her chopsticks. “Don’t be insolent”, she clucks. “Hoshina Soshiro -” 

“I know, ‘ka-san”, you interrupt, the wound still raw under its scabbing. “You don’t have to say it.” 

“Hm.” 

It’s too difficult to meet your mother’s eyes, so you’re glad when she bustles off to the kitchen. A plate is shoved under your nose, oranges, painstakingly peeled, apples, perfectly sliced. 

“There’ll be mangoes if you come back next week”, your mother says. 

“That’ll be nice”, you smile. 

The next step is the hardest, the part you fear the most. 

Soshiro insists on seeing you. There’s no excuse he accepts, not after forty two calls and unread messages. Initially you toyed with changing the combination on your front door to keep him out, but you’re certain he’ll stand outside and cause a ruckus until you let him in.

He’s waiting in your apartment when you return from class. “Okairie”, he grounds out, jaw set. “It’s nice to see you again.” 

There’s no point running. He’ll catch up with you within seconds anyway. 

You drop your bag of groceries on the kitchen counter. “It’s nice to see you too”, you reply, skirting around his palpable annoyance. “Are you staying for dinner? I can make curry rice - ”

“I wanna know why you’ve been ignoring me.”

You plaster on a smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about”, you hedge. “I mean, I’ve been busy at work, you’ve been busy at work - I’ve been picking up new hobbies -”

“Which I’d know, if you talked to me in the past three months -” 

“I’ve really been too busy, haven’t had the chance -” 

“Nonsense”, he scoffs. “Don’t think I don’t know that you dropped by base without saying hi -” 

“Pretty sure you were too busy tussling with that new combat suit  -” 

“You didn’t even bother to lunch with me the last time I came to your office -” 

“I was busy working on your weapon, which I don’t hear you complaining about -” 

You stop short when he takes you by your shoulders. You smell coffee and steel, a scent that just so Soshiro, that it makes your heart forget to beat. He’s close, far too close that you can see the dying sun-gold illuminating the violet iris of his eyes. You squeak as he tips your chin up, calloused fingers so painfully gentle as he meets your gaze. “Are you sure we’re okay?”, he asks softly. “Did I do something wrong?” 

Other than torturing your heart by being within your vicinity? 

Shaking your head, you take a large step back. “All good”, you splutter, ears on fire. 

He doesn’t give you a chance to hide, shouldering into your space. “Somehow I don’t believe you”, he pinches your cheek. “Spill it. Stop lyin’.” 

The pieces of your heart are stitched together with fragile threads, but his presence makes your heart slam itself against your ribcage over and over again. You are powerless from stopping it from falling apart again. 

“You can eat my entire tub of chestnut ice cream -” 

“Stop tryin’ to distract me.” He leans in, almost nose to nose with you, the curve of his mouth so dangerously close to your lips that your heart chooses this precise moment to combust. “Tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it.” 

Courage has never been your strong suit, but you owe it to Soshrio to be brave enough to be honest that it’s not him, never him that made you run and hide. It’s your traitorous heart at blame. Plus, you figure, when he turns you down, perhaps it’ll finally deprive your heart of any lingering hopes it harbours, so you can finally, finally reclaim ownership of your heart. 

Your lungs claw for air. 

“It’s not anything you did”, you whisper. “I just wanted more than what you probably ever thought to give.” 

His brows pinch together in confusion. 

“It’s just - I know you’re busy doing big things in the Defense Force and you probably never have time in between killing a million kaijus to consider anything outside of work, and I know that you’ve never given any indication that you see me more than just a friend, cos really, I know where I stand -” 

“You’re rambling.” He shakes you. “You’re not making any sense.” 

You close your eyes. 

(plunge a knife into your chest, carve it out whilst it's still beating, still bleeding)

“I like you, Soshiro-kun”, you say. “Not just as a friend, in case that wasn’t clear enough.” 

“Oh.”

It’s a simple word with exactly one syllable, but it does the job. He stares at you, slack jawed. His reaction twists the knife deeper into your belly. You clutch the counter for balance, prevent yourself from doubling over, spilling your guts on your kitchen floor. “I didn’t wanna ruin our friendship so I’ve just been kinda distant. I needed - I needed space. Just to get over it. I’m sorry if I worried you.” 

He still doesn’t respond. 

“Soshiro -” 

He looks up and you read only pity in his gaze. “I’m sorry -”

Your hurt pride will not allow you to let him see you fall apart. “Can we attack that tub of ice cream now”, you interrupt. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore.” 

“Right”, he says after a long pause, face carefully blank. “Ice cream.” 

You spend the rest of the evening eating ice cream and decidedly avoiding his gaze while chattering away about everything and nothing at all, papering over any awkwardness in a desperate attempt to pretend you don’t care that you’ve just killed any chance you’ve had at keeping your friendship intact. He’s almost silent save for some mmhms and grunts to indicate he’s still listening, so unlike his usual talkative replate with a joke in hand. You too, cannot put up with this charade anymore, so you feign tiredness, just to cut this ordeal short. 

“Stay safe”, you remind him. “Don’t get eaten by a kaiju.” 

“Yeah”, he replies. 

He doesn’t say seeya later, as he usually does. You’re unsurprised by that. 

Your phone remains empty of any new messages from him. 

In the initial aftermath, you drown yourself in work to overcompensate for your wandering mind and wishful heart. All tweaks to his weaponry are done purely through official channels, as you previously requested. He doesn’t even text you a thanks when you stay up working on changes to his blades. Not that you’ve ever felt entitled to his gratitude. It’s just your job - one that you’ve decided to take up because your seven year old self lost her heart to him, but really, that’s on you, not him. 

There are no spontaneous lunchtime visits, not even when you make updates to his brother’s tech. He doesn’t drop by your apartment the next time he’s off-duty, nor he does ask you to accompany him to another overpriced dessert cafe, not even when the gingko trees in Tokyo turn yellow, marking the season for every store to have a mont blanc special which you know he’d be weak for. 

This is good, you tell yourself. 

It hurts less than you expected. Of course it splits open your stitched-closed wounds to hear him say in your face what you already knew, that Hoshina Soshiro will never love you, not in this lifetime or the next. You allow yourself a few lonely nights to wallow in self-pity, spend a weekend facedown on your bed, stifling your screams into your pillow.  You might have lost your footing momentarily, slipped down a ravine of despair, but with a few weeks’ grace, you start to claw your way out of the ravine of despair. 

You will find your footing, find a way to get over him, live a life without Hoshina Soshiro by your side. 

You will. You will. 

It will become easier. You find contentment sitting on your balcony by yourself as the evenings grow cooler, leaves catching in the breeze, a meal you cooked for yourself on your lap. You throw yourself headfirst into pottery classes, where all you focus on is the feel of soft clay melting into your hands. Between work, your hobbies and weekend visits home, you don’t give yourself time to think about anything or anyone else anymore. 

Weeks pass. 

You catch a glimpse of him on the office TV as you clock in for work. Though you almost always turn it off right away, lest your heart believe it can find its way back to him, you make an exception today when the TV starts to blare about some daikaiju appearing, one after another across Japan, the third division  deploying to a location not too far away from you. 

 <stay safe>

 <don’t be eaten by a kaiju>

 <eat ‘em for brekkie instead>

The building starts to shake. 

You put your phone away. Your co-workers surround the screen, yelling about evacuations and contingencies. You start to head down towards the forge, determined to save as much of your handiwork as you can. Soshiro and the rest of the swordsmen in the Defense Force will need whatever you can save. 

a/n: manga spoilers from the next chapt onwards, read at your own risk! also, am off riding in mongolia til the 20th - next chapter out after - pls lmk what you guys think in the meantime ;)

[georgettesand]

Jardin du château de Chaumont sur Loire

[georgettesand]

La Rochelle 🇨🇵

[hinata-boke]

Drawing a randomly generated Haikyuu character (almost) every day until I give up  

55. Kuroo Tetsurou

[cheriecoke]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ LET YOUR HEART BE LIGHT — LEVI ACKERMAN

summary . . . your childhood best friend, eren, invites you to his christmas eve party, but your ex is going to be there. in order to get back at him, levi tags along as your fake boyfriend

contents . . . sfw, fake dating, f!reader, age gap (levi early 30s, reader early 20s), past unhealthy relationships, pining, fluff, humor, miscommunication, light angst, insecure and shy reader, zeke jaeger :/, not so friends to lovers, bff hange, she/they prns for hange — 12.3k

notes . . . my bday gift for my beloved that i have been speeding through the past couple of days, so pls ignore any errors. i adore him so dearly and he means so much to me. it's a little bit cheesy, and may be a little be rushed for christmas, but i hope you enjoy nonetheless. merry christmas everyone i love u all so so much <33

“Are you even listening to me, Hange?” you asked, sighing as you leaned your head back on the sofa, taking a long sip of your wine. The alcohol washed over you, soothed the tension that was wrought within your body as the warmth began buzzing through you.

