───── ` The curiosity to know what's tattooed on that vulnerable piece of skin, almost completely hidden by his collar, arises during the comfort of a quiet night with him. Said curiosity ends up becoming something more.
Tags: Gender neutral reader - Tension - Cuddling - Religious themes - Touch starved Jud/reader - Sub Jud undertones - Mutual comfort - Undefined relationship - First kiss - Making out - Explicit
His room still carries a faint scent of incense used a few hours ago, the aroma still lingering on his clothes, bringing you a sense of tranquility and peace—something only Father Jud can effortlessly evoke.
That scent is the product of what lingers on the air after Mass, something that remains around after the candles are extinguished and the doors are closed, instead of being ceremonially opened as they were this morning when a new, improved Mass finally began, spreading the word of God and His mercy. It's a new beginning after the events of a year ago, which turned everything around the priest—and you—upside down.
After a joyful day filled with pleasant emotions, yet still busy, night descends like a soft blanket, opening the door to a path filled with discoveries and new people to meet, all to praise the Lord and offer what people need, which is peace and hope.
The only minor drawback, if you can even call it that, is that Jud's bed is rather small for two people looking to relax right now. It's worth noting that you, of course, have your own bed and room, your own private space for relaxation.
But there were times when you both preferred the little space between you, invading each other's personal space for the sake of it.
This had become a pleasant habit where you both got what you wanted without much argument, because it's not a big deal when viewed from a healthy perspective.
Without going into too much detail and overthinking it or drawing incorrect conclusions, technically, you're not breaking any rules within the Catholic sphere, since you're simply coworkers who need each other to keep going, to prevent loneliness from gnawing at you, and to know that there's always someone willing to be there for whatever the other needs, supporting each other to keep the small church community afloat.
Physical contact is excellent for dopamine; that's the fact behind the mere excuse to be together occasionally on cold nights.
Sometimes he would come to your room, just to talk about how he'd been feeling, what needed fixing around the place, some funny anecdotes from the past, or simply to listen to you talk, to lose himself in your voice, all while feeling the warmth of your body so close to his.
And other times, you would come to him, sliding on top of him until his arms enveloped you, and you would stay there, momentarily overcome by sleep, returning to your room yawning, tired, but satisfied by the moment together. And on those good nights, the ones that were your favorites, you wouldn't return to your room, eventually waking up sore or with your limbs numb from being in the same position for hours on top of a man who moved too much in his sleep, restless even in his deep slumber.
Tonight, it's your turn to be there with him, offering him the comfort every helper should give their beloved priest, or whatever that is.
You're on top of him in a way that would be awkward for anyone else, one leg over his, your right arm awkwardly tucked behind you and pressed against the mattress while your left rests on his torso, your cheek pressed against his chest, immersed in the soft melody of his heart beating slower than it was earlier when he stood at the altar, his hands trembling just a little as he lifted the chalice for the first time in a long time.
Jud was ready for Mass, so excited because it was what he had always wanted and had been preparing for the big day for months. This excitement didn't dispel the fact that his nerves would vanish immediately; that lingering fear of making a mistake was persistent— however, it was quickly replaced by the confidence of knowing exactly what he was doing and what his strengths were, as well as the knowledge of why he had come and whom he was serving, without letting unwanted fear consume him.
Thanks to the sudden wave of confidence that washed over him when he saw people pleased with his words, the Mass proceeded smoothly and ended beautifully.
There weren't many people; it was an intimate and pleasant affair. Familiar faces reappeared, some of whom had vanished after the unsettling impression left by the late Monsignor Wicks, indicating that these individuals had always been open to the possibility that the church would improve after all. There were also strangers who slipped in and out without ceremony.
No exaggerated expectations, no judgment, just praise, prayer, encouragement, and Jud giving his all in the place he worships and that helped him move forward.
He's currently wearing the same clothes as always, still wanting to feel the comforting weight of being a real father adorning his body as he feels serene beneath you, his left hand massaging your shoulder, pulling you closer so you can snuggle better, almost purring beneath you.
You raise your gaze from your position, noticing the stubble, how his lips look from this angle, his Adam's apple almost hidden by the clerical collar, bobbing occasionally as he swallows, noticing you're staring a little too intently, he's obviously looking straight up at the ceiling so he doesn't have to think too much about how well your body fits with his.
Scrutinizing every inch of his skin is effortless; you've already memorized every detail you could perceive: the occasional razor nick beneath his jaw, other old scars, freckles almost invisible, and that mark that steals your breath every time you stare at it for what feels like an obsessive few seconds.
That mysterious, hidden tattoo resembles a stem with a leaf, leading down to something larger that manages to conceal itself from view—perhaps a fruit or a floral design. From other angles, it looks like horns, a hidden biblical figure. All you know is that your curiosity grows stronger each day, intrigued by the mystery.
You long to see it, to feel it beneath your fingers, your lips, your tongue.
The thoughts become so indecent they almost cross the line into vulgarity, becoming utterly unacceptable. You have to push those things far from your mind.
After it, Jud moves his hand a little lower, near your armpit, his pinky just barely getting inside the space of your pit, you don't even notice since he's touching you delicately, afraid of breaking the moment with some awkward action that might shatter such delicious spell.
“You did good,” you murmur, almost purring, your left hand tracing small patterns on the black shirt that hugs his torso.
There's a low, satisfied grumble as response; you feel it everywhere, he's a little rough from tiredness, but so soft at the same time.
“Yeah, but I almost forgot the third reading,” he lets out a small laugh. “I also paused for like an eternity…” he comments seconds later, making you sigh.
“No one noticed.”
“I noticed,” he replies softly, throwing dirt at himself to play with you, and you lightly pat his torso, earning a tiny flinch from him.
“Stop it, Father.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
You shift slightly, adjusting your position so your cheek rests more comfortably against him. Your gaze wanders a second time, unfocused at first, until it settles on the familiar touch of ink just above the collar.
They're just fragments, a curve here, a shadow there; short lines ending in a point somewhere, stirring your curiosity once more.
“Father Jud.”
He hums absently, eyes closed, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns along your back.
“Father,” you repeat, this time trying to get his firm attention.
He looks down at you. “Mm? ”
“You know your tattoo.”
His fingers stop.
“What about it?”
“You never told me what it actually is.” You hadn’t actually asked before; you didn’t want to be inappropriate about the subject. But considering you both weren’t being so appropriate right now, it was a good opportunity.
The priest exhaled through his nose, amused, as if he had been expecting this question, and his gaze shifted from you to the warm pool of light emanating from the lamp before moving to the ceiling.
“Nothing interesting, really,” he said.
“It is, for me.”
His mouth immediately closed, and you raised your head just enough to look at him. You noticed in the dim light that his cheeks had flushed slightly, an unmistakable sign that he was embarrassed and trying not to be. He scratched the back of his neck with the hand he had placed under his head.
“That’s nice, very nice, thank you. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but I don’t really want you to see it,” he adds, smiling slightly.
You blink. “But… I already know it exists.”
“Yes, but you don’t know what it is,” he says, and then, with a touch of drama, adds, “And some things are better left a mystery.”
You stare, rolling your eyes.
And he continues, careless about your obvious annoyance, lowering his voice as if telling a ghost story. “It’s a relic from my past, a symbol of my poor judgment, mistakes I made that are irreparable, a symbol of youthful arrogance, of…”
“Alright, cut it off.”
A slightly silly, warm laugh escapes him as his shoulders shift under your weight. “Okay,” he concedes defeat. “I will.”
You lean back against him, but your eyes remain fixed on his throat, on the small amount of ink peeking through the black fabric. “So?”
“So,” he sighs, defeated, “it’s ugly.”
“Subjective.”
“…And stupid.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“It is when you’re young and foolish enough to believe that a random tattoo automatically makes you interesting,” he mutters.
You smile, propping your chin on his chest. “What were you aiming for? Profound? Mysterious?”
“Brave,” he says after a moment, “back in my boxing days, I was capable of doing anything to look tough.” He smiles at you. “Now the collar helps cover up a bit of what it is, but it’s still a part of me that I know to accept.”
You raise your right hand, your fingers stretching until they brush against the edge of the fabric at his throat, warm skin against warm skin, and Jud goes still, aware of the gentle touch but not pulling away.
“May I look at it, Father?” you ask, quieter now.
He hesitates. His jaw tightens, then relaxes. “You’re going to laugh.”
“Maybe,” you say honestly. “But not in a mean way.”
That manages to elicit a smile, revealing his teeth, and he pulls you closer, bringing his mouth close enough to kiss your head as a sign of affection.
He’d just broken about five rules, but who cared at this point?
Jud returns to his initial position, and you continue touching the painted flesh. He didn’t answer whether you were allowed to see it, but that didn’t mean you were going to cross the line he’d already set. Just gentle touches on his neck, which he seemed to enjoy, without exposing any more skin or revealing anything you knew he didn’t want you to see.
Long minutes pass like this, you touching, him returning the touches with affectionate caresses, bodies feeling each other almost too intensely to be acceptable. Suddenly, you realize that half of your lower body is resting on his thigh, his leg positioned precisely between yours while yours is also between his, legs strangely intertwined, and there's no space, only pressure in the most inappropriate places.
For some reason, you hadn't noticed him staring at you, mesmerized by the ink on his neck, his stare was the least you could notice. His skin temperature had risen, and deep down you hoped it wasn't just because of his clothes, since black fabric tends to trap more heat. You also noticed his breathing had quickened making you avoid looking at him, but it was impossible not to when your eyes met his without your consent.
Both of you made eye contact for a second, and you watched him lick his lips and God forgive you, but you had to do something to break the terrible distraction so you ended up hooking your fingers on his collar to pull down and finally reveal his tattoo during the rush of adrenaline.
Jud gasps at your action, snapping him out of his trance, and you raise your eyebrows at the revelation.
