rindou x reader: pure fluff, likes & reblogs are appreciated!
distance makes the heart grow fonder — in the excruciating six months rindou’s been in juvie, he realises how true that is.
a part of him wants to blame the lack of fun or entertainment or any sort of proper facility in the rehabilitation center — a few hours a day at the courtyard where he practically just sits around, do some weight training whilst his brother socialises enough for the both of them, probably to garner another spot and connection. and another hour three times a day to eat bland and tasteless food that makes him truly rethink his delinquent life as he shoves soaking white rice that tastes like the water it was cooked in, or the chicken that definitely has been microwaved after being left out for multiple days straight. and then right after, its night time, lights off as he’s forced to “rethink” and “reflect” in the creaky hard bed that he’s still not used to despite nearing the end of his sentence.
and in these six months, youre all he can think about.
perhaps he’s taken for granted beforehand: you and him have never been apart after all.
sat right next to each other since kindergarten, your world and his has always collided, practically merged in one. your home was simply a walk away from his, and your parents adored him strangely enough. a routine, in contrast to his messy life with his older brother, one that he strangely likes and in recent times, missed dearly though he would never verbally admit it to anyone but perhaps some god who’s reading his mind.
it was easy, never having to make much of an effort. every morning, he would eat breakfast straight from the fridge into the microwave, grab his bag and walk to the bus stop you two met up in, get on the bus and go to school — nothing special. but now, stuck in his cell as though he’s been banished from society, he misses everything about it: he misses your voice and laughter as you two switched between topics from your weekends and school gossips and new shop items to get, he misses the occasional songs you two would share with the old wired earphones still kept in his wallet abandoned in his room that would alternate between your favourite songs that he can practically hum in his head even now and his that vibrates in his ear with the electric guitar and beats that had you two nod your head as though in agreement, he misses the unintentional touches during those trips that felt like electric shocks whether it was form the bumpy bus ride that had you push against him whether you two were sitting down or not or the fingertip bumping against each other in the cramp bus.
and in some twisted way, he misses school too, strangely enough. in a way, it was the place that brought you two together, red strings practically tying you too as well as the teachers who sought you out as the solution to rindou’s troublemaker personality though really, you were just as bad (though at least you haven’t been in jail). he misses the school lunches you two ran, hand in hand, to queue up for — japanese curry rice with his favourite katsu chicken which spice level varied according to the cook’s mood that day, cold soba noodles that was practically bathed in ice that melt away at the burning heat of the world, that stupid french toast topped his honey and sugar that always ran out too quickly — and most importantly you who sat right in front of him without fail every break, as though you two were the only one in this world at the corner of the canteen that no one dared bothered the two of you. he misses the classrooms, sitting right next to you in all of them: he misses the secret whispers and written notes talking about the boring classes, unwrapped candies shoved into both of your mouths, books standing on the table so you could have a quick nap mid lesson, eyes connecting to yours as you two lay your heads on the wooden surface, your smile sweeter than the caramel that’s bursting in his mouth as he bites down on the candy to not say his real feelings. he misses each and every class skipped: hiding in an empty classroom or at the back of the cold and quiet library that contrasted with your warmth or finding another new corner added to his memory long abandoned but now kept alive by the two of you, your head on his shoulders as you two do your own things, playing games, listening to his new beats he made the night before (with you in mind), napping and daydreaming about what the future held for the two of you.
and more so, after school: where you two would practically travel the world — whether in the crowded city and town, walking and laughing on the streets with your bag carried by him, dashing in and out of the stores as you two hear the saleslady yell after you and the salesman sighing at the sight of you two, hands holding your favourite ice cream (that he never tells you tastes really bad in his humble opinion), sampling food and drinks and items at the grocery store as he pushes you on the cart for no reason other than to be a nuisance (that is successful, considering the pointed glares and whispers at the passerbys). each time was a new adventure: different shops and different antics, different bites of equally bad ice creams and treats that you love all the same, different conversation and different days, and yet no matter what, he misses them all. not because he likes those overly-covered chocolate ice cream that tastes way too strongly, or because he likes those terrible-looking shirts that he buys simply because it makes you laugh, or because he has nothing else better to do but simply because you were there. your smile that practically acts as his sun makes the ice cream and treats tastes truly sweet, one that makes his heart swell up and aches at the same time, your laughs that sounds like inspiration for his next remix and beats rings just right in his ears to have another atrociously ugly shirt sit in his closet hung up for you to see when you come over, your voice that sounds like a song that he can’t stop replaying makes every single hang out and time spent with you just so mesmerising and addictive.