Hange poked their head up from the simmering pot, a cloud of steam wafting up under the lid. With the combination of vegetables and spices, you were pretty sure that she was making stew for dinner — and far too much for just two of you, by the looks of it.

“Sorry,” Hange said, sheepish, glasses falling down her nose. “I’m almost done, I promise.” 

You frowned, but waved your hand, letting them return to the kitchen. Hange hummed a tune, their delightful mood such a contrast to the horrific news you’d received earlier in the day. 

Briefly, your mind wandered off into the misery you’d let yourself wallow in, but Hange came around the corner quickly, stilling your anger. There were two bowls in their hands, and they gave one to you, letting it warm your own palms, the smell deliciously comforting. 

“So what’s this about your ex?” Hange asked, interested, their voice expressive, attentive, as usual. “You got invited to his party?”

The scalding spoonful of soup slid down your throat, as you prepared yourself to start the conversation from the beginning. Hange was a horrible multitasker, though she denied it, and your entire half-hour of rambling had gone in one ear, and out the other. 

Though, just as you were about to speak, you were interrupted once more by a knocking at the front door. You glanced over to the source of the noise, then back to your roommate, eyebrows raised. “Are you expecting company?” 

Hange laughed a little; it was such a carefree sound, and one that always seemed to be spilling from their lips. “Oh, it’s just Levi. I told him I was making a lot of stew, so he could come over for dinner.” 

Of course  — Who else would be banging at your door at this hour?

You sighed, the sound leaving you in something akin to a small whisper, your expression falling in disappointment. 

Levi Ackerman lived on the floor below you, in an apartment you’d never been to, living a life you knew almost nothing about. It had been two years since you’d met, when he helped Hange move into your shared apartment, and yet, he was still an enigma after all that time. 

What you did know was that Levi was a few years older than Hange, many more years older than you, and he always seemed to be around. He was quiet, for the most part, but he had a sarcastic sense of humor that only a few people seemed to understand. Him and Hange were comfortable joking with each other; your roommate never got offended by his comments, ones that would’ve been scandalizing to some others. 

For a while, their comfort with one another had led you to believe they were dating. You’d asked Hange about it one day at dinner, a fleeting comment, as you stuck a fork into your dish. 

“So how long have you and Levi been together?” you’d said.

Hange had shot water out of their nose, fell back in their chair, cackling so hard that tears sprang to their eyes. You’d only stared back like an idiot, poked at your food, until Hange sobered, and apologized for embarrassing you. 

“Oh, it’s not like that,” Hange explained, sipping on their soda, still smiling like you’d told the funniest joke imaginable. “Levi and I are just close friends. My partner lives a few hours away, going back to school. He’ll be moving back home in a year.” 

You’d supposed it made sense, looking back. Their embraces were often stiff on Levi’s end, his affection coming on minimally. Hange was a much more touchy person, so perhaps, that’s where you’d crafted the image of them in a relationship. 

Which was a silly one, now that you could see your error in hindsight.

“And Levi?” you’d asked shortly after, curious about the man you’d known—and still knew—so little about.

“Oh, Levi’s not with anyone,” Hange had hummed, rolling their eyes like this was a point of contention. “He doesn’t really date.” 

“Why?”

“He doesn’t like to.” 

“Oh.” 

That’d been that, of course.

 You hadn’t asked any other questions, but in the months that followed, your mind had whirled, piecing together an image of Levi Ackerman that made the most sense to you. 

He was handsome; startlingly so. Beautiful to the point that you averted your gaze when he glanced at you, your cheeks heating, palms sweaty. A thirty-something, intelligent, quiet man with his act together. He drew women to him easily, took them back home. . . perhaps a different one every night. Maybe he kept them around for a bit, until he got bored of them.

He’d never romance them, and they’d never expect that from him. If he called them back, which he did rarely, it was never because he liked them. It was because he wanted something from them, nothing more. 

At least, that’s what you thought Levi Ackerman was like, in the times he was outside of the four walls of your apartment. Perhaps your stiffness towards him continued to stem from that caricature you’d created. 

You sighed, bringing yourself back to the present as Hange let Levi in through the door, his shoes loud against the hardwood.

Really, it was hard not to form biased opinions when Levi offered up so little about himself. 

When you did talk with him, which was frequently, the conversations always centered around you. He had asked you many times about school when you’d been finishing up your degree; Levi asked you about your job when you’d first started. 

Of course, he never offered anything up about his job, which you knew must have been quite nice, nor about his family, which you figured must have been quite complicated. 

And, as always, you were forced to wipe your hands on your pants, the sweat turning your palms clammy, as you scolded yourself for the fact that Levi Ackerman still made you nervous. 

Levi’s eyes flitted across the room as he walked in, the navy blue irises cool when they met your own. He didn’t smile, but he made some sort of acknowledgement of your existence, before Hange had dragged him into the kitchen and filled up a bowl of soup for him. 

Moments later, he was on one of the chairs before you, the bottle of wine in the middle of your odd little circle. Unconsciously, you had sucked in a breath, looking away, as Levi prodded at his bowl like he was afraid of the contents. 

“Well, it’s not going to jump out and eat you,” Hange rolled her eyes, snickering, at Levi’s bored expression. “Just try it, Levi.” 

“It smells different. What the hell did you do to it?” Levi let the spoonful fall back into the bowl, the broth dripping off the edge of the silverware. “I’m not participating in any kinds of experiments, Hange, if that’s what this is.” 

“Oh, be grateful.” Hange huffed, crossing their arms over their chest. “I followed a recipe. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it down the hall to Erwin.” 

When Levi said nothing for another moment, Hange made a move to steal the bowl out of his hands.

Quickly, he guided it away.

“No, no. I’ll eat it. Your cooking may be horrendous, but it certainly saves me time.”

Hange smiled, satisfied, reading between Levi’s cool remark, sensing a thank you in there somewhere. 

It had been hard, at first, to talk to Levi, and understanding him was a skill that you’d found you could only develop with time. He had a dry sense of humor, said very little with a smile, and could certainly be mean when he wanted to be. His words were often blunt, and even when he was joking, it was hard to tell. 

Once, when you’d first met, Levi had hurt your feelings. You’d tried not to let it show, but Hange had known, as always, and had squeezed your shoulder, reassuring. 

“Levi’s just like that sometimes, but he’s a good person. Just give him a chance. I think you’ll find you’re a lot more similar than you think.”

Similar was a bit far-fetched, but you supposed you’d grown to appreciate Levi’s sense of humor. Perhaps you even found him funny at times, laughed at his jokes. He was kind when he wanted to be, even if his communication was a one-way street. There was a distance between you, but a part of you wanted to keep it that way. 

Levi ate a spoonful of the soup, swirling it around in his mouth before swallowing. His gaze trailed to the ceiling, thoughtful, before muttering some sort of praise. “Surprisingly better than the last stew you made, Hange,” he said, and Hange was pleased, a smile widening across her face. “I assume your roommate had nothing to do with it, did she?” 

You made a face at him, not sure if he was insulting you, or trying to suggest that you could’ve improved Hange’s cooking. Either way, you returned his dry tone, swirling your spoon around in the bowl. “Well, if I did, it certainly wasn’t to please your fussy tastes.” 

Levi almost cracked a smile at that, but snorted instead, leaning back in the cushion of his chair. 

For some reason, Levi’s movement seemed to trigger Hange’s memory, and they flung their spoon out of the bowl, splashing soup on the coffee table, as they pointed it at you.

“Wait, finish your story!” Hange cut off Levi’s sentence, and he frowned, but said nothing, getting comfortable on the couch. 

Today, he was wearing a gray cable-knit sweater, and a beautiful silver watch that likely cost an entire months worth of your salary. His hair had been mussed a bit from the cold, cheeks tinged red. 

Levi must have come from outside, you’d realized, not just downstairs. Another mystery that you would never uncover — how Levi spent his weekends, besides the time he spent in your apartment.

Distracted, you looked back down at your hands, hating the way that Levi pinned you with his gaze. He was far too attentive, his eyes too intense; even if you had been as confident as you liked to believe, as self-assured, you’d never been able to hold eye-contact with the dark-haired man for very long. 

“Oh, that,” you said, huffing, recalling the news that had been delivered to you earlier that evening. Not so bad, really; you were making a big deal out of something so small. But the casual remark, via a text message from your high school best-friend, had been enough to sour your mood for the rest of the afternoon. “Well, Eren is having a party on Christmas Eve. All of our high school friends will be back home for the holidays, so I’ll actually get to see them for once.” 