The revealed mystery turns out to be a devil and an angel, small bodies arranged harmoniously with a word beneath them. “Serendipity.” You savor the word on your tongue, and Jud watches you with wide eyes, dilated pupils; unsure, he's nervous.
“So you lied to me, Father,” you accuse him since you were expecting something atrocious just as he was making it seem.
“Lied is a strong word. I let you know it wasn't interesting, neither it's the prettiest tattoo out there.”
“You mentioned it was ugly, and showed signs of discomfort.”
“Mhm.”
“...But it has a meaning linked to your past,” you continue.
“And both things can be true. It does have a meaning, it’s precisely for the saints and the…” unfortunately he loses himself in the way you’re looking at his lips before he finishes speaking. His breath catches for a split second as his skin burns, the priest mentally remarks he can feel your heartbeat synchronizing with his own that is restless. “…Sinners,” he finishes the sentence finally, and you simply can’t stand it anymore.
You can’t fight against what looms over you and he allows you to submit to. You move close enough for your breath to brush against the skin of his neck, for the first time pressing your lips to the hot, ink-covered flesh, a soft kiss that marks the beginning of something that will be hard to fight.
Jud tenses beneath you, his hands tightening a little lower than your waist. You instinctively raise your thigh, feeling a solid bulge against it, something that was probably there before and you didn't even notice because of other obvious distractions.
You begin to test the limits, pressing against his erection, eliciting a pathetic moan that should come with more contact, not with a mere brush trying to stay within the bounds of what is still not unacceptable. Desire surges through you along with hunger, causing you to leave open-mouthed kisses along his throat, making his reactions to be worthy of sin.
He shivers, gasps, and whines between his lips, you pull away for a few seconds to see his flushed face and his ears painted a dark pink, those beautiful lips are parted, and sweat is making his forehead glisten.
How long had it been since he felt this kind of touch… the question dances in your head making you aware of your own arousal coursing through your veins, heating your body from the inside out.
Before regret can creep in for either of you, you bury your face in the crook of his neck again, beginning to savor the moment more aggressively, kissing, sniffing and biting, letting your tongue soothe the sting of a bite that slipped in amidst what were supposed to be just innocent kisses.
The priest mewls and writhes beneath you at the strangely new sensation, and oh Lord, you feel his clothed cock throb against your thigh, and he's a mess. The thoughts that surge through your mind are another mess that are worse than his raw arousal…
How hard is it? What does it look like? How wet is he as he presses your thigh between his legs trying to get more of it on his weeping cock? What does it taste like? How flushed is it? What if you lower your hand and feel him in his most exposed state?
He doesn't leave you behind; his leg presses firmly against your groin in response to your stimulation, ripping a soft gasp from you. Your hand grips his shirt, right at his chest and the fabric a fist, trying to control the other impulses from you that beg to be released.
There are no words, only repressed carnal desire, feelings and sensations almost forgotten. It feels unacceptable, even sacrilegious, but above all, it feels right, regardless of how wrong it is.
A plea you never expected to hear, a litany is released from his lips, “please, please, please, please,” he sobs during his sweet torture and you feel him move until you do too, then you're face to face, admiring each other's faces. Leading you to lean in again, finally closing the distance, and your lips meet in a needy kiss, tasting those lips for the very first time.
You savor him, letting your wet mouth fit perfectly with his. At first, it's simply the union of lips, each seeking more of the other. Then you open your mouth slightly, and he responds in kind, a muffled little whine leaving his mouth to end up in yours, drawn by the taste of your breath. You let your tongue slip inside his mouth, inexperienced, just wanting to taste a little of what lies within, the source of the divine word, simply surrendering to the fruit you thought you'd never taste.
It's so good that your spit mixes until it's obscene; he tastes delicious, and from his reactions, so do you. It becomes sloppy and soaked faster than expected when you finally know how to follow the needy rhythm. Jud is stealing your breath, his slick tongue basically fucking your mouth now, savoring everything he can, soft and puffy and wet lips pressing together as if the purpose was to melt against each other or eat each other in a poor attempt to be feed, it's too much for you, you let the sweet sensation push you further against him, letting hunger win and your thirst be quenched by his mouth.
There is no order in the brazen steal of breath, lips smacking against each other when you separate to breathe just a little before plunging back in again, the wet sounds made by the pasional kiss penetrating your ears, pure shame being corrupted by raw provocation transforming it into nothing more and nothing less than self-inflicted humiliation that feels impossibly good.
Your teeth end up biting his lower lip, hurting him with just the right amount of pressure to make him shudder and whimper in your mouth; that grotesque hunger wining, inflicting that divine pain you know he must love and the priest's hands grip your hips tightly while his mouth opens in a silent scream and his body tenses eventually calming down, followed by a shiver that runs through him as if he'd just felt something overwhelming strike him.
The realization hits you in the middle of the intense kiss, and you can't help but smile during it.
You both separate after a few seconds, puffy and soaked lips connected by a thin strand of saliva that breaks when he pulls his flushed face away from you, cheeks burning furiously, chest heaving.
Poor Father.
You don't know whether to get off him to find wipes and help him clean up the mess in his underwear or just stay there until he starts babbling a pitiful apology for his embarrassing accident that you'll only make worse because you have that power over him.
» There's a knot under your throat that you can't seem to get rid of when he's around. It turns out he's the only one who knows how to untie it. «
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TAGS: childhood friends to lovers, one-sided enemies (?) to lovers, stoic ushijima x constantly confused reader, Alders!Ushijima x PR!reader, penetrative sex, semi-public sex, side friendship yachi x kageyama is my favorite thing ever
a/n: when i tell you guys that before writing this i was not an ushijima girl,,,, and now i have my eyes WIDE OPEN,,,,, everyone please thank @sweetberrypies for this commission!!!!
[commission honee here!]
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Ushijima Wakatoshi is the embodiment of confusion.
He's three, and you're three, too. At that age, he shouldn't confuse you, but he does. He should just be the boy next door with the ball that he keeps rolling around and picking up and setting down, but he's not. He frowns at it, like he's very upset — you don't know it yet, but you'll come to understand over the years that that's what he looks like when he's concentrating on something that matters to him — and when you try to join him, crawling through the hole in the fence to play with him, he frowns at you, too.
In twenty years, he'll confuse you just the same. Frown just the same, stare just the same.
But you don't know that, either. For now, he's just the little boy who always seems upset, and you're just the little girl who wonders if he's mad at you.
Confused.
—
"Y/n… that boy is staring again…"
You turn over your shoulder, following your friend's concerned gaze to the school gates. He's there, just like he always is, eyes trained on you.
He's ten, and you're ten, too.
"Ah," you say, adjusting your bag on your shoulders. "I should go."
Your pig-tailed friend tugs on your sleeve. "Aren't you weirded out by him?"
Yes.
"No," you sigh. "That's just how he is."
When you approach him at the gates, it's with raised eyebrows. "What is it, Toshi?"
You frown. "I was talking to my friends…" When he doesn't seem to understand, you look away. "You can leave on your own, y'know. You don't have to wait for me every day."
He shakes his head. "Mom says we're too young to be walking home alone. I'm supposed to stay with you."
You turn away so he doesn't see how you roll your eyes. "Okay, fine." You start to walk away, but he sticks his hand out in front of you.
"We're supposed to hold hands."
Your face burns, because there's a group of boys walking past laughing at you. Their teasing 'ooh's are impossible to miss, and one of them even says 'yeah, Y/n, hold Toshi's hand'. You grit your teeth, eyes flying up to Ushijima's.
"That was just something our moms said. We don't actually have to."
He shakes his head again. He loves doing that to you. "I have to keep you safe. You could get taken when I'm not looking." When you only glare at him, he tilts his head. "What's the problem? We did it yesterday."
"I thought that-"
"And the day before-"
"No, I know. I thought-"
"And the day before-"
"I know. I'm just sayi-"
"And the day before-"
"Stop!" You stomp your foot, snatching his hand out of mid-air and dragging him through the gates. "Let's just go!"
He doesn't say anything else, quiet as you lead him down the familiar neighborhood streets. At an intersection, you start to cross, still angry, and then you're yanked back to the sidewalk.
A car speeds past right at the moment that you would have been in the road.
"See?" Ushijima says. "This is why we hold hands, too. I have to keep you safe."
You throw his hand down roughly. "Stop mocking me! I was only about to cross because I was distracted by how angry I was-"
He just takes your hand again. "I know. More reason to hold hands."
You're silent, letting him lead the way as you try to process how someone can be so stubborn.
"You don't have to take everything so seriously," you finally say, quiet and contemplative. "The kids at school are teasing us because you're always so serious about me."
He turns his head slightly but doesn't fully look at you. "What's wrong with being serious about you?"
You try not to let your blush show. "Nothing. Nevermind."
The rest of the walk home is silent, your head rattled with thoughts of confusion and the inability to understand him.
When you get to your neighboring homes, he lets you go. But before you enter your gates, he clears his throat.
"Y/n."
You stop, turning back to him. Tired, because this feeling of frustration is common around him.
He's staring right at you. "I have practice tomorrow. Wait for me."
You scoff. "I'm not waiting two extra hours, Toshi. I'll just-"
"Wait for me. Please."
You frown, your mouth twisting up and your pout emerging. Because you know you will, no matter how much you gripe about it.
He takes your silence exactly as it is, nodding and starting to walk away.
"Wakatoshi."
It stresses you out when he stares at you like that. It always feels like he's mad at you, even if you know he's not.
You swallow. "Thank you. For earlier."
He just blinks. "I told you. I have to keep you safe."
"You don't, Toshi-"
"I do." He holds out. "I do."
You stare at each other. There's a feeling in your chest that you always get with him. A knot that you can't untie, no matter how hard you try.
You get the feeling that only he can.
—
High school isn't any better.
He becomes something of a legend in the world of high-school volleyball, and you become something of an Ushijima Whisperer to anyone who wishes to understand him. Despite how many times you say that he's a lost cause even to you.