rindou remembers the first time you fell sick and didn’t go to school: it was pure torture, no one to talk to through whispers and post it notes, no one to sit with him to enjoy the sandwich he got that was practically stale considering he didn’t have the motivation to rush down as he would with you. it was so miserable that he left mid school and went over, buying hot soup and medicine on the way at some overpriced place that was near yours so it would still but hot when he got there, taking care of you that seemed so unnatural and strange to him but felt just right as he sat beside you, watching your sleeping face, wiping away the snot at the corner of your nose and drool at the side of your mouth that was slightly dry and pale. and now it was pernament, or at least for this six months — and really, he has half a mind to attempt to break out of here, if not the fact that you would probably not enjoy having a convict at your house (really, he knows you might not mind, but that would really ruin the impression of him to your parents that he still might need their blessing for for the future, but he digresses)
and after a whole six months, rindou gets released from prison: and instead of going home to sleep in his soft bed and rest up like his brother, or going to the club where he knows people would be all over him considering he’s the new talk in town after beating the back then best gang leaders in roppongi, he walks straight to your house, wearing some sweater his brother got his friends to get the both of them for their release.
and it feels natural, as though its like home: pressing your doorbell as he’s done a million times — every weekend to ask you to hang out probably at his favourite arcade to play those rhythms games or dance machines or claw machines, once in a while when he gets up and early and can’t be bothered to wait in the silence at the bus stop, or simply when he’s bored (and misses you).
and after a full six months, he thinks you look even better than his memory can serve him.
”hey, i’m back. missed you.”
a honest response from him, slipped out of his mouth despite his blank expression (and pink tinted face). but he doesn’t mind it, not when the smile he misses and has to scratch the back of his brain in the cell to remember the shape of it, not when he can hear your smile that makes his world go quiet, only you and him in this life together, not when you pull him by his shirt that makes his half-lidded eyes go wide as he crashes onto you, you on the floor and him on top of you. and he can’t help but laugh too, your world and his merging once more, his hands tugging onto yours, as he pulls you in: its magnetic , its natural, and its like home.
distance really makes the heart fonder: on both side, rindou thinks — his practiced facade gone when he’s in your arms as though your plushies that sits the same on your bed when he goes up later, when youre here with him and fitting with him just right like a puzzle piece so much that he feels whole again.
and perhaps, just maybe, he has to get his act together and confess a little quicker: he’s sure you think the same too, when you peck his cheeks in affection, you and him laying on your bed, eyes magnetic to each other, talking as though you two have never been separated, as though you two weren’t just separated by the stupid metal gates and barbed wires of his juvie, as though you two were truly connected by the red string that grew oh so resistant to the tearing and pulling of both yours and his facades and hidden love that has long melted into the open.
where rindou thinks hes going crazy (falling in love with you)
rindou x reader: fluff, tiny bit angst (insecurity), likes & reblogs are appreciated!
rindou thinks he might be genuinely going crazy.
he’s met you when you were both little kids, viewing as almost an extension to his life. you and him always seemed to orbit around his universe no matter what even when the world seemingly attempts the cut the red (platonic, he emphasises himself) thread on yours and his’ pinky - from when he got arrested for the first time when he was just 11 and yet you were right outside the stupid reformed school he was placed into the day he got out miraculously (he almost cried that day, but he would rather die than admit it verbally after all), or when you two had your first fight when he got mad you didn’t like his first mix he made, but he’s sure this time his luck is running out.
perhaps he’s been cursed by a rival gang, right that’s the logical reason - anything to ignore all the obvious signs that he knows, by heart, from all the stupid romance manga you used to make him buy and read with you as a little kid at the back of the class. wildly thumping heart that burns and tingles when he looks at you, red ears and cheeks that only appears otherwise from (rare) injuries he gets whenever him and ran needs to fight another overly-arrogant roppongiers, and a strange stuttering of words that fit more in his club remixes than an regular conversation with you on your bed that feels oh too intimidating now.
perhaps, he’s growing up too - no longer a naive little kid who looked at you as just a mere playground friend, no longer looking up at you attempting to make a pleading face for you to give up your candies to him for him to enjoy, no longer the same kid who hid the “embarrassing” fact that he was going for gymnastic and ballet classes that were given for free for lower-income students and instead lied that he was simply going home only to meet you at the said class. rindou, for the first time in his life, in your room like all the years back then as a little kid in your bedroom, looks at you clearly through his glasses as though it has been cleaned for the first time in years — your eyes that practically sparkle with the light reflecting in your eyes like crystals, your lips that he has never realised has always been the same shade of pink that paints with streaks on his burning cheeks, your hair that smell the same with the same kiddish scent that he associates with just you alone of pure sugar.