Hange smiled, their eyes lighting up, but the confusion in her expression shone through knitted eyebrows. “Well, that’s great!” they said, as Levi sat quietly, slurping on his soup like he’d been raised in some penthouse apartment, a view shining over the city. You could imagine him with a nanny that had been specifically hired to teach him manners. A playful version of Levi as a child was near impossible to envision — you saw him only sitting calmly, politely, hands crossed over his lap. “Why do you seem so upset?” 

You looked away, chewing the inside of your mouth, your stomach turning. It was the last thing you wanted to think about, the way your two desires were at odds. How desperately you wanted to see all your old friends, the ones that were spread all over. None of you had been all together since you were in high school. 

Yet, the other part of you considered calling Eren and canceling on him, telling him you wanted to spend it with your family instead, that you’d just have to catch up with them next time. 

Who knew when that would be.

“Zeke’s coming,” you sighed, rubbing your arm. “It’s only been a year. I don’t want to see him again.” 

Hange’s eyes widened. Slowly, she leaned back, nodding, as understanding flicked through her face. “I see.” 

“Exactly,” you swallowed the last bit of soup, letting the warmth comfort you, wash over you in waves. Perhaps, it would cleanse some of the anxiety that sat riddled in your chest. “Now you see…” 

“Well, sure I mean—” 

“Who the hell is Zeke?” Levi interrupted, drawing your attention back to him, his back straight, despite being relaxed in the chair. Everything about him was so put together. Even the socks he wore even seemed expensive, his shoes by the door freshly shined. “An ex-boyfriend?”

“Ex-boyfriend seems too kind of a word for Zeke Jaeger,” you spat, letting his name drip from your mouth with every ounce of hatred you could muster. “He’s a plague upon my life. I’d do anything not to see him again.” 

Levi set the bowl down, curiosity piqued. “I don’t see why your friend invited him if he’s so horrible.” 

“Zeke is Eren’s brother,” Hange offered.

“Half-brother,” you corrected, tucking your knees into your chest to rest your chin against them. “Don’t give him that much credit. Eren’s an idiot, but even he doesn’t deserve to be related to someone as awful as Zeke.” 

Hange laughed, though you didn’t find it to be as hilarious as they did. Your scowl deepened.

“Anyway, Eren’s throwing it at his parent’s house since they’ll be out for the night — Zeke invited himself. With his new girlfriend, I’m sure.” Your rolled your eyes, tucking your cheek against the couch cushion. “She’ll be better than me, of course. Probably prettier.”

Levi studied you for a moment, reading the hurt that you tried to veil on your face. Usually, you weren’t so open with him. You didn’t like being vulnerable, and especially not with Levi, who seemed to view any emotion as a weakness. “I see the issue.” 

You huffed, a sound of agreement, and played with the loose thread on the sofa. “Yeah, well, it was stupid of me to date my best friend’s brother anyway. When has that ever worked out?” 

Hange reached across the coffee table to squeeze your hand, sympathetic. “Hey. Don’t do that. What’s done is done. Besides, what are the odds he’ll actually show up?”

“Uh, pretty fucking high if he’s staying with his dad for Christmas,” you scowled, rubbing your eye, makeup smeared on the side of it when you drew away.

Hange’s lips pulled together, flattening into a thin line. “Well…” Dark brown eyes flitted between you and Levi, who was looking at your roommate with something less than amusement. “You could always take Levi as your date.” 

“You can’t be serious,” Levi said, his tone flat, lips drawing into a thin line. 

“What? That’s… No,” you laughed awkwardly, growing hot, nervous. Suddenly, you were worried that your panicked stutter made it seem like this had been your plan all along. To get Levi to come as your date — which was ridiculous, really, but perhaps not so farfetched with the way he regarded you. “I can’t do that.” 

“Why? It’d be a big old fuck you to Zeke Jaeger. Levi is far better looking than him.” Hange gestured to Levi, as if you weren’t already painfully aware of how beautiful their best friend was. “He’s better in almost every way, actually. Not that the bar is very high.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Levi asked, poking Hange on the side of the head. “Almost every way?” 

“Zeke’s pretty tall.”

Levi rolled his eyes, dismissive. “Like that matters.” 

“It does!” 

You stopped them before they could bicker any further. Hange seemed to make it their mission to always rile Levi up — not that it was very difficult, but it always brought an amused smile to her lips. 

“Hange’s right, though. The bar is not so high.” You shrugged, curling in on yourself again — just another reminder of how much of a mistake you’d made. How desperate you must have been to have fallen for Zeke Jaeger. Even Eren had warned you about him. “It’s a stupid idea, though. No one would believe it. Least of all, Zeke.” 

“Why not?” Levi said. “You think I’d be a bad boyfriend. Think I can’t play that role well?” 

“That’s not—” you began, but let the words fall away, sniffing back the self-deprecating sentiment. It wasn’t that you needed him to seem like a good boyfriend. Levi was unapproachable, cold, reserved, regardless of who he was with… Even his best friend. It would take very little from him to sell the performance. A small smile, a hand around your waist. Perhaps a kiss on the forehead for good measure. 

It wasn’t that, really. 

It was more that Zeke would know, immediately. Would see you together, and laugh to himself, because someone like Levi would never want someone like you. A statement as painfully clear as the color of the sky. 

You didn’t want to admit that to either of them, though. So, instead, you narrowed your eyes, challenging Levi, perhaps, even, daring him to retract his statement. “Well… can you?” 

“Which are you asking?” Levi drummed his fingers against his thigh, pale and slender, his nails clean, neatly trimmed. Distracting, almost. “If I can put on a performance, or if I can be a good partner?” 

You shrugged. 

Levi’s eyes narrowed further, thoughtful. 

“I’ll go with you,” he finally said, after a near minute of silence, in which you weren’t sure what to say. Hange watched beside you, painfully entertained. “I’d like to see how truly awful this boyfriend of yours is.” 

“Don’t say boyfriend,” you made a face, “and he’s pretty damn awful.” 

The next few days, you’d mapped out something of a plan with Levi — though, there was little between you that you needed to figure out. It wasn’t as if you were strangers. Levi had known vaguely that you’d had a boyfriend up until last Christmas, had known that you were still close with your group of friends from high school. 

He knew quite a bit about you, something you only just now realized. Levi often said little, but he was observant, picked things up easily. He seemed to know you better than you thought, and it wouldn’t be difficult to convince everyone of your closeness.

With that knowledge, you calmed, realizing that, maybe, it wouldn’t be so difficult to spin your relationship into a romantic one. 

The story followed: Levi had been there for you after Zeke had broken up with you. You’d been friends for a while. He had asked you on a date shortly after. Simple — no outlandish lie. 

Still, a part of you contemplated telling Zeke you’d been fucking Levi while you were still together. He probably wouldn’t believe it anyway, but you wanted to see even a hint of frustration on his usually dull expression.

On your way back to your hometown, Levi insisted on driving his car, one that was a few years old, but still had that new smell, every single inch of it outrageously clean, each crack in the cushions vacuumed. There was hardly anything in the vehicle; a pair of sunglasses in the center console, some spare cash next to it. 

He’d picked you up with two coffees, which now rested, empty, in the cupholders. 

The two of you spent the ride mostly in silence, listening to a Christmas playlist that Levi had awkwardly switched to, as if he’d been embarrassed of whatever he’d been playing before. One hand held the wheel, the other resting against the console, tapping on the leather between you. 

You stared, the movement of his fingers distracting. For the second time, you were staring at his slender hands, the veins dark under his skin. How nice they were, like something out of a painting.

God, when did you start noticing that? 

“Thank you for the coffee,” you said, realizing your manners all too late, embarrassed you hadn’t said it earlier. “How did you know what I liked?” 

Levi glanced over, slowing down as the light turned red. For a moment, he hesitated; contemplated. Pink tongue flicked over his bottom lip as the car idled. “Hange told me.” 

“Oh.” 

Levi shrugged. “Well, you’re welcome anyway.” 

The light turned green. Silence settled between you once again. 

You twitched uncomfortably, wondering how much you should say — or shouldn’t say. There weren’t many times you had been together, just the two of you, without Hange somewhere near. 

Levi didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood, but then again, he could’ve just been focused on driving. He was gracious enough to take on that responsibility, and you didn’t want to be distracting, even if the near silence was driving you mad. On the other hand, there wasn’t much you wanted to say. Every time you thought of something, a conversation to strike up, it died just as quickly on your lips. 

Eventually, Levi seemed to grow tired of the awkwardness between you, how stiff you appeared to be. His eyes darted towards you once again, studying you from the corner of his eye. “If you want people to believe that we’re dating, you’re going to have to stop acting like that.” 

You blinked at him, shifting in your seat. “Like what?” 

“Like…” Levi shrugged. “Like I’m holding you at gunpoint.”

A laugh bubbled out of you. “What does that mean?”