Your time in middle school spent waiting around for his practices to be over carries on to high school, your disgruntled presence lingering on the sidelines until Washijo finally points a wrinkled finger in your face and declares you manager.
You tend to just fall into roles whenever it concerns Ushijima Wakatoshi. Tend to fall into place, wherever he makes room for you.
The dating rumors are both expected and baffling, because you can't possibly fathom how someone could see your dynamic with him and assume it's anything but hopeless.
He's already grown into a boy of few words, his teammates learning his limited communication like a mystical code. But with you, he's worse.
Where Semi will comfortably offer help setting up the nets, easy conversation flowing between you, Ushijima prefers taking the poles from you wordlessly, barely a glance spared in your direction while he talks to someone else. You always end up snatching them back, ignoring the single, dark brow he raises in response.
Where Goshiki will bow deep and thank you repeatedly for things that are objectively your job, Ushijima tends to take the towel and water bottle from your hand with only an examining stare, one that feels far too much like a glare. You're quick to glare back.
Where Satori is playful and teasing when he begs for help with his finger wraps, Ushijima only barks your name from across the room, the request unsaid. He only holds out his hand and the tape when you stomp up to him, and you feel when he just stares down at the top of your head while you wrap his fingers, grumbling the whole time. He always manages to find something to silently critique when it happens, his free hand tugging on strands of your hair and fixing them, as though there was anything wrong to begin with.
There is no world in which you can understand how people think you're dating him.
Except for the instances, more common than you're comfortable admitting, when he says or does something that leaves you confused without fail.
Where Semi can get a bit heated, kicking things over when he messes up and not realizing that it's you who has to pick it up, Ushijima is almost always the one to do it, his sharp eyes finding Semi's so fast that you barely have time to be upset about the mess before the boy is at your side with an apology.
Where Goshiki can be a bit zealous, overshooting his spikes and sending the ball spinning right at your head, Ushijima always appears at the very last moment, his hand or back in your face as he takes the full force of the hit with no more than a quiet grunt. It's always over before you even register that you should've been afraid, and he's always gone before you can think to thank him.
Where Satori can overstep your boundaries — a joke taken too far, a playful squeeze of your cheeks or ruffle of your hair on a day that you're really not in the mood — Ushijima is a towering shadow, an unseen glare sending Satori away whistling or a hand wrapped tight around the boy's wrist, dislodging it without a word. You're never able to figure out how Ushijima had noticed your mood before anyone else.
Unsurprisingly, he drops one last confusing moment in your hands the night that you graduate — the night before he leaves the country for college in America.
—
The walk home is silent, just like almost every walk home before it. You turn your diploma over and over in your hands, not really examining it at all. Just listening to the silence, his footsteps matching the rhythm of yours.
You feel strange. You've been feeling it for months, ever since he'd announced he'd be leaving. It's exactly the same now as it had been then. Satori had joked at the time that you must be excited to have your shadow gone, but that excitement had never come. You'd only felt the tug of that knot, the one that had sat in your chest from the moment you'd realized Ushijima Wakatoshi was permanent.
The knot hurts now. It hurts a lot, so much that you can't find your voice. Silenced, same as the part of your brain that wants to celebrate the freedom.
Your gate looms ahead, and you realize that this is it. He leaves at three in the morning, so this really is it. You're not sure where you'll be — who you'll be — when he comes home in four years. If he comes home.
You stop in front of your gate, staring down at the metal and feeling the creak of the neighboring gate as he pushes it open. Feel the creak in your throat, right under that knot.
But then it stops.
When you look up, he's looking back at you. Waiting. He doesn't ask what's wrong, but you hear the question deep in the pit of your stomach — in the way he blinks down at you, in the way his hand slides off of his own gate. In the way he says your name, only ever that. Nothing else.
"Y/n."
Your eyes burn. It's too late to be realizing that you might feel lost without him, after so long of wishing for exactly that.
"Wakatoshi."
He tilts his head. You only say his name like that —
"Cut it out, Toshi!"
"Jesus, you scared the fuck out of me, Toshi."
"I'm serious, Toshi, you're pissin' me off!"
"Thank you, Wakatoshi. For earlier."
— when something doesn't feel right. When you don't feel right.
"Will you come back?"
He doesn't know where the question comes from. You know that, because you're unsure, too.
"Yes," he says plainly. "I have to."
You lift your brows. "You have to? I'm sure any country would kill to have you-"
"But you won't be in 'any country'," he cuts you off. "You'll be here."
You have no idea what that means. "So?"
He doesn't answer you, asking his own question instead. "What will you do at Tokyo? Communications?"
You'd certainly considered it. "I think so. They have a strong department."
"What will you do with it?"
You warm, not wanting to answer. You'd had the feeling for a while, but you hadn't said it aloud.
As usual, he waits you out. Eventually, you sigh.
"I was thinking about PR."
The only signal he gives that he's surprised is the shift of his weight, the slight widening of his eyes before they fall flat again. "For volleyball."
It's not a question.
"For volleyball," you echo anyway. "But, you never answered-"
"I go where you go," he says. Like it's a fact. Not a possibility, a fact.
"What-" you laugh. "What're you saying? That you'll be back just to work with me?" When he only nods, you laugh again. "How are you going to make that happen, Toshi? You don't know what team I'll be working for. What if they're not the right fit-"
"I go where you go." He puts his hand back on the gate. This conversation is over. "Always."
You furrow your brow, frustration growing when you realize that this is really it. He pushes the gate open, and you stumble forward, suddenly upset beyond comprehension.
He's eighteen, and you're eighteen, too. You might never see him again.
"Wakatoshi."
He turns, surprise flying across his face and a grunt leaving him, because you're throwing your weight against his, arms tight around his neck.
There's something you want to say — but it's trapped under the knot. You can't get it out.
He's unmoving for a moment, and you think that's it, so you start to pull away.
His palms press against your back, pulling you back to him. They drop to your waist, his diploma clattering to the ground as he hoists you up and belts his arms tight around you. You wrap your legs around his waist, and he keeps you there. Keeps you safe.
The knot loosens slightly.
You suck in a breath, taking the chance.
"You don't have to come back. You shouldn't, if it's not what's right for you," you choke out. "But if you do, I'll be-"
The knot tightens.
-here.
-waiting.
You swallow around it, eyes pricking with tears.
Your shadow's hard to get rid of, it seems.
"Okay."
He lowers you to the ground gently, arms sliding away from you as he steps back. There's a look in his eye that you can't place, but that frown is familiar. You cling to it, remembering yourself.
"Okay," you whisper. "Be safe."
He watches you a moment and then nods, turning on his heel and disappearing into his house.
Something taps against your foot. His diploma. You pick it up, examining the tube that matches yours, his name etched along the side.
You carry it inside, laying it on your desk beside yours.
—
You don't speak to him for four years.
When your PR classes use examples of news coverage from volleyball, professors gravitate to Ushijima Wakatoshi. You keep tabs on him through a screen. Learn about him, through the eyes of someone who doesn't know him the way you know him.
The boy next door. Your shadow, up until the day he left.
You graduate, twenty-two now. His diploma still sits next to yours in a box, remembering when he was eighteen.
You interview for and are hired by the Schweiden Adlers as a general PR agent. You train with them for six months, awaiting the day that comes at the end of it when they assign you to a specific player as their personal representative.
—
"Are you excited?" Yachi asks, chewing on the end of a pocky stick. She'd been hired at the same time as you and had quickly become a close friend, but she'd been assigned to Kageyama Tobio the moment he'd been signed on, because he'd requested her. It apparently had been their plan, their friendship strong from high school and the trust between them quite high.
You nod, a warm grin flashing across your face as you take one of the snacks from the box on her desk. "I've been waiting for this day for forever. I'm nervous, though."
"Why?" she whines dramatically. "This is a momentous day!"
"I know," you whine back, her energy infectious as ever. "But what if I don't get along with him?"
"Of course you will!" she argues. "I have the best time ever!"
You roll your eyes. "That's because it's Kageyama. He's, like, your closest friend."
She leans forward, her eyes sparkling. "Exactly. It's Kageyama. I know you know what a pain in the ass he is with public matters." She's not wrong, you think. "If I can do it, then you can, too."
Your computer lets out a soft ding, your email refreshing and reloading with a new message. You both lean forward, seeing the words 'player assignment' and 'conference room' in the preview.
Yachi smacks your arm. "It's go time!"
You stand, straightening your pencil skirt and blouse wih a nervous sigh. "Wish me luck," you say, squeezing her arm as you pass.
"You got this!" she calls. "You can do anything!"
"You can do anything, you can do anything, you can do anything," you mumble, repeating it the entire walk to the conference room.
When you push the door open, you plaster a PR-approved smile on your face.
It falls.
He's twenty-two now, too. It's the first thing you notice.
Bigger, taller, broader. Older.
His frown is the same, though.
"Y/n!" your manager says, standing from the table, where he'd been sitting beside Ushijima. The man beams down at you, grabbing you by the shoulders and leading you to where Wakatoshi's sitting. "Say hello to our newest recruit, the one and only Ushijima Wakatoshi! Isn't this amazing?"
Ushijima's got his eyes trained on the spot where your manager grabs you. You know he'll figure out soon that the man is too touchy, too close to the female PR agents all the time. But he doesn't need to know it now, especially because you can see his jaw shifting.
He's annoyed.
You can still read him.
"H-Hi."
His eyes fly up to yours, his expression relaxing. He stands from his seat, and you feel your head tip back as he towers over you. It's been so long that you'd forgotten.
He's twenty-two now, too.
"Y/n."
Your name, nothing else.
Your eyes water. His smile is almost unnoticeable, in his eyes more than anything else.
"Hi," you whisper back, just as dumb as before.
Your manager glances between you. "Oh, you know each other!" The man examines you closer, in a way he never has before. "I didn't realize that." He examines Ushijima now. "I see why you requested her."