”rin… you’re awfully quiet and i know youre most definitely not actually doing your work either…”
i’m thinking about you. no, that’s too straightforward, too raw — something rindou has never been: running away as far as possible, dancing around his words, words that has always hid his realest self and feeling. nothing - that’s a lie, and he knows you’ll call him out: it has always been like this: you digging his problems out like he’s one of your boring assignments or seashells from the beach, always you. perhaps, its the lingering care, lingering love that he breathes from you: if its love, it has to be you because you were the first real love in his life with his absent parents and conscending looks from those other rich roppongi kids: there was you, plopping right beside him in the playground at the dismay of your other friends that are practically shell-shocked.
and there he goes on a tangent: he’s always in his own mind — a statement you tell him oh so often. but he argues, in his own head, that its you that on his mind all the time recently.
when he goes home, he’ll go to his room: one that is filled with physical memories of you and him: the box of origami butterflies and birds you made for him counting down the days he will be out of juvie, the polaroids kept in a stack of you and him smiling so brightly that it could rival the sun itself he’s sure at the back of the class in yours and his stuffy uniform he loathes and loves, the candy packets he bought for you to pass to you in class to keep you satisated and that grin on your face as the sweet burst into your mouth: he wants to selfishly be that candy too sometimes, caramel and butterscotch, even if he knows he’s not sweet in the slightest.
”mhm… just thinking again.” he lets out a uncommitable hum, eyes finally drifting to yours.
you don’t look convinced, its cute — your furrowed brows, your deadpan look plastered on your face almost immediately as though you know him inside and out (you do, he believes wholeheartedly like a little kid), your arms crosssed now, as you pout at him, practically melting away the metaphorical walls that he was just merely setting up for the battle and war of his feelings for you.
youre impossible, he decides, youre the one crazy, not him. definitely not him. even as the words burst of his mouth — like that candy youre chewing on, your face scrunching up at the burst of flavour.
”i really like you, you know?”
yup, never mind, he thinks. he’s definitely the insane one here.
yet, rindou’s completely paralysed, like those gang members under his merciless grip and twists. his eyes stare and bore into yours, trying to read yours eyes: light dancing and twisting in yours, no longer a whole crystal as it was previously, you have stopped chewing that stupid candy he bought you as a deal to help him study (cheat). he doesn’t know how or what to feel.
that expression is no stranger to him of course: he’s seen on the boring inmates when he reveals his age (just turned thirteen) in that stuck up juvie, he’s seen it on no-good teachers whenever he does score well for exams and competitions that he wishes to savour and tastes even more as the fire burns in his chest, he’s seen it on those boring and annoying gang members when his wrist flexes and he twists and pulls into the very beings’ bones and muscles from the skin as their scream fill his ears that he thinks would suit the next mix he wants to do.
but when its with you, he hates it.
change is inevitable of course, he knows. he knows: when his parents slowly stopped coming home and he would have to accept he would be stuck with his annoying older brother for the rest of his life (he doesn’t mind this now of course). he knows: when his friends he worked oh so hard to make avoid and ignore him when he comes back from juvie, his name now no longer uttered with mockery and with that rare friendly hint but completely of fear and straight voice that he tastes bile in his mouth. he knows: when his favourite noodle shop that tastes of home and nostalgia closed down finally (letting go of your past self is always the hardest), tears gone unnoticed in the pouring rain so strategically dripping against the wet face and hair.
and rindou thinks, no, believes he’ll genuinely go crazy if you and him changes: if you stop orbiting around him that he’s taken for granted all these years: your warmth, your familiarity and your love.
”… i like you too, rindou.”
and maybe he’s not as crazy as he thought: your eyes shining in a crystal-like structure, as though capturing the blue highlights that paints on his hair into a diamond like gem, your mouth melting into a grin that he swears practically melts him inside and out, your hands that feel so warm against his colder hands against the even colder room and world.
love. love isnt crazy, he thinks — no he admits to his stubborn self, that it tastes sugary sweet: when your lips melts against his, and you taste of sugar: sweeter than pure sugar, alchohol, and wear tastes.
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