He gave you a blank expression, certainly calling you an idiot with nothing more than a gaze. “It means you make it blatantly obvious you don’t want to be around me. I know you dislike me, but maybe…” Levi shook his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. “At least try to pretend otherwise.” 

Your stomach twisted up as Levi worked his jaw, frustrated, undeniably. For some unknown reason, it made you feel ashamed, even more shy around him than you’d been before. Levi was probably used to women who knew what they wanted. Who could meet his eyes without feeling a sense of shyness creep up their spine. Who could do a lot of things that you couldn’t, and could match his wit and sarcasm without feeling the rush of dread that you’d offended him. 

“I don’t dislike you, Levi,” you said, huffing. “I just — don’t think we get along well.” 

“That’s news to me,” he said, tapping the gearshift. The music turned down two notches from where he punched the button on the wheel. “Hange says we’re quite compatible.” 

“What?” you laughed loudly, ignoring the race of your heart, the furl of anxiety in your chest. “Don’t listen to anything they say — Hange wants to set me up with everyone. You’re hardly the best option.” 

Levi, for once, quirked his lips in something near a smile. “Funny. I thought the same thing.” 

You scoffed, warm again, crossing your arms over your chest. It was infuriating, really, how you felt around him. Surely you weren’t the only one — Levi radiated confidence and authority, entirely. You’d never seen him interact with many others, but surely they averted their gazes, cheeks warm, stumbling over words. Surely, you couldn’t be the only one who seemed to feel so small under the breadth of his presence. 

Another song played before he spoke again, tapping his fingers against the wheel. Familiarity sprung up around you as the landscape began to change, the scenery transforming into one you’d grown up in.

“Why did you date Zeke, anyway?” Levi asked, this time, not bothering to look at you. He stared straight ahead, passing a slower car, the blinker tapping wildly against the dashboard. 

You shrugged, scratching your wrist as you looked out the window. How you loathed this topic of conversation. It didn’t matter why you’d dated that man — only that you had, and you regretted it. 

You found yourself telling Levi anyway. “He was funny,” you said, quietly, watching the clouds pass above in the sky, dark and gloomy. “He was charming. He liked to read and so did I.” 

Levi hummed, but it was dismissive, an acknowledgement of pity and nothing more. Deep down, he was probably laughing, amused at your idiocy. “That’s it?” 

“I know it’s stupid… I was stupid,” you said, defensive, curling your hands into fists. “He was my first boyfriend, and I was naive. I wanted to be loved, and Zeke told me he loved me.” You felt the wash of angry tears come back upon you, and you flushed them away, sniffing. “I just didn’t know he’d told two other women the same thing at the same time.”

Levi’s eyes flashed, surprised, as they darted back towards you. “Jesus,” he muttered, fist turning white as it clutched the wheel. “You were right. What a fucking asshole.” 

You smiled a bit, shaking your head. For all accounts, Levi could be an asshole in his own way; a comment you decided to keep to yourself. 

“Yeah, well, what’s done is done. I don’t give a shit about Zeke Jaeger. He can rot in hell for all I care.” You wiped your face, yawning as the sun began it’s descent in the sky. “I’ve given up on finding love anyway. I just don’t want Zeke to have the satisfaction of knowing it was his fault.” A sigh left you. “Besides, that was probably the point. Our relationship was likely just a way to test some philosophy he’d come up with — nothing matters, least of all love.” You rolled your eyes. “He’s like that.” 

Levi didn’t say anything, but you could see him thinking, his eyebrows tied closely together. “But, you know that’s not true, don’t you?” he said, his tone flat, as usual. “You can’t possibly think that you don’t deserve to be loved.” 

You smiled. “Of course,” you said, nodding. “I’m just better off without it.” 

Levi took a breath, looked over once more, and then let the conversation die. 

You hoped it sounded much more convincing to Levi’s ears than your own.

While you were visiting, over the next couple of days, you were staying at Pieck’s apartment. She was two years older, but had been in some of your university courses, and you’d met back in college. You’d found out you were from the same city, and had bonded instantly, having lived such a similar life, in the same place, without even realizing it. 

The three of you had grabbed a quick dinner, and when you got back late, Pieck gave you a little tour of her small apartment, showing Levi more than anything, since you’d visited her twice before. 

“Here’s the other bedroom,” Pieck said, flipping the switch on. It was a room filled with soft pink decor, the comforter lacy and white. “My roommate is visiting family, so you’re welcome to sleep in here; she doesn’t mind. I’ve cleaned the sheets and everything.” 

Levi thanked her, and Pieck smiled sleepily, walking back to her own bedroom with a wave. 

You watched as Levi set his bag down, tugged off his thick jacket. He hung it, gently, on the back of the desk chair, unhooking his watch to set it down beside the coat. His wrist looked so bare that way. Nothing to cover it up, exposing the even softer skin where the accessory usually rested. 

You looked away. “Is everything okay?” you asked, by way of making your exit, eyes flicking around the room. 

Levi glanced up, unfolding a pair of clean clothes from his bag, almost like he’d forgotten you were standing there. “Should something be wrong?” he asked in return, placing a pair of flannel pajama pants next to the gray t-shirt. 

For some reason, the image caused your heart to swell, the sight of something so normal within Levi’s grasp. The organ that continuously betrayed you sped up, beating harder.

It was endearing, really, to see such a mundane side of Levi. He always lived in that enigmatic shroud, some sort of ever-present being that you couldn’t quite understand. 

You smiled softly. “No. Just wanted to make sure. Goodnight, Levi.” 

He said something back, but you were already halfway down the hall, slinging your own bag to Pieck’s room. She was on her side, scrolling through her phone, dark hair splayed across the pillow like a halo. Though, the moment you entered, her attention doubled, eyes crinkling as she grinned. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you said, frowning, as you followed the same routine as Levi, slinging your bag down to pick out a fresh pair of pajamas. 

“You didn’t tell me he looked like that,” Pieck muttered, the sound of her voice always tired, no matter how much sleep she got. “Zeke is going to hate him.” 

That, at least, had a sense of relief pooling inside you, a laugh spilling out. “I sure hope so.” 

She set her phone on the nightstand, laying flat on her back as you continued through your routine. Her introduction to Levi had been brief, but already, she seemed to like him well enough. 

Maybe they’d end up together, you thought dimly. Pieck had been single for a while, and you’d always thought she was much more charming than you, much prettier. Perhaps Levi would like her.

The idea put a sour taste in your mouth.

When you returned, face scrubbed, teeth clean, Pieck was nearly asleep, the lamp on her side of the bed the only source of light in the room. She glanced up at you sleepily, batting her eyes before you climbed next to her. 

“I can’t believe you,” she said softly, already half-asleep. “How can you stand it?”

“What did I do?” 

For a moment, Pieck stared at you like she didn’t know who you were. A yawn left you, even as you tried to hide it. 

“Is there something wrong with him? Is that the reason?” 

You crinkled your eyebrows together. “Levi?” A million different things ran through your head, but Pieck seemed to want an honest one. “I mean…” Was there, really? Were your speculations and assumptions enough to pass judgement on Levi Ackerman? Or were you just too intimidated by him to admit that he was much nicer than you thought. “Well, you met him, didn’t you?” 

She blinked, then laughed, slapping you with the pillow. “You’re so ridiculous. Why aren’t you together then? I mean, actually together?” Pieck hummed, tapping her hand against the pillow, before she tucked it back under her head. “You’ve got hearts in your eyes when you stare at him.”

“What?” you said, bursting into a fit of giggles. You’d thought it was a joke, but Pieck didn’t smile, didn’t even force a laugh alongside you. “I don’t — I’m not.” 

“I mean, he clearly likes you quite a bit,” she continued, smiling, “if he came all this way. He listens to you, practically hangs off your every word.” A pause. “Wish someone would look at me like that,” Pieck sighed.

You rolled your eyes. “Levi’s just like that. He’s a good listener.” Although, when it left your lips, the last few words came out slower, more uncertainly. Was he really like that? You could think of plenty of times where he’d blatantly ignored people he didn’t like, left a conversation with a snide comment if he didn’t agree with the subject.

Pieck didn’t seem to believe you, a smile tugging on her lips. “Right. A good listener like you, huh? Listening until you don’t care anymore.” She didn’t give you a chance to respond, your indignant protests enough. “It’s funny. You get so flustered you get when he teases you. I just,” she hesitated, tucking a hand under her cheek. “Well, I just didn’t expect that from you — you weren’t like that with Zeke.” 

Again, your cheeks grew hot, your entire body warm. Already, you wanted to kick the covers off, sweat pooling at the backs of your knees. “I’m — No. It’s not. . . Pieck, it’s not.” You buried your face in the pillow, frustrated, hating the grin that curled onto her lips. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not like that. He’s just — ” You shook your head, words evading you. “I mean, you’ve seen him.”