You don't say what he's actually thinking.
I see why you chose us, even though you had six other teams fighting for you.
"Well," your manager says, clapping his hands together. "Shall we get to the details of the assignment?"
You sit beside Ushijima, flustered by every movement he makes. Flustered by the way he sips his water, listening plainly while your manager explains your role in his career. Flustered by the way his body heat radiates off of him and washes over you. Flustered by the way he shifts in his seat every so often, his knee bumping against yours.
"Y/n, you are expected to remain available for Ushijima 24/7. This means leaving your phone on at all times and answering calls and texts in a timely manner." The list of responsibilities is being read to you off a script, but you know exactly what this assignment entails.
Be with Ushijima at all times, except when he's at practice.
Answer all of Ushijima's calls, even in the middle of the night.
Making Ushijima look as good as possible, tracking fan opinions online and negotiating with news outlets on his behalf.
Maintain a professional relationship with Ushijima, at all costs.
For some reason, that last part doesn't feel possible.
"Any questions?"
You blink, meeting your manager's eyes and then Ushijima's. He's shaking his head, and you know that's all you'll get from him.
"No," you say quietly. "I understand."
"Okay, then," your manager says, standing and shaking Ushijima's hand. You stay seated, staring at the table like an idiot. "Welcome to the team. I'll leave you two to get acquainte-er… re-acquainted."
The moment he's gone, you're being yanked out of your seat by a hand wrapped around your bicep.
He feels the same, arms belting around your waist and hoisting you up.
You don't wrap your legs around his waist this time, but you refuse to admit it's only because your pencil skirt won't let you.
You bury your face against his throat, breathing him in.
He feels the same.
"Hi," he says, his voice bass-y and echoing through your bones.
The knot hasn't felt this tight since that night.
"Put me down," you croak. "This is unprofessional."
"I don't care." He talks a little differently now.
You don't. "I do. Put me down."
He sets you on your feet gently, hands on your waist gentler.
"I wasn't expecting you," you admit. "I thought you'd choose a different team."
He tilts his head. You miss reading him like this.
"I thought I was clear that night."
He was. You just hadn't let yourself hold onto it.
"Was this the right fit for you?"
His eyes flick between yours. "Yes." He nods. "Yes."
You don't know if you believe him, but you don't ask again.
"When did you get back?"
"Two days ago."
You laugh and shake your head. Of course he did. "Where are you living?" When he tells you the address, you stare up into his face, deadpan. "Are you stalking me?" He blinks, confused. You sigh. "That's next door to me."
He stares. And then he laughs, a scoff pressed against his fist as he turns away.
You've never heard him laugh before.
"That was an accident. I promise."
You just sigh, trying not to laugh yourself. "Are you all moved in? Do you need anything?"
"… Lunch?"
"We can't," you say, pursing your lips. "We can't be seen together like that. It's too casual."
He frowns. "Kageyama and his PR agent get lunch together all the time."
You don't know how to tell him it's different. This is different. "I dunno, Toshi…"
"You have to accommodate all of my requests, right?"
The roll of your eyes makes him smile, almost unnoticeable again. "Whatever," you grumble. "Let's just go."
—
It's easy to fall back into line with him, wherever he makes room for you.
You help him finish moving into his place, providing paparrazzi with the professional answers you'd concocted so that you're allowed to be this close to him. This close to him, even though players and their agents typically aren't.
"Ushijima has just returned to Japan from the United States. He is adjusting to home life, and as his agent, I am assisting in that process."
"No, we did not plan to live next door to one another. Yes, it is indeed a happy coincidence — I believe this will allow me to perform efficiently in this role, as I will be able to better assist him in his transition to the Adlers."
"Yes, we have known each other since childhood. No, it did not in any way impact his decision to join us, nor did it influence my employment with the Schweiden Adlers. Life is funny like that, wouldn't you agree?"
Ushijima always watches, eyes trained on the side of your face while you talk to the press that lingers outside his house.
His apartment is a carbon copy of yours, and you find yourself accidentally arranging furniture and decorations the same way. He simply lets you, adding his own touches in the spaces you leave — where you make room for him.
He trains incessantly, just as he had in high school, so you find yourself at the office a lot, your phone propped up so you can see the moment he texts or calls.
[1:07 PM]
Toshi: PT at 2
You: okay. need me?
Toshi: no.
[10:27 AM]
Toshi: scrimmage at 4
You: where?
Toshi: [location attached]
You: okay. need me?
Toshi: no.
[4:49 PM]
Toshi: paparazzi wont let me get to my car
You: omw
Toshi: no.
You: ????
Toshi: handled it. just lyk.
You: why am i getting back to back calls from different magazines, wakatoshi.
Toshi: handled it.
You: you broke a camera???
Toshi: yes.
You: dont do it again.
Toshi: okay.
[5:19 AM]
Toshi: why didn't you pick up my call.
You: IM SLEEPING YOU FREAK.
You: WHAT DO YOU WANT.
Toshi: going to the corner store. out of protein powder.
You: OKAY. DO YOU NEED ME.
Toshi: no.
You: im gonna kill u.
There's a large part of you that wants to hate it. Hate him. Because your days consist of this, of the constant messaging and the constant calling and the constant contact, despite never needing anything from you. But there's another part of you — three, and then ten, and then eighteen — that knows this back and forth very well. Missed it, even. And it grows as the weeks go on, the chaos evening out and your days melting into something akin to normal.
And then he ruins it, about six weeks into this new routine.
—
You groan, rolling over in your bed and reaching for the bedside table. Your phone is ringing — not just vibrating, because you have to keep your phone on at all times — and you know exactly who it is.
"What?" you grumble, eyes still closed.
"Were you sleeping?"
You pull your phone from your ear, checking the time. "It's three in the morning, Toshi." When he doesn't respond, you bite out an answer to his question. "Yes. I was sleeping."
"Oh. Okay. Goodnight."
"Wh-"
He hangs up.
You stare at the ceiling, wondering if the world would know it was you if he happens to be dead in the morning.
You call him back. He picks up after two rings.
"Hello?"
"What do you want?"
"Oh. Nothing."
You take a deep breath. "Then why did you call me?"
"You called me."
You could kill him. They wouldn't know. You'd find a way. "Wakatoshi."
It's silent on the other end for a moment. "I can't sleep."
He doesn't say anything else. You know what he's asking, but it feels strange, because he's never asked this particular question before.
You don't know what to do about the nervous flip of your stomach, the shiver that flies down your spine.
You swallow around the knot. "If I get caught coming over there, there's going to be a scandal."
"… Okay. That's okay." He hangs up.
That should be it. That should be the end of it.
So then why are you already out of bed and shoving on a pair of slippers? Why are you wrapping a robe around yourself and grabbing your keys?
It's easy to avoid the streetlights, easy to snake around the side and approach the back door instead of the front. Too easy, in fact. Easy to do, easy to repeat.
He's already at the door when you arrive, almost like he'd known you would come anyway, despite the risk.
You want to hate him. You used to.
For now, you just push past him and pad silently to his bedroom, your shoes and robe left at the door. You sit at the edge of his bed, bouncing your knee anxiously, and look around, making sure the curtains are closed and there's no way to see into the room. Ushijima presses the door closed quietly with his back, leaning against it and peering down at you.
You should ask why he's requesting this of you. You've never been this way — never done this kind of thing together. You wonder if anyone else could have read what he needed, the way that you did. If anyone else could be in this situation, locked in a lifelong game of confusion and understanding, silent all the way to the end.
You're not sure anyone else could do the things you're willing to do for Ushijima Wakatoshi.
He watches you carefully, eyes tracing your face and examining your expression. You stare back, knee bouncing and ears ringing and nerves flipping over and over in the pit of your stomach, because you know you should ask but you don't want to. You know you should question this, question him about why he thinks he's allowed to ask this of you.
You know you should hate him. You used to.
But you don't question it. And he doesn't explain.
He just crosses the room in two steps and then pulls you to your feet. Hoists you up. Belts his arms around your waist. Says nothing of the fact that you're trembling in his arms, that your legs are trembling when they wrap around him.
He lowers you to the mattress carefully, laying you down and laying himself over you. Adjusting so he doesn't crush you, but laying himself over you nonetheless.
The sigh he lets out when he finds a spot that works for him is audible, but only because of the spot he'd chosen — body half-covering yours, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding up your spine and palm pressing between your shoulder blades. Face buried in your neck, breath grazing the shell of your ear, hair fanning out over your cheek and lips. Heart racing, felt through his chest and against yours.
He doesn't ask if this is okay, but the twitch of his fingers on your body tells you he's nervous.
You hate being able to read him this well. Part of you wishes you could go back to not understanding. To confusion.
But you do. You do understand him. And maybe that's because you've spent so long around him. Or maybe it's because you feel the same way.
Maybe that's why you finally wrap your arms around him, too. One hand pressed between his shoulder blades, admitting silently that it's okay to hold each other like this. The other curled into the hair at the base of his neck, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. Admitting that it's okay for him to shiver and sigh against your throat, because you say nothing when he does exactly that.
He falls asleep within minutes. Part of you wonders if he ever had any sleeping issues at all, but the rest of you knows that he wouldn't lie, not to you. That there's something happening here that he can't name and that you choose not to.
His alarm goes off at 5am.
You groan quietly but let your hands fall away from him, because you know it's time for him to go on his morning run. When he rolls over to turn the alarm off, you start to rise, disheveled and exhausted but ready to go back to your apartment.
You're not ready for the hand, large and sleep-warm, to flatten against your chest and press you back into the mattress gently. You blink once, twice, and then turn to look at him. He's already wrapping himself around you again, the rest of him just as sleep-warm.
"Toshi?" you mumble, confused but your arms circling him again, anyway.
He just grunts, pulling you close. Your nerves jump, because his lips are skimming your throat when he whispers "comfortable" in response.