Pieck laughed, the sound soft, raspy from exhaustion. “I’m only teasing you,” she whispered, her smile almost wistful. “I know what you mean. He’s older, he’s handsome. He probably knows what he wants.” Then her face grew serious, eyebrows drawing together. “But, I also think you’re not letting yourself admit that you’re attracted to him.” 

“Pieck,” you huffed, feeling that itch at the back of your skull, under your skin, that you couldn’t quite scratch. “I’m not. Half of the time, I’m not even sure if I enjoy his company.” 

She stared at you for a moment longer, unamused, before rolling back onto her side, facing away from you. “Whatever,” she mumbled, a dismissal, like she truly thought every word that left your lips was a denial. “I think you’re just scared after what happened with Zeke. I think you know Levi is exactly what you’ve always wanted, and you don’t think he could possibly like you.” 

You started to protest, maneuvering onto your elbows, but Pieck hushed you, flicked the lamp out. 

“Night,” she said, signifying the end of the conversation. “Just… think on it.” 

An indignant groan escaped you, as Pieck shut her eyes, her breathing evening out not a moment later. You’d always been jealous of how easily she could fall asleep, while you continued to lie awake in bed, left with nothing but your own thoughts. 

Which were certainly not, and would never be, plagued by Levi Ackerman.

Unsurprisingly, Levi had been the first one awake, sitting in the kitchen as he scrolled through his phone, a pair of wired-rimmed reading glasses perched at the edge of his nose. He was already dressed, looking unsurprisingly perfect, while your hair was disheveled, pajamas still on, eyes sleepy. 

You’d stared at him awkwardly, embarrassed by your appearance, and ignored his brief greeting before you slinked back into Pieck’s room, putting yourself together rapidly. You refused to speak to him until you were ready to leave.

Pieck was spending the rest of the weekend with her father, so you and Levi were left to your own devices for the day. You decided to take him around the town, showing him all the places you used to frequent. It was nostalgic, showcasing your city to a man who’d never been here, wouldn’t know the depth of your memories, those that were tied to a smell, a scene, a sound. 

Levi was, to your surprise, quite interested in the places that you’d been around as a child. As usual, he asked many questions, digging into your past without offering anything in return. And, as usual, you let him, all too excited to reminisce about the grade school where you’d met Eren Jaeger, the restaurant you’d always gone to with Sasha. 

It warmed you, how caring he could be — something you’d always known, but perhaps, hadn’t really paid attention to until Pieck pointed it out. Levi did seem to take everything you said to heart, store it in some memory bank with your name labeled right on it. He remembered things you hadn’t even known you’d told him, but must have, at some point. 

When it neared noon, you took him to a coffee shop that you used to study at, right around the corner from your old school. It was still the same as it had been back then, like nothing had changed at all. 

“It’s nice that you have such fond memories,” he said, and there was a small smile on his lips as the two of you entered the cafe, the smell overtaking you almost immediately. 

You laughed, shrugging. “It’s better in hindsight.” There’d been times when all you wanted to do was leave. Now, you couldn’t help but miss it. 

Levi ordered your coffees, and though you’d protested, trying to push your card in his direction, he paid for the both of them, and waited at the end of the bar while you saved a table. Once again, he’d gotten your coffee order correct, but now that you were able to read the side of his cup, you noticed it wasn’t coffee at all, but actually tea — Earl Grey, steaming, far to hot to drink when he took the lid off. 

“Are you not a coffee drinker?” you asked, and for some reason, Levi seemed surprised by the question, his eyes flashing. 

“Not really,” he admitted, his hands folded around the paper cup. “Sometimes, if I don’t get much sleep the night before, but—” Levi shrugged. “It makes my hands shake, which does nothing but irritate me.” 

You smiled, letting the words sink in. Levi didn’t seem like the type of person to dislike coffee, but he sipped at his tea slowly, huffing as you blinked back at him. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “It’s not a crime to dislike something, is it?”

“No,” you said, looking back down at your drink, antsy. His mouth was drawn flat, unamused as always… This time, though, you couldn’t help but admire the curve of his cupid’s bow, the plushness of his lower lip, which was such a contrast to the color of his pale cheeks. “It just surprised me, is all. You never tell me anything about yourself.” 

Levi’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Well, you’ve didn’t ask. You never do.” 

You opened your mouth, then shut it, thinking through all the conversations you’ve had, all the questions you’ve answered, but never returned. “Usually a conversation is two-sided,” you supplied, leaning forward, accusatory. “I share things about myself, and the other person does so in return.”

Levi’s lips lifted up, nearly a smile. “I’m not really the type of person to spill my heart out unprovoked.” He took a long sip of the tea, glancing out the window at the snowy sidewalk. “If you really cared, you would ask. I won’t bother anyone with useless anecdotes about my life.”

You watched the movement of his hands as he set the cup down, fiddled with the lid beside it. “So that’s all?” you asked, unamused. “All this time, I’ve thought you were some great mystery, and you were just waiting for me to return your questions?”

Levi snorted, though there was a hint of humor in his gaze, flashing from the Christmas lights that were strung around the shop. “Don’t blame me — I’ve always been honest with you,” he supplied, matching your posture. “Maybe you’re just a poor conversationalist, and you’ve made assumptions about me that aren’t true.” Though his tone was clipped, there was still a sense of disappointment in his words. 

You let his words sink in, opening your mouth, then shutting it, silencing your protests.

Levi sighed, spinning the conversation towards your evening, rehashing the plan for any questions that might arise. Though you nodded, engaged, your mind was still on his confession, the words gnawing at you. 

It was true, you realized with disappointment. Levi had never avoided any questions you’d asked him outright, had always given you a small smile, before carefully answering. You had, really, been avoiding him — perhaps, for no reason at all. 

That evening, you arrived at the party just a few minutes after six, when Eren had told you to arrive. Many of your friends were already there, the street lined with cars that you didn’t recognize. 

Unsurprisingly, Eren was the one to answer the door, throwing it open and pulling you into a hug before you even had time to react. Your name left his lips in an excited exclamation, and you breathed in the familiarity of him, a deep-rooted nostalgia at the sight of someone you’d known for so long. 

“It’s so good to see you,” Eren said, even though it had only been a few months since you’d last gotten together, not years, like it might have felt. 

His hair was longer than when it had been when you last saw him, and he’d bulked up a bit, but otherwise, hadn’t changed. That was a comfort in itself, just like the smell of Carla and Grisha Jaeger’s house, the furniture that had been the same since you were an adolescent. 

Eren guided you through the door before glancing over your shoulder, noticing Levi for the first time. His eyes widened, green eyes electric as your name left his lips, aghast.

“You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone!” Eren’s posture straightened, and suddenly, he was on his best behavior, trying hard to impress the man that you’d brought with you. 

Levi gave him a once-over, glanced over to you, and then stuck out his hand politely. “Levi Ackerman,” he said, shaking it. “You must be Eren—”

But Eren’s attention was already caught by another part of the conversation. He shook his Levi’s quickly, not bothering to answer the greeting, before saying, “Ackerman? Maybe a long-shot, but do you know my girlfriend, Mikasa?” 

Surprise flashed in Levi’s irises as he followed Eren inside, nodding. “Actually, she’s my cousin.” 

At the same time, across the room, a familiar voice shouted Levi’s name, running over to throw her arms around him. Mikasa’s body rammed against Levi’s shorter frame, and despite his strength, he let out a small puff of air, shocked, as she crashed into him. 

“Levi, what are you doing here?” Mikasa said, smiling softly, before releasing him, returning to her normal, calm self. “I had no idea you knew—” A pause, as she flicked her eyes between you, puzzling the pieces together. Her palms covered her mouth, but a sharp squeak emitted from her throat, excitement. “You two are together?” 

You hadn’t even gotten the chance to greet her, but Mikasa held you close, her perfume so familiar, hair soft against your cheek.

“What a crazy coincidence — I had no idea… Well, of course, it makes sense. You’re so perfect for each other. I can’t believe I didn’t think of introducing you earlier.” Mikasa rambled on, uncharacteristically, and even Eren seemed surprised as he darted his gaze between you. “How did you meet?” she said.

Levi sighed, perpetually put-out, and followed Mikasa to one of the couches. 

You sat with him, but stayed silent for the most part, enjoying watching them interact, smiling at the sight of him so comfortable. Levi spun the story of how you’d “ended up together,” and you offered a few nods here and there, too distracted by the revelation of their relation. 

Ackerman was a common enough name that you hadn’t even thought about it, but the more you looked at them together, the more you could see their similarities. Their quiet, but confident demeanors, intellect, and grey eyes. Even the way they spoke was a bit similar. You felt like such an idiot, and when there was a break in the conversation, you said as much. 

For once, though, Levi didn’t take it as an opportunity to tease you for your foolishness. “Truthfully,” he said, squeezing your hand gently, “I should’ve realized. I knew Mikasa had moved here recently, but I hadn’t been to see her, and I hadn’t met her boyfriend.” 

Only later did you remember how nice his hand felt in your own — those cool, pale fingers wrapped around your hand, as if he hadn’t even had to think about it. How you’d accepted them so easily, feeling warm, calm, his fingertips against your knuckles so natural.

Mikasa and Levi seemed happy to catch up, so for the next couple of hours, you made the rounds, visiting with your old friends and the people they were now seeing. Historia and Ymir, the only high school sweethearts left in your group, had even managed to show up, even though they lived the greatest distance away from home. It had been a surprise, and you’d nearly cried when you saw them, leaping away from the table, interrupting your conversation with Jean, to get to them. 

Later, you found Levi in the kitchen, a drink in his hands, as he took in the silence away from everyone. 

“Everything okay?” you asked, smiling, your entire face bright as you shuffled through the cooler for your own drink. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, tipping the bottle back to his lips before setting it on the counter. “I managed to meet almost everyone anyway. They seemed pretty pleased you have a boyfriend now.” His expression was completely serious, and though his face always was, it sent another round of laughter through you, the beer you’d already drank settling in. 

“I hope you gave them a good impression.” You took the spot at the counter beside him, ignoring the softness of his eyes, the way they melted as he stared at you. 

Had that always happened, or were you just imagining it… 

No, it was definitely the beer. 

“Maybe a bad impression would be best,” Levi disagreed, running his fingers across the counter, beside the spot where you rested your hip. “That would make it easier for them to accept our break-up later on.” 

“Of course,” you teased, though the mention of the “breakup” that wouldn’t take place at all made disappointment seep into your core. Perhaps, over the course of just a few days, you’d come to enjoy Levi’s company. 

Or, maybe, you just decided to accept that you’d always enjoyed it. 

“I won’t do that, though,” he concluded. “Not when you look so happy.” 

You didn’t get the chance to contemplate that before Mikasa stuck her head through the kitchen door, calling out to get your attention. “Hey.” There was a frown on her face, and she nodded back towards the front door, pointing behind herself. “Zeke’s here. Just so you know.” 

You sucked in a breath, nodding, and Mikasa smiled sympathetically before going back to Eren.

For some reason, you were even less prepared to face Zeke than you thought you’d be.

“Okay?” Levi asked quietly. HIs eyebrows tugged up, towards one another, concerned. 

You forced a smile, and stepped away from his embrace. “I’m fine,” you said, nodding, but you weren’t able to meet Levi’s eyes, too enraptured by the panic that had begun to claw at you. “Let’s go, better to just rip the band-aid off.” 

“I’ll be out in a second.” 

Although you didn’t want to walk out alone, you left Levi, heading back to the living room, where at least you’d have the protection of your vast group of friends. You considered grabbing another beer — you needed more than just one to get through the evening, but before you could protest, Sasha had whisked you away, pulling you into some ridiculous, made-up game with Jean and Connie. 

For a while, you were able to avoid Zeke, until he’d caught you in pursuit of another drink, your laughter dying the moment your voice was called out in a tone you had never wanted to hear again.

“I didn’t think you’d actually show up.” 

You shifted, spinning around, nails digging into your palm, your jaw clenched. The sight of Zeke standing there sent a wave of nausea over you, doubly so, when you saw the woman standing next to him. 

She wasn’t the same one that you remembered with him before, the reason he’d split up with you an entire year ago. No, this one was much taller, her hair smooth and dark as it cascaded down her back. She was wearing a pair of brown, round glasses, and she was beautiful. 

“I came to see Eren,” you said, eyes flitting between Zeke and his new girlfriend. She seemed just his type. Pretty, intelligent, a sense of style to match. Anything and everything he’d claimed that you were not. “I was certainly hoping to avoid you.” 

“Yet, here we are,” Zeke smiled. He looked the same, exactly the same, as if time has done nothing but turn him into a worse version of himself. His eyes were a little more dull, another wrinkle around the corners, but that was the extent of it all. “This is my girlfriend, Cassandra.” 

Cassandra greeted you politely, spoke in a way that was much more smooth than your own voice, her back straight. Instantly, you wondered how anyone like her could fall for someone like Zeke. Yet, you supposed you had done just that, which only proved your stupidity.

Zeke attempted to make small talk, and you smiled, awkwardly, uncomfortably, as your hands began to shake at your sides. It must have been obvious, what you were to Zeke, and you felt horrible for making Cassandra endure the formalities. 

“How have you been?” Zeke asked, placing an arm around Cassandra’s shoulder to tuck her into his side. You watched the movement with disgust. “Seems like much hasn’t changed about you, has it?” 

It was low, in a way that only you and Zeke could understand — and your face was burning, hot, as you looked around the room for anyone to free you from the conversation. “I’m fine,” you said, wrapping your arms around yourself, close to telling Zeke to kindly fuck off for the rest of the evening. “Actually-”

“There you are,” an arm wrapped around your own waist, a hand on your side. Calm, instantly raining down upon you. “I was wondering where you’d gone.” 

Levi kissed you on the temple, and for a moment, your brain short-circuited, questions rising up as you glanced over at him, mouth parted in surprise. But Levi wasn’t looking at you, too busy fixing Zeke with a bored expression, eyes flitting over him in judgement.

“You must be Zeke,” he said, and perhaps it was just your imagination, but you felt him squeeze your hip once, as if comforting you. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

Zeke cracked a smile. “Good things, I hope.” 

“Terrible, actually.” 

That only seemed to heighten Zeke’s amusement, and he laughed, loudly. “You must be the new boyfriend.” 

Levi glanced down at Zeke’s outstretched palm. “I am,” he said, but made no move to shake Zeke’s hand, ignoring the formalities. Instead, he guided you away from the couple. 

For a moment, you blinked, staring out at the space where your friends were congregating, unbeknownst to the interaction in the kitchen. Then, you were relaxing into Levi’s side, the smell of his cologne lingering on his sweater, soothing you.

“I’m sorry, Levi,” you mumbled, shaking your head. “I could’ve avoided him. You didn’t have to kiss me.” 

Levi rolled his eyes. “That? That was nothing.” He came around to face you, eyes scanning you for any sign of sadness. “Are you okay?” 

His consideration shot warmth through every vein of your body, igniting your skin. A smile spread across your lips, and you felt dizzy with it, hating it all at the same time. “I’m okay,” you said, leaning closer, if only to remain within the space of Levi Ackerman. “I just can’t believe him. Showing up like that, and—” 

“Don’t give him the fucking time of day.” Levi shook his head, for once, his seriousness not bleeding into sarcasm. “Just enjoy your time with your friends.” 

You locked eyes with him, watched as his features turned tender, the cool blue of his irises lightening under his thick lashes. Swallowing, you nodded, looking away, and resumed your place close to Levi, remembering you were supposed to be selling the relationship, not making people question it. 

Levi squeezed your shoulder, and you went back to talking with Mikasa and Eren, even though you were distracted by the other pair of eyes that watched you from across the room.

Zeke’s gaze was all that you could feel, even though all of your friends did their best to maintain your attention, remind you that Zeke might have been there, but it didn’t matter — not when there were so many others that cared about you. 

It didn’t do much to soothe you, but your tried your best to relax, studying Levi as he spoke, the movement of his sharp jaw, the soft hair that rested over his forehead. He was wearing a soft, burgundy button-up, the sleeves tighter around his wrists, one that complemented his complexion nicely. It nearly matched your own red dress, this one a brighter shade, but still, close enough to seem as if you had planned it. 

As the evening went on, the tension drained out of you, and you began to feel more comfortable under Levi’s arm.

Fleetingly, you wondered if this was what Levi was really like in a relationship. Attentive, caring, sweet. Softer towards you only, a secret smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, even if he didn’t let it show. 

The thought sent a spiral of longing through you that you ignored, and you sighed, hating that you were constantly on edge. If not from Zeke, than from the way Levi was holding you close, his fingers grazing, caressing your sides. 

“By the way, Levi, happy birthday,” Mikasa said, a giggly mess after a few beers. “I almost forgot!” 

You made a face at Levi, your expression tied up together. “Birthday?” you asked, frowning. 

He waved you off, mumbling a thanks to Mikasa, before she walked off to find another drink, one Eren insisted she didn’t need. 

“Levi?” you said again, grabbing his pale wrist, your hand gripping the watch tightly. “It’s your birthday?” 

“Tomorrow.” Levi cringed, looking over your shoulder, like that was the last thing he wanted to discuss.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

A horrible emotion washed over you, one that was both guilt and melancholy. Levi knew your birthday. Hange had invited him when they’d made you a birthday dinner, and Levi had brought you some flowers, a gift card to your favorite store.