"Don't you have to go?" When he shakes his head, you swallow. "Why?"
"You won't be here when I get back."
You wonder if he can feel the way your heart races.
He nudges his nose against your pulse point.
He can definitely feel it.
You turn your head away, trying to put some distance between you, but he just slides his palm against your jaw and brings you back to him.
You feel like you're suffocating. The knot is too tight again.
"Just one more hour," he mumbles. "Just one."
You blink rapidly up at the ceiling, streaks of sunlight bleeding across your vision. You don't understand. You never understand. And yet, you're still here.
It hurts to realize that life with Ushijima will continue to be this. Confusion and understanding, an endless cycle.
It hurts to realize that you want it this badly.
—
"I don't know," you groan, walking beside Yachi at a snail's pace. She grabs you by the arm, dragging you along the hall of the Adlers' gym. You're on your way to a press meeting, where you and the other agents will stand along the side of the room and step in if necessary.
"I know you don't know," she giggles, lowering her voice and making sure none of your co-workers can hear. "But he asked you to sleep in his bed and then broke his own discipline to stay in bed." She grips you tighter. "And you let him." When your face warms, she beams at you. "He likes you. And you're not innocent, either."
"I thoroughly reject that idea," you argue. "I can't afford to have that thought floating around in my head. That's the fastest way to get fired. I need my job-"
"Oh, fuck the job," she whispers fervently. "You can figure out how to sneak around." When you glare at her, she grows more excited. "You've been friends for twenty years. Your relationship comes first."
You don't answer her, just letting yourself be dragged into the press room and against the wall.
When the Adlers enter the room, their coach leading, your eyes scan for him. He's next to Kageyama, who's equally stoic and disinterested as they take their seats. The younger man glances at the line of agents, and you watch him find Yachi. She drags her thumb across her throat in an obvious threat, and he has to cover his mouth with a hand to hide his grin. When you give her a wild look, she shrugs.
"He's been running into trouble with etiquette and tact recently. I told him to be nice today or he'd catch a knife when he's not looking."
You huff out a laugh, turning back to the players.
Ushijima's eyes are already on you.
The memory of his body heat isn't even a week old.
You don't have time to wonder if you have feelings for him. You don't have time to think about this at all. So you turn away, keeping your attention on the introduction that the coach is making.
The press conference lasts an hour, the team's overall strategy discussed and then different players asked about their private marketing and sponsorship responsibilities.
A reporter from a small paper stands when he's called on. "For Ushijima Wakatoshi, please." You straighten, your PR mode locked onto the interaction. Ushijima's eyes flick to you and then back, and he nods once. "We hear that you've been selected for the next cover of Japan's Hottest."
You're both familiar with it. His photoshoot for next month's issue is in two hours. Ushijima leans into the mic.
"That's correct." He glances at you, so you gesture that he should say more. "It's an honor."
You bite back a laugh. You highly doubt he cares about any of it.
The reporter nods. "Are you excited about what doors it could open for you?"
Doors? It's a thirst trap magazine to showcase Japan's sexiest athletes, and no one's exactly surprised that Ushijima's next on the list, especially given his recent return.
You meet his eyes again. It's clear he's thinking the same thing. Still, you nod encouragingly, and he echoes the nod in the reporter's direction.
"Yes."
You sigh and write 'work on media presence' on your ipad, in the margin next to his schedule for the day.
The reporter glances back at you, as do several others, because he hasn't been subtle in any way about needing your help.
"Er, one last question," the reporter says. Ushijima just nods. "How has adjusting to life with the Adlers been? Are you and your PR agent getting on alright?"
Your eyes widen, and you're suddenly panicking about what he could possibly say.
He leans into the mic, blinking emptily. "Y/n is my best friend. Always has been. Life with the Adlers is good."
You stare at him, frozen in place and only able to recover before the cameras start flashing because Yachi's elbowing you hard.
The reporters all try to ask follow-up questions, but you're shaking your head aggressively at Ushijima, so he just leans back in his seat and looks to his coach. The older man manages to corral them after a few moments, and the conference continues without incident.
Only when you get in the back of a car with Ushijima does he finally speak to you.
"Did I say something wrong?"
You just stare straight ahead, your own reflection clear in the divider between the driver and yourselves. "No, Toshi. That was fine."
"The reporters reacted strongly."
"The rumors will start," you say, sighing. "That's all."
"What rumors?"
When you turn to him, you find that he's actually confused, looking to you for answers because he's never been good at this. At people.
"The dating rumors, Toshi."
You watch in real time as he understands, dissociates, and then flushes — his face starts to burn, heat flooding his cheeks and ears, and all he does is stare right through you.
"Oh," he finally says, turning away.
The drive to his photoshoot is completely silent.
—
The stylists at Japan's Hottest have gotten wind of how things went at the press conference. You'd known it would get out quickly, but you're unprepared for the playful side glances from the hair stylist and the meaningful lift of the makeup artist's eyebrows.
You sit in the corner while Ushijima is dragged through the ringer — outfit changes, photoshoot, hair and makeup changes, photoshoot, more outfit changes, more photoshoot.
You're in the corner for three hours, working silently on your laptop and watching him get pulled this way and that.
Until, in what can only be an intentional maneuver, the shoot director enters the makeup room and claps his hands a few times.
"Okay, everyone," he says. "Great work so far — only one more concept!"
You frown at your ipad. There's still time left for one concept shoot, but you only have four shoots on the schedule, not five.
He doesn't look at you, but you feel that this is targeted. "Ushijima, let's get you in something a little more revealing. I'd like to do a lipstick montage."
You stare at the director, putting his words together slowly. A what?
Ushijima just looks at you, almost like he's checking if this is right. You clear your throat, standing and smoothing out your slacks while you approach. "Excuse me. How revealing are we talking here? I'm not sure Ushijima would be comfortable with anything below the belt."
The director looks you over, a smile spreading across your face. "Did Ushijima tell you that?"
You don't know how to tell him that speaking isn't necessary between the two of you. "I know my player well."
If Ushijima didn't want you to see how he shifts in his seat when you say 'my player', he fails.
The director only beams down at you. "Okay, then. Nothing below the belt. But since you know him so well…"
Uh, oh.
"Why don't you do the lipstick stains for him?"
"What?" you say right away, blinking and looking around. "Why me? Can't the makeup artis-"
That woman is conveniently needed in another room at precisely this moment, just smiling at you in a way that is way too guilty.
In fact, everyone is conveniently needed elsewhere, the room emptying suspiciously fast.
The director's the last one left. He smiles down at you, far too pleased for your liking. "That's that, then! Choose a nice, deep red, okay?" He starts to leave, turning on his heel at the door. "Don't forget the lips!"
The slam of the door echoes off the walls.
You stare at it, barely noticing when Ushijima gets up and crosses the room.
"I think these are the clothes."
You turn, ears ringing and face burning. He's holding a white button-down and a pair of jeans.
"Okay," you say hollowly. "Get changed, I guess."
You try not to focus on the sound of him stripping behind the privacy screen, staring down at the many tubes of lipstick on the vanity. You stare so long that you don't even notice when he finishes, only rebooting your brain when his arm reaches past you.
"I like this one," he says quietly, the bass of his voice shaking your nerves. He plucks a dark red lipstick from the set, placing it gently in your palm.
You take a shaky breath. "Okay." Then you turn.
He's too close.
You jump, bumping against the vanity in your unconscious scramble to put space between you. He takes a step back, examining you.
His shirt is buttoned to the top and his jeans are high on his hips. You lament the fact that you're going to have to fix this.
"You have to leave it open," you say, gesturing for him to unbutton his shirt while you turn to the mirror and start to smooth the red tint over your lips. You watch him undo it, forcing your eyes not to linger on the broad expanse of his chest and the lines of his abdomen, the ones that speak of discipline and a very serious excercise regimen.
You try especially hard not to stare at the two lines that converge under the band of his jeans — the lines that are shaped like a V and accented by the strip of dark hair that runs between them.
You press your lips together to spread the lipstick around, refusing to admit that your mouth is watering.
When you straighten, breathing shakily, he's already watching you in the mirror. You turn, trying to look as aloof as possible when you examine him.
Unfortunately, you know what the director wants. What people will want to see when next month's cover drops.
You sigh, stepping toward him. "These need to be lower," you mumble, hooking your fingers through his belt loops and ignoring when the muscles of his abdomen jump in surprise. You tug on his jeans, tug until the band of his underwear sits just under his hip bones and the jeans sit even lower.
When you glance at his face, there's a light blush sitting comfortably there.
"Now what?" he asks, his voice huskier than before.
You try your damn hardest to seem completely normal when you say—
"Now I kiss you."
Ushijima says nothing, just swallowing hard and looking away, his nod almost shy.
"Uhm," you start, looking around. "Okay. Sit here." You guide him to the vanity, forcing him to lean down onto it. "You're too tall."
He's still tall when he sits like this, and his legs are spread wide enough for you to step between them in a way that makes you feel funny.
"Okay," you breathe, more to yourself than to him. "Ready?"
He just nods again.
You place your hands on his chest and lean in, pressing your lips to his cheek.
He inhales hard, body shifting.
The next goes to his nose, and the next to his jaw.
When you press your lips to his throat, right over his pulse, he huffs out weakly. You feel a tug, realizing with a racing heart that he's hooked his fingers into the loops of your slacks, anchoring himself to you.
You keep going, mouth on each of his collarbones, over his heart, and down the planes of his chest. He's starting to breathe hard, his muscles twitching sporadically and his fingers holding tight to you.
When you drop to your knees to be able to get to his torso, his body jerks suddenly, and a sound falls past his lips.
Your brain goes blank, because Ushijima Wakatoshi's just moaned under his breath at the sight of you on your knees.
You stare at his stomach for a moment, watching it rise and fall sharply, and then your eyes flick up.
His face is burning red, and his eyes are glazed over, and he's looking down his nose at you like he's never looked at you before.