You’d never even bothered to ask when his birthday was. Hadn’t even thought about it. 

“I don’t really celebrate,” he shrugged, running his tongue over his cheek. 

“I’m sorry — I should’ve —” 

“Don’t.” Levi brushed your hair out of your face, shaking his head. The touch soothed you, his fingers so gentle on your temple. “It’s really okay. People are usually too busy with Christmas, and I don’t care much about it anyway.” 

You opened your mouth to protest, Levi shook his head again, smiling. “Don’t apologize. Mikasa is the only one who knows, really. Hange knows it’s in December, but I don’t like making a big deal of it.” He sighed, pinching his temple, before looking back at you. "I promise. It doesn't matter."

Still, you couldn't help but feel horrible for not realizing, for dragging him out of town for you, when it was his birthday. “I’m sorry,” you said again, heart clenching.

Levi rolled his eyes, defensive, and moved along, tugging you forward, clearly not wanting to discuss the matter any further. 

It ate at you for the rest of the evening, though, nearly distracting you from the fact that your ex-boyfriend was there at all. 

You stuck with Levi for the rest of the night, but eventually, needed to use the bathroom, hoping to get back downstairs as soon as possible. Though, your plan was undermined when you opened the door, the other side revealing Zeke, leaning against the wall. His eyes raked over your body, a mix of anger and hunger as you left the bathroom, waving your hands to dry them completely. 

“Zeke,” you said, ignoring the hammering in your heart, the way that your panic had spiked the moment you saw him. “What the fuck do you want?” 

He laughed, though it was without humor, as he pushed away from the wall, coming towards you. You felt small under his dark gaze, the way he pinned you, so much more cruelly than Levi did. “I can’t tell if you’re actually serious, or if you’re fucking with me,” Zeke said, and it took you a moment to figure out what he was referring to, his eyes hard and narrowed under the thick lenses of his glasses. “Do you really think I believe you? Believe this act that you have going on with your boyfriend?” 

You blinked back at him, momentarily at a loss for words, before you forced a laugh from your chest, spitting at him cruelly. “God, Zeke,” you said, shaking your head. “Are you so paranoid that you think I would go to that extent? I stopped caring about you a long time ago, and I’ve moved on.” You tried to push past him, blood rushing through your body; all you could think about was getting back downstairs to Levi. 

“Right,” Zeke didn’t let you get far, grabbing your wrist and jerking hard. He forced you back into the wall, your shoulder hitting it with a thump. “I know you’re still not over me. You haven’t been, and we’d both be better off if you could admit that to yourself.” 

You glared, prying his grip off, even if he wouldn’t let go. “Leave me alone, Zeke. I’ve never regretted anything as much as I regret you.” 

“Please,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes, grazing them all over your face. Zeke had never been a good listener, had never seen eye to to eye with you, but he sure pretended to. “You wanted me for years. You loved me.” 

“Maybe at some point. Not anymore.” you said through gritted teeth, tugging again, desperate almost. But Zeke didn’t let you free, his grip harder, bruising your skin. “Zeke. Get off of me. I don’t want to talk to you.” 

That subtle remark served to do nothing but make him angrier. His features contorted, shoving you backwards so you were pressed against him, his knees brushing your thighs.

A flash of fear went through you, and though you didn’t want to seem like a coward, didn’t want to scream for anyone in the house to help you, you considered it. Zeke towered over you, his breath fanning over your cheeks, thumbs grazing your jaw. “I’m not an idiot,” he said, smiling, that same saccharine grin he’d given you when you were together. “I know that man downstairs isn’t really in love with you.” 

“What makes your so sure that you’re right about that?” 

That seemed the question he had been dying to answer all evening.

“Oh, it’s easy to spot, really. Just look at you,” Zeke said. “You were nothing without me, and you’re nothing still.” He laughed, loud and cruel, finally stepping away, giving you an escape route. “No one wanted you before, and no one wants you now… Especially not now that I’ve ruined you.” He shrugged, tucking his hands into his pockets, a dismissal. “And it was so easy to do.”  

Tears sprang to your eyes; breaths left you, stuttered exhales that were more than forced. “I hate you.” 

“Why?” Zeke asked, curious. “I did you a favor.”

You stared at him, wondering how he could possibly believe himself to be so benevolent, to have saved you from some existence that would have been miserable, without the divine lesson he’d bestowed upon you. Though, it wasn’t long before you realized that he was taunting you, trying his best to make an embarrassment of you, laughing at the way the tears had flooded your eyes so easily.

You rushed down the stairs, holding back your sobs.

As your feet touched the bottom step, you collided with another body, turning the corner, too off-kilter to recognize who it was. “Sorry,” you said, the word coming out soft, weak. “I’m sorry, I have to—”

“Hey.” Levi’s soothing voice washed over you, his hands on your shoulders snapping you out of your distress. At first, he hadn’t realized that you were crying, the tears hidden by the palms that covered your eyes. Gently, Levi pried them away, taking your wrists in his hands, staring at you with a severe expression. “Hey, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” 

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” you said, wiping at your face furiously; Levi was unconvinced. “I just… ran into Zeke upstairs, that's all.” 

That soured his mood immediately, expression turning cold, a glare overtaking it as he understood. “Fucking asshole,” Levi ground out, teeth clenching together. “What did he say to you?”

“Levi, I said I’m fine.” But your glossy eyes revealed the opposite, the tears leaking from the corners of them only exacerbating the fact that Zeke had said something cruel. “Leave it alone.”

“Did he hurt you?” Navy eyes flicked all over your face, narrowing in concern. “What did he say, love?” It slipped from his lips, without thinking.

You stared back at him, frozen, hesitant. That sort of softness was one you’d never heard from Levi before, had never seen him so furious, yet so worried. It seemed every emotion that he had tucked away was bleeding onto his face, and you leaned into his touch, let him examine your wrists. A red ring was around it from Zeke’s heavy hand. 

“I’m okay,” you promised, barely a whisper, taking your wrists back to hide them by your sides. Your lip quivered, and you looked away from Levi's concern as new wave of tears rushed over you, warming your body with despair. “He just doesn’t believe that we’re together. Said that you’d never love someone like me, anyway. That Zeke ruined me.” You shrugged, rubbing your elbows. “The usual.” 

Levi clenched his fists, pushing past you. “Fuck.”

You could see the anger spelled out all over his expression, as he began his ascent up the stairs, feet heavy, infuriated. 

You clutched at his sleeve. “Levi, stop. Just let it go.” 

“I’m not going to let him fucking talk to you like that!” he said, and it was, nearly, the most emotion you’d ever seen out of Levi, his hands practically shaking at his sides. “He can’t just — ”

Levi grit his teeth, then shook you off, taking long strides to get to Zeke, who was leaving the bathroom just as you arrived. Although the smarter part of your brain nudged at you to stop Levi, you couldn’t help but let him play out his anger, wanting to see the look on Zeke’s face when he approached him. 

The loud steps against the stairs gathered your ex-boyfriend's attention, and Zeke smiled, looking down at Levi from under his glasses, amused. Though, he didn’t get a chance to say a word before Levi had tugged him by the shirt, forced him against the wall, his gaze hard, almost scary.

Levi’s strength was almost surprising, had you not already known, but Zeke hadn’t. He glanced at Levi, then you, wide-eyed, before recovering smoothly. “Sent your guard dog after me, did you?” he asked you, a dull expression on his face. 

“Don’t talk to her.” Levi snapped Zeke’s head back against the wall, forcing the taller man to look at him. “You may think you’re better than you are, but I don’t. You’re a piece of shit, and you never deserved her.” Levi said, eyes pinched, the words calm, even more serious than if he’d been shouting them. "Just stay the hell away."

“Really?” Zeke said, a smile curving onto his lips. “Or what?” 

Levi stared for a minute longer, contemplative, and you sucked in a breath, wiping your eyes. You hardly registered the movement of Mikasa, who had rushed up the stairs, wrapping you up in her arms, whispering something to you that you didn't comprehend. 

Before either of you could react, Levi had swung, hit Zeke square in the nose, blood trickling down not a moment later. When the blond man tried to react, swinging aimlessly, Levi ducked, and grabbed at Zeke's arm, forcing a knee into his stomach. 

Zeke coughed and keeled, muttering a silent, “shit,” and a few other expletives, but not making any moves to swing again.

After he released him, Levi flexed his hand, looking over his shoulder to see you staring at him, Mikasa holding you tightly. He exhaled, sniffed back his anger, and turned.

“Levi—” you started, but he said nothing, pushing past you, his fingers running through his hair as he made his way down the stairs. 

Mikasa whispered something else to you, but you wiggled out of her arms, ignoring her, as you followed after Levi. Your tears had dried, but they had, nonetheless, been obvious to everyone, who seemed to know exactly what had been going on when you walked downstairs. 