"Toshi?" you whisper. He curls his hands into tight fists, nails scratching on his jeans, and shuts his eyes.
"'m okay."
You can't catch your breath. "I don't think you are-"
"Keep going," he bites out, voice tense and strained. "Please."
Your hands find his thighs and you're sitting high on your knees before you even realize it's happening.
When your lips touch his abs, his fingers find your head, curling into your hair tight. Your heart pounds in your chest, your ears, your throat — everywhere.
The knot urges you to keep going. Tugs you down, down, down.
Your fingers curl into the band of his underwear, pulling it just low enough that a lipstick mark would peek out, right about—
You press your lips under his navel, just next to that patch of dark hair that's been on your mind this whole time.
"Ah, fuck-" He grips your hair tighter and keeps your mouth against his skin.
A shock of electricity washes over the crown of your head, turning your brain to static before flying down your spine. He's never sworn like that before. He's never sworn at all, actually.
When you pull away — when he lets you pull away — your face is burning and your ears are ringing and you can't feel your feet or your hands. And he looks exactly the same.
His chest heaves while he catches his breath, and he can only look down at you for a few seconds before his eyes are closing again and his head is leaning back against the mirror.
You stand, limbs numb and skin tingling.
"I-I have to-" You can't get it out. You can't say it.
He cracks his eyes open, gazing at you with a glazed-over expression, cheeks burning the most beautiful shade of pink.
He drops his eyes to your lips. "Okay."
The sound of his voice makes you shiver.
You step a little closer, tugging him by the open flaps of his shirt until he sits up, face right in front of yours.
"Stay still," you whisper. He just nods, eyelashes fluttering.
You cup his cheeks and lean in.
His lips are softer than you'd expected.
He listens to direction, staying perfectly still while you press the lipstick to his mouth. But he's breathing hard and his nails are scratching on his jeans again, and you're becoming lightheaded by the realization that this is happening.
This is happening.
You pull back, refusing to meet his eyes and just staring down at his mouth. A perfect imprint of your lips is plastered there, right on his.
It affects you more than you thought it would.
You take a single step back, panting. "Okay. I think you're-"
He wraps a hand around your wrist, yanking you back in.
The knot loosens.
Falls.
You melt into him, letting him do as he pleases. He tangles his fingers in your hair, holding you steady and pressing his lips hard against yours. His other hand finds your waist, dragging you close until you're draped over him.
You cling uselessly to him, tilting your head however he wants and pressing your body to his like he wants and opening your mouth when his tongue swipes along your lips, just like he wants. When his tongue slides across yours, you whimper his name and dig your nails into his thighs, overcome with desire.
With the need for more of him, because nothing has ever been enough for you. Not once in twenty years.
He grunts when your nails hurt, and suddenly you're being lifted and turned, your butt dropped on the vanity and your legs pried open by his. He towers over you, hands on the table on either side of you, and you can do nothing but wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer.
He grabs your thighs, his hands big and warm and strong, and pulls them around his waist, stepping right up to you and lining his hips up flush with yours.
He's hard. You moan into his mouth, and he knows why.
The roll of his hips into yours makes you tremble, your breath choked out into his mouth when you whimper his name.
"Toshi," you try, nerves flipping over and over in your stomach. "We have to stop-" He jerks his hips forward, and you're embarrassed at the moan that falls out. "Please, Toshi. We can't do this here-"
"Need you," he breathes, and you're reminded of all the times, over all these weeks, that you've asked if he needed you and he's said no. He's said no, even though you know sometimes he really could have used your help.
He says it now. It scares you, because he must really mean it this time.
"Not-nngh-" He's pulling you closer, the bulge of jeans hitting that special spot you've been trying to avoid. "Not here, Toshi. Please."
There's a knock at the door.
Your blood freezes in your body.
You shove him back, watching as he barely moves, just staring down at you with heated eyes.
"Everything okay in there?" the director calls, and you can hear the smug edge in his voice.
Ushijima Wakatoshi has lipstick smeared all over his mouth.
You scramble off the vanity, searching for the tube of lipstick. "Y-Yes! He's almost done!" You snatch it off of the ground and turn to him, scrubbing your thumb across his mouth until the smudges are gone. And then you rush to put more lipstick on, your fingers trembling.
He stares down at you the entire time, eyes trained on your lips.
You pinch his arm, whispering "get it together" when he just lifts his brows, still distracted. And then you rise onto your tiptoes, pressing your lips hard against his.
It's still just as hard to pull away, even with someone waiting outside.
"Go," you urge, untangling yourself from the tight grip he has on you. "Go, Wakatoshi."
He listens this time, if only because you'd used his full name, and turns to leave.
You slump into the nearest chair once he's gone, staring down at nothing.
—
You avoid him.
You're not ashamed to admit that.
You avoid him, even though he calls and texts and knocks on your door at two in the morning. When the paparazzi ask if you've fought, he says no and that you're just not feeling well and he's worried. You feel relief, because he understands. Despite how confusing he is, he understands that this is important.
That this is between you and him and no one else.
Still, you avoid him.
For a week, you avoid him.
And then the Adlers win a game, and the coach calls for celebration and invites everyone to a new club that's just opened in town.
You have to go. It's your job.
—
"You can't stick by me the whole time!" Yachi yells in your ear.
"Yes, I can!" you yell back.
"I agree with Yachi!"
You turn, glaring up at Kageyama. He sips on his fruity cocktail, pleased with himself.
"Go away!"
"No!"
You bare your teeth at him, growling like a trapped animal. He just laughs in your face.
Yachi groans, tugging you close. "You have to talk to him! You guys humped in a dressing room like teenagers with ten years of pent up sexual energy. You can't avoid him!"
Your face burns, and you glance up at Kageyama. He looks just as embarrassed as you.
"Shut up, Kageyama."
His eyes are wide, offended. "I didn't even say anything!"
Yachi pushes his arm. "Go away, it's girl time!"
He narrows a glare at her, leaning down to match her height. "Fine," he says, his tone evil. "But I'm going to stand with Ushijima."
He's gone before you can pounce on him in a rage.
"Oh, my god," you whine, face buried in your hands. "I'm so done for. The world is gonna find out, and I'm gonna lose my job, and all his fans are going to send me death threats and egg my car-"
"Stop," Yachi says, shaking you. "You need to stop worrying about what the world has to say. None of them matter."
"I need a job! I need a career, and no one is going to hire me when they find out what I've done!"
"What have you done, Y/n?" she argues, lifting a single brow. "Fallen in love with the boy next door? Who just happens to be a celebrity athlete?"
You stare. "I'm not in love."
"Yes, you are."
You know you are. You know.
"Y/n, listen to me," she starts, grabbing you by the arms and holding you steady. "You can worry about the press and the fans and your job. But you're going to lose him." She turns you in the direction Kageyama's just gone.
He's standing with Ushijima, their heads bent together as they talk. Ushijima is saying something with a stoic face, but you can tell. You can see it in ways that no one else in this room can. You can tell by how fast his mouth is moving and how he's shifting his weight and how he keeps crossing and uncrossing his arms.
He's stressed. He's stressed and worried and anxious and everything you are, too.
"You're going to lose that boy next door," Yachi says in your ear. "And I don't care how much you complain about him. I know you won't be able to survive that."
Kageyama says something back.
Ushijima's face floods with heat, visible to you even from here. And then his eyes flick across the room, right to yours.
Only you can see how much he doesn't want to lose you, too.
Fuck.
"Okay," you mumble. "Okay."
She squeezes you. "Go get him." And then she giggles. "And try not to get caught."
You get the feeling she's not talking about holding hands.
Things haven't been that simple since you were ten.
Your feet carry you across the room, but you don't move toward him. You drift off to the side, toward a long hallway that can only lead somewhere more private than this crowded club.
When you meet his eyes, halfway there, you can see he understands. Nothing about his face changes, but you just know.
You should have figured this out years ago.
You shut yourself inside a single-user bathroom, pacing the small room and shaking your hands out. The club music pounds all around you, and you can barely hear yourself think.
He doesn't knock. He just pushes the door open with his shoulder and shoves it closed, leaning back against it and staring down at you, like that night in his bedroom.
The space between you is completely silent. Just muted club music and your breathing, harsh and sharp.
You cross the room in two steps, like he had that night. Push up onto your toes and wrap your hands around his neck, yank him close. Just like he'd done to you less than a week ago.
He tastes like Kageyama's fruity cocktail.
Your back hits the opposite wall, and you're lifted right off your feet, Ushijima's hips pinning you in place.
"I'm sorry," you pant. He just shakes his head. "I shouldn't have avoided you." His hands are everywhere, on your waist and your thighs and the skirt of your dress, shoving it up and out of his way. "Toshi, please-"
"I know," he bites, strained and hoarse. "I know. Just-" He groans when you arch your chest into him and spread your legs wider so he can fit better. "Please."
You shiver, nodding. "Okay," you breathe. "Okay."
When he slips his hand between your legs and tugs your panties to the side, your heart slams against your chest and throat.
Your throat, which hasn't felt the knot tighten in a week.
The press of his tip past your entrance empties you of everything but him and makes you realize you might never feel the knot again.
He'd untied it.
The stretch of your walls around him makes him moan, low and deep into your mouth, and you can only pant out ragged breaths. Your eyes roll back in your head, and your brain fills with static, and the sound of your name falling past his lips yanks you close to the edge, all too fast. When he throbs inside of you, you realize he's right there with you.
All too fast, because this moment is twenty years in the making.
"I'm sorry," he grunts. "I'm close, I'm sorry."
"Me, too," you pant. "Please, Toshi."
He seems embarrassed, because it hasn't even been a minute. It hasn't even been a minute.
He drives his hips up against yours, frantically trying to hold you closer and last longer and show you that this means something to him. But you can't lie, the fact that he's like this is only yanking you closer to the edge, because it means he's desperate, and you've never seen Ushijima Wakatoshi feel desperate about a single thing in his life.
The pieces fall into place.
"What's wrong with being serious about you?"
"I go where you go."
"I thought I was clear that night."
"I can't sleep."
"You won't be here when I get back."
"Y/n is my best friend. Always has been."
"Keep going. Please."
Oh.
Oh.
"I love you, Toshi," you whimper, burying your face in his neck. A sob falls out, and you cling tighter. "I love you."
He shudders, gripping you tighter. "What?"
"I love you," you cry, lifting up to grab him by the face and press your mouth to his. "Wakatoshi."
>>You struggle to pay rent on your limited graduate student salary, and your worst enemy agrees to help you out.
or
You realize you need to find a partner for your faceless porn account, and Akaashi Keiji is the only man who meets all your requirements.<<
series status: complete. ✓
spotify playlist ⇝
the aesthetic ⇝
tags: "grad student by day, porn star by night" akaashi keiji, linguistics phd students akaashiyn, welcome to the one thing i know too much about :')), academic rivals to lovers, smut, fluff, angst, dom!akaashi keiji (DOM AKAASHI SUPREMACY), porn with feelings, akaashi gets yellow-carded in their color consent system but i swear it's not what it looks like, dom/sub dynamics, akaashi's a brat tamer, side pairing kurootsukki <3
a/n: welcome to the 'academic rivals to lovers dom!akaashi keiji' series that's been haunting me for weeks now :) hope you enjoy :)
꒰ 🚲 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 after years of secretly loving mike you finally move on and date someone new, only to discover that mike has a problem with him, and suddenly everything you thought was over isn’t.
IT SHOULD’VE BEEN EASY, YOU THINK SOMETIMES. LOVING HIM.
but it wasn’t. it never has been. because mike wheeler is… dense. painfully, spectacularly, cosmically dense. the kind of boy who could watch you bleed and ask if you tripped. who could stare at you too long, too soft, too much, and then claim he “didn’t notice.” he’s a riddle, and he makes you work for every moment of clarity like it’s something you should feel lucky to receive.
you’ve loved him for as long as you can remember. long before monsters, long before the word “upside down” meant something other than the way he lay on the couch when he was bored. before trauma rearranged both of you into people you barely recognized. back when he was just mike—awkward, loud, too earnest, too stubborn. a boy who talked with his whole body, who defended you with scraped knees and shouted arguments in parking lots, who didn’t know how to say the things he felt so he built entire fortresses out of silence instead.
and god, you tried. you tried to read him the way he reads maps in d&d, looking for patterns, for anything that could mean he cared the way you did. but mike never opens the right doors. or maybe he opens them too late. maybe he doesn’t even realize the doors are there. he’s so used to hiding, to shouldering everything alone, that letting anyone in feels like handing over a weapon.
loving someone like that—someone who keeps himself locked away—it hurts. it hurts because wanting him feels like trying to warm your hands over a fire that won’t stay lit.
you did try to let him go. you swear you did. loving mike wheeler isn’t this soft, fluttery thing people write poems about. its something you have to learn to tuck under your ribs so it doesn’t spill out every time he looks at you with those dark, startled eyes like he wasn’t expecting you to still be there. you learned early that emotions make him skittish. not just yours—everyone’s. if you get too close, too honest, too anything, he recoils. not physically, but in words. sharp ones, sarcastic ones, the kind he regrets immediately but never admits to.
you’ve seen it happen to others, so you never risked it with yourself.
so slowly, you started stepping back. not in some dramatic teenage heartbreak way, but in the soft, invisible ways that actually matter. you sat with different people at lunch, laughing at jokes that weren’t as funny as you pretended. you stopped answering him when he’d radio you. you skipped movie nights twice in a row. you let days pass without seeking him out first.
you told yourself it was self-care, not avoidance. that maybe if you built a life without him woven through every hour of it, the ache would dull. maybe the world would shift its axis just enough that he wouldn’t be the center anymore.
the problem was… hawkins is small. memories are smaller.
how do you let go of someone whose shadow sits in every corner of your childhood? he’s everywhere. in the sunburns from summers at the quarry. in the grass stains on your jeans from bike races he always cheated in. in the smell of wet pavement after storms, because those were the nights he’d sneak out and show up at your window, whispering, “c’mon, you’re not gonna let a little rain stop us.”
he’s in the basement where you learned what loyalty felt like, lights dim, dice clattering, his voice animated and alive in ways you never heard in classrooms or crowded hallways. he’s in the scream you made the first time you saw a demogorgon, and the way his hand grabbed yours so tight it left impressions. he’s in the silence afterward, when none of you slept for days, and he sat on the floor beside your bed, staring at the wall like if he looked away, the world might break again.
mike wheeler has always been a constant. even when he’s cold, even when he’s distant, even when he’s drowning in his own head and dragging everyone with him, you never doubted his heart.
you just doubted that he’d ever let you see all of it.
he has no idea. he has no idea that your voice softens when you say his name. he has no idea that you memorized every version of his smile. he has no idea that half the jokes you make are just attempts to hear him laugh. he has no idea that you still look for him in every crowd, even when you’re trying not to. you’re too scared to hand him the truth. mike doesn’t do confessions. he doesn’t do vulnerable. he doesn’t do cornered, and loving him—wanting him—would corner him more than anything else ever could.
so you learned to swallow the things that mattered. you let him go in all the ways that count.
you didn’t expect it to work.
no one tells you that letting go sometimes means someone else finds the space you cleared. his name’s ryan, one of those effortlessly likeable golden-boy types. varsity soccer, obnoxiously good hair. he laughs easily, listens well, and calls you “dude” when he’s excited. he isn’t complicated. he isn’t haunted. he likes you openly, without fear or hesitation. you liked that. you needed that.
you didn’t expect anything to happen, honestly. but he noticed you. he asked you out. he held your hand in the hallway. he tells you good morning and actually means it. he has no idea that you’ve spent years orbiting someone who never once looked directly at the sun he was pulling toward him. maybe that’s why you said yes. ryan didn’t make your heart ache, he made it rest.
which is how you ended up here, on the old carpet of mike wheeler’s basement, legs crossed, the smell of dust and old soda cans filling the room as you tell the party about your boyfriend. mike sits across from you, half-sunk into the couch, elbows on knees. he hasn’t looked at you since you started talking about him.
dustin’s sitting criss-cross beside you, leaning forward like you’re announcing a secret mission. lucas and max are sharing a beanbag chair. max looks intrigued, lucas looks two seconds from teasing you. “okay,” dustin says. “start over. his name is ryan and… what? he just asked you out? like, randomly? popular ryan?”
you shrug, trying to sound casual. “not randomly. we talked. he’s in my english class. he asked if I wanted to get ice cream after school, and then one date turned into… more dates.”
lucas raises his eyebrows. “popular popular ryan? as in captain-of-the-soccer-team, girls-write-his-name-in-the-bathroom-stall ryan?”
max snorts. “yeah, that one.”
“he’s actually really nice,” you say, and it’s true. your voice comes out softer than you expect. “he’s funny. and he’s good at listening. he remembers stuff I say.”
that last part lands weirdly in the room.
dustin beams. “dude, that’s awesome! I mean—wow. you actually have a boyfriend. and he’s, like, normal.”
max kicks dustin’s ankle. “don’t jinx it.”
lucas nudges you with his foot. “so… you like him? like him like him?”
you feel your cheeks heat a little. “yeah. I do. he makes me feel… I don’t know. good.”
you shouldn’t be looking at him, but even after all these years, your eyes always find mikes even when you don’t mean to. dustin, oblivious, keeps going. “so when do we meet him? we have to meet him! we need to make sure he’s not some jerk pretending to be cool.”
“he’s not a jerk,” you say quickly. “he’s… he treats me really well.”
lucas nods approvingly. “good.”
max smirks. “and is he cute?”
you roll your eyes. “max—”
“what?” she laughs. “I don’t date, I just judge.”
they all laugh except mike. classic mike wheeler, feelings like locked doors. his knee bounces once—sharply—then stops, like he remembered someone might notice. he’s holding a pencil, the eraser dented from where he’s been chewing on it without realizing. he looks small, almost.
you’ve known him too long not to notice when he’s shutting down, even if he thinks he’s hiding it well. mike wheeler has never been good at quiet. not real quiet. not the kind born from feeling something he doesn’t want to say. then, finally, after too long, after the others have moved on to teasing each other, he cuts in. “so…” mike clears his throat. “ryan.”
he says the name like it tastes bad.
you blink. “yeah?”
mike doesn’t look up and instead pretends to inspect a fraying edge on the couch cushion. “he’s, what, the… uh… the popular guy, right?”
lucas eyes him. “you know who ryan is, mike.”
“yeah, obviously,” mike snaps back quickly. “i’m just—clarifying.”
max’s eyebrows rise. she knows that tone. you all do. you nod carefully. “he’s on the soccer team. people like him.”