Still, you didn’t meet any of their eyes, frowning, as you pushed open the door. You ignored the fact that it was below freezing outside, and you were in nothing but a jacket, when you found Levi, drawn to him light a magnet. 

Flurries of snow rained down, dusting the top of Levi’s head, like little crystals against his dark hair. It was much quieter, away from the chatter, and the music, the night calm and serene, wrapping you in a blanket of comfort. 

“Levi?” you said, approaching him quietly, shivering in the brisk air. It had snowed much more than you'd thought in the past few hours, coating the ground, painting a scene so perfect for Christmas Eve. Crystals of ice hung off the edge of the railing, the wind whipping the flurries around in a swirl. 

Levi glanced over his shoulder, but said nothing for a moment, his breath coming out in a cold puff of air. Slowly, you came up beside him, watched as his cheeks began to tinge red from the wintery air, his hair brushing across his forehead from the wind. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, blinking at the scene in front of him, as he leaned against the icy railing of the balcony. “That was a stupid thing to do. I embarrassed you in front of all of your friends.”

You paused, before a small laugh erupted from you. “Embarrassed?” you smiled, pulling on his forearm to guide his attention back to you. “Levi, no one cares. Truthfully, I’m grateful,” you admitted, retracting your hand, swallowing. “I never would’ve had the courage to do it myself.” 

Levi’s eyes flashed, and he glanced over at you, conflicted. Christmas lights shimmered against the snow, dulled only by the darkness that lingered above you.

“Regardless,” he muttered, fixated on the wave of red and green. His lashes were coated in droplets of white, and your voice caught in your throat. He’d never looked so beautiful. “That was immature. I’m not — We’re not even really together.”

You laughed, the sound light and airy. “Well, surely Zeke believes us now. I think you’ve done enough to sell it, haven’t you?” 

Levi sighed, dropping his gaze to the railing, his shoulders falling. “I suppose.”

Still, there was tension between you, and your stiff joke did little to diffuse it. You ran your hands up and down your own arms, feeling the goosebumps beneath them, trying to force your attention away from how cold you were.

“Zeke deserved it,” you said, quietly, shaking your head, eyebrows knit together. "You shouldn't feel bad."

“I know,” whispered back, just another exhaled of the wind. Levi didn’t move, didn’t bother to look at you, despite the fact that you were desperate to read any twitch of his expression, to get him to reveal what he was thinking. 

Finally, after far too long, he glanced over, raked his eyes across your figure, the frozen posture that your body had turned to, the confusion all over your face. He frowned, dismissive. “We should go inside. You’re freezing.”

“I’m okay.” 

“No—”

“Levi,” you said once more, halting him, a frowning permeating your lips. “Why did you do it?” 

His face twitched. “Zeke? I told you, he has no right to—”

“No, no. Not that,” you waved him off, crossing your arms to hold them tightly to his chest. “I mean... Well, I suppose that too, but why did you come? Why would you choose to spend your birthday here, with me, of all places? Why do you even pretend to like me at all?” 

Levi stared back, slowly blinking, his eyes wide, startled. Then, he started laughing, and for the first time, it was genuine. The sound left him deeply, amused, by your question.

And though, you didn’t understand, had no idea what was so funny about the sentiment, you couldn’t help but feel the warmth of his humor all the way down to your toes, the sound a battle against the brisk cold that slapped against you. 

“You think I don’t like you?” Levi asked, shaking his head, laughs subsiding to a small smile. 

“Well,” you said, defensive, sniffing. “Yeah. I’ve always thought that.” 

“And? What do you think now?” 

You remembered the small smiles you had shared, secrets almost. The way he talked with all of your friends, made an effort to see the beauty in the home you’d grown up in. The way he listened to you, took in your words and remembered them for later. 

You shrugged, though it was half-hearted. “I don’t know.” 

Silence fell between you, before Levi had cupped your jaw, tracing the softness of your cheeks, the hollow beneath the bone. His eyes held a sadness you didn’t understand, before he had looked past you, to the house next door, the one beyond that, and the one beyond that. 

“Hange said you had no idea. I thought I’d been fairly obvious about it, all this time, but maybe I’m oblivious myself.” 

“Levi,” you began, frustrated, confused by the way he touched you so gently, the way his sarcasm had subsided, and nothing remained but the gentleness between you. “I don’t—”

“I’m in love with you.” 

A pause.

Another.

Slowly, your jaw fell slack. Your eyes grew wide, and you swallowed, as the sentence repeated over and over in your mind, until you could make sense of it. 

Levi stepped away, clenching his jaw as he turned you, only his side profile visible. “I have been for quite a while. Hange was the one who pointed it out, and I realized…” He sighed. “Well, I realized they were right. I love you, and I thought that, maybe, if I pretended to be your boyfriend, you’d see I’m not as bad as you think. I didn’t care about spending my birthday at home because I want to be around you — I want to be around you, as often as I can. Perhaps, I'm a complete fool for that, but...” He trailed off, and though his eyes had hardened, not revealing any of the misery he felt, you could see it. 

“Levi…” 

“I just hope you know that whatever Zeke has planted in your mind, it isn’t true,” Levi spat, clenching his teeth. “You’re not unloveable. God, you were so easy to fall in love with, and I had no idea, that all this time, you’ve been thinking otherwise.” He sniffed, caught between sorrow and fury. “I would never have told you how I felt, but it doesn’t matter, anyway. As long as you know that what he says isn't true.” 

You were still whirling from the confession, but Levi had already begun to walk off, trudging off into the house.

“Levi, wait,” you said, grasping at his arm before he could go back inside, get too far away from you. Your head was spinning, and you couldn’t think, couldn’t hear anything besides the words I’m in love with you.

And though he was frustrated, and a culmination of many other things, Levi did as you said, because he loved you; because he loved you, and he listened to you, and you had a hold over him. 

Levi stopped, looking back at you, breathing deeply, waiting.

“I—” you began, but the words died there, because Levi looked so pretty with snowflakes on his lashes, and you thought of all the questions you’d never ask, and the fact that all this time, you’d wanted Levi… even if you’d been to scared to admit it. 

You kissed him.

Your lips pressed against his, and though he was caught off-guard, eyes wide, he fell into it instantly, arms coming around your back to hold you close. Levi kissed you with a passion that Zeke never had, grabbing at your body like a lifeline, desperate and adoring.

Levi tasted of peppermint, smelled like tea, and felt like a home you hadn’t known since you’d been back here. Something clicked into place, your mind shifting, and your hands fisted in the back of his coat, holding onto him tight. 

“You love me?” you asked in a small voice, eyes glossy from a sort of happiness you hadn’t felt in years. 

Levi smiled down at you, his expression bright, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He traced your jaw, kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheeks. “I love you.” Another lingering kiss on your lips. “I’d spend all of my life showing you, if you’d let me; getting rid of all those lies Zeke planted in your head." Levi inhaled, rested his head against your own gently. 

“I thought you didn’t like to date," you said, closing your eyes.

He huffed out a laugh. “I don’t.” 

“Are there other women?” 

“What?” Levi shook his head, amused, when you finally pried your eyes back open. You wondered if you’d ever seen him so happy; if you’d ever seen him happy at all. If, maybe, you could keep him happy forever. “No, I’m — Is that what you’ve thought of me all this time?” 

Embarrassed, you dipped your head to his shoulder, warming yourself up in his embrace. He took that as yes for an answer. 

“I’m not interested in dating, and I really haven’t been with many people before, contrary to what you believe,” he teased, running his fingers along your spine. “Certainly, not since I met you. Does that answer suffice?” 

You ran your hands against his chest, kissing his collarbone, his neck, then along his jaw, letting every ounce of your affection seep into it. “I don’t want you to see anyone else,” you admitted, looking at him from under your lashes, remembering exactly what Zeke had done to you, at exactly the same time that he did. 

“I won’t, my love,” Levi swore, kissing you once more, sweet and wonderful in the snowy Christmas Eve. 

"And, maybe," you began shyly, playing with the buttons of his deep maroon shirt. "We can start fresh tomorrow. I don't know enough about you, Levi Ackerman," you said, frowning, a wrinkle forming between your eye. "But I'd like to."

Levi relaxed, shifting into a version of himself that so few would ever get to see, sweet and caring, with eyes so soft. He smiled. "I can't think of a better way to spend my birthday."

જ⁀➴ REBLOGS APPRECIATED !

[georgettesand]

At the foot of the organ.

[georgettesand]

Chapelle du Kreisker - Notre-Dame de Leon

[georgettesand]

Spring spirit

[georgettesand]

[hinata-boke]

Drawing a randomly generated Haikyuu character (almost) every day until I give up

54. Sawamura Daichi