“right.” mike flicks the pencil between his fingers. “of course they do.”
there’s something biting in the way he says it. something sour. it’s weirdly déjà vu, because mike has always been like this. since you were kids. since the fourth grade incident where you told him you had a crush on someone and he spent the rest of recess kicking gravel and making fun of the guy’s haircut.
mike wheeler doesn’t know how to be happy for people. he never has.
you feel it. max feels it. lucas definitely feels it, because he gives mike that slow head-turn that always precedes a verbal slap. dustin stalls mid–orange slice chewing. you swallow. “he’s nice.”
mike snorts under his breath. it’s small, but it’s sharp enough to cut. “yeah. sure. nice.” he taps the pencil against his knee, too fast. “just—kind of weird, though.”
max narrows her eyes. “what is?”
mike shrugs, pretending nonchalance so aggressively it’s almost theatrical. “i mean… someone like him. dating someone like—” he stops, pivots, tries to disguise the slip with a shrug that’s too casual. “whatever. it’s just surprising.”
the room freezes. your stomach drops fast, like missing a step on a staircase. lucas raises his hands. “woah. dude. not cool.”
dustin’s mouth is already open. “yeah, what the hell does that mean?!”
mike’s eyebrows knit instantly, defensively. “what?! i didn’t—I’m not—god, you all jump on everything i say.”
max leans forward. “probably because you say stuff like that.”
mike scowls at the floor like it did something to him. “i just meant—look, ryan’s, you know…” he gestures vaguely, aimlessly, like the air might fill in the blanks for him. “he’s popular. he’s… the type girls are into. it’s just—unexpected. okay?”
your chest tightens, not anger, but that old familiar sting. the one he’s been accidentally carving into you since you were twelve. “unexpected how?”
mike freezes. he wasn’t expecting you to ask. he wasn’t expecting to be held accountable. he shoves his hair back, frustrated. “i don’t know! i’m just saying it’s weird. it’s weird that he—he could date anyone he wants, and he picks—” he cuts himself off again, voice faltering. “—you.”
max mutters under her breath, “jesus christ.”
lucas covers his face with both hands.
dustin gapes. “mike. why would you even say that?”
“i’m not trying to be mean!” he shoots back. “i’m being honest! sorry if honesty is suddenly illegal.”
but it’s the way he won’t look at you that gives him away. he keeps looking anywhere else, the floor, the table, the dice, the wall, because he can’t look at your face and say the things he means. he never has been able to. you breathe in slowly, trying not to let your voice shake. “it kind of sounds like you’re saying i’m not good enough for him.”
mike’s head jerks up like the words hit him physically. “that’s not—no, that’s not what i meant,” he insists, but the defensiveness in his voice makes it hard to believe. “i’m just saying—he’s… you know. he’s that guy. the guy everyone knows. the guy who—who—”
“who what?” max presses.
mike’s jaw flexes. he looks trapped. “who… belongs with someone who fits that world, okay?” he mutters at last. “someone who… matches him.”
mike wheeler doesn’t realize how cruel he sounds when he’s scared. he never has. you feel heat crawl up your neck, because this is him. this is mike. you’ve spent years reading him like an impossible book, flipping through pages where he says one thing but means another, hoping eventually the story will get easier to understand. it never has.
mike crosses his arms now, defensive, closed-off, like he’s physically holding himself together. “i just—” he stops, searching for a tone that won’t betray him. “i mean… it’s cool. it’s fine. you’re dating him. that’s… good.” he says it so unconvincingly it almost hurts to listen to.
mike can’t hide what he feels. not really. his mouth tries, but his body betrays him every time, the tight shoulders, the clipped tone, the way he won’t look at you for more than a half-second. he’s dense. he’s stubborn. he’s impossible. he’s also transparent in the worst ways.
this exact moment is the reminder of why loving him hurt. he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. and if you point it out, he’ll only push harder, like he’s cornered, like feelings are traps that snap shut on him. you exhale slowly. “okay,” you say softly, mostly for yourself. “okay.”
something inside you folds, because this is it. this is who mike wheeler has always been. for the first time, you let yourself actually feel it instead of excusing it. he’s never going to change. not the way you kept hoping he would. not the way little-kid you imagined he might if you just loved him long enough.
mike can be a dick. he always has been. you’ve spent years smoothing it over in your head—no, he didn’t mean it like that, no, he’s just stressed, no, that’s just mike—but god, hearing it now, in this basement, in this moment when you’re trying to share something good? it lands differently.
so you shift, force your shoulders to relax, force your breath to steady. you don’t look at him again. you don’t chase the apology he isn’t going to give. you don’t try to decode the tiny flashes of panic in his voice. you just move on.
max is the first to break the silence. “so,” she says, deliberately bright, “when do we get to meet him?”
dustin jumps in immediately, nodding so hard his curls bounce. “yeah! yeah—i mean, we should obviously vet him.”
lucas elbows him. “not vet. just… meet. like normal human beings.”
“i can ask him,” you say, trying to sound casual. “maybe tomorrow? lunch?”
dustin beams. “yes. perfect. bring him to our table. we’ll be normal.”
max rolls her eyes. “we’ll be as normal as we can be.”
you laugh under your breath because of course. this is why you love them. this is why you stayed. you don’t want to look at him, you really don’t. but your eyes flick over anyway—to check, to gauge, to survive. and he’s staring at you. dead-on. not even pretending to look away this time, like he was waiting for your eyes. like he needed you to look at him.
when you do—just for a second—his whole face shifts. relief, like he’d been holding his breath. you break eye contact instantly, because no. you’re not doing that again. you’re not opening the door he keeps slamming shut in your face. max asks you another question and you turn toward her, answering, letting her voice pull you back into the circle that feels safe.
mike stays quiet, but you can feel it, his stare following you like he’s trying to will you into turning back to him. he’s a dick. and he cares. and those two things have always existed in him side by side, ruining you without him even realizing it.
and you’re done paying the price for it.
the cafeteria hums around you, winter sun spilling in through those tall windows like it’s trying to make the school look less miserable than it is. you spot the table before ryan does, mike hunched over his notebook, tapping a pen in this uneven rhythm that’s basically a heartbeat made of irritation. lucas and dustin are in a quiet but intense argument, max is peeling the label off her drink with the bored precision of someone who’s seen this dynamic a thousand times.
ryan walks beside you with that loose, easy stride he always has, hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair a little messy from morning practice. he’s warm in this effortless way, people look at him without him ever asking for the attention. he leans toward you, nudging your shoulder lightly. “ready?” he teases, but it’s gentle. he’s actually checking in.
you nod, even though your stomach flips. “yeah. they’re right there.”
“cool. let’s go.”
when you reach the table, lucas notices first, eyebrows shooting up. “oh—hey. ryan, right?”
ryan grins back, easy as breathing. “yeah. hey, man.”
dustin straightens next, suddenly animated. “dude, i’ve seen you play. you’re, like… fast. like actually fast.”
ryan laughs. “that’s the idea. but thanks.”
max’s eyes narrow with interest. “huh. so you’re the boyfriend.”
“guilty.”
everyone starts warming up instantly—of course they are. ryan has that friendly, open posture that makes people feel like they already know him. he drops his backpack, sits beside you like he’s been doing it for months, and immediately vibes with the group. it’s mike who doesn’t move.
he doesn’t look up right away, he just flicks his eyes up for a second, scans ryan’s face, then back down to his notebook. he’s not glaring, but there’s this stillness to him, like every thought he has is being corralled behind his teeth. ryan doesn’t seem fazed. “you’re mike, right? you’re the one who runs their campaigns?”
mike finally speaks, voice flat. “sometimes.”
ryan smiles like he didn’t hear the edge. “i used to play with my cousin. i’m not, like, good-good, but i know the basics.”
dustin lights up again. “wait, seriously? what class?”
“rogue.” ryan says.
“of course.” mike mutters under his breath.
lucas shoots him a look. “dude.”
mike just shrugs, eyes on his notebook again, pretending he didn’t say anything. you feel the air shift, just slightly, but enough. enough to know that mike’s mood isn’t going to magically improve just because ryan is being… well, genuinely nice.
ryan leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “i heard you guys are doing some kind of winter campaign? sounds sick.”
dustin nods vigorously. “yeah, we’re—”
mike cuts in. “so. what’s someone like you doing dating them?”
everything freezes for a second. max’s head snaps toward him so fast her ponytail swings. “mike, you can’t just say stuff like that.”
mike holds up his hands a little, like he’s pretending he’s innocent even though his tone drips. “i’m just asking. he’s… you know.” he gestures at ryan. “mr. popular. mr. soccer. mr. everyone-likes-him. just curious.”
ryan’s smile falters, not because he’s offended, but because he looks like he’s trying to figure out whether mike is joking or actually serious. you know mike. you’ve known him your whole life. this is him being serious.
you open your mouth to say something, but ryan speaks first. “i’m dating them because i like them,” he says simply. “is that… weird?”
mike’s eyebrows lift just a fraction, but he doesn’t look up. “no. just surprising.”
lucas groans. “dude.”
mike shrugs again, small, annoyed, defensive. “i’m being honest.”
max kicks him under the table. “be less honest.”
mike clicks his pen, refusing to look anyone in the eye. “whatever. it’s fine.” but it isn’t fine. not with the way his knee is bouncing, or the way he keeps glancing at you from the corner of his eye and then snapping his gaze away like it hurts to look. you’ve seen mike jealous of your friends before, but never like this. never with this intensity that feels like it’s scraping at the bottom of something deeper—fear, maybe. or that same old thing he’s never been able to hide: mike hates feeling replaced.
that awful belief that things change too fast, that people slip away without warning, that someone else can just step in and take his place before he even realizes it’s happening. he hates that feeling. he always has. lunch rolls on despite him.
ryan is… honestly perfect in that easy, unforced way that mike has always resented in other people. he answers dustin’s questions without talking down to him, laughs at lucas’s jokes, asks max about her music taste and actually listens. when he admits he skates on weekends, max pretends she isn’t impressed, but you see the tiny spark in her eyes anyway. “you skate?” she asks, leaning forward despite herself.
“yeah!”
“okay, that’s actually kind of cool.”
“only kind of?” ryan laughs.
“don’t push it.” she says, but she’s smiling.
even lucas nods, like, alright. i can see the appeal. dustin’s already halfway sold on adopting him into the friend group. “you could totally play a rogue,” dustin says, excited. “you’d fit right in.”
“i’d be down,” ryan grins. “if you guys want.”
mike’s jaw tightens. he hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. he just sits there, staring at his tray, then at ryan, then at you, then back down again, like he can’t decide whether to sulk or explode. the more everyone warms to ryan, the more mike curls inward, like watching someone else be so effortlessly liked is physically painful.
finally, five minutes before the bell, ryan glances at the clock and stands. “i should go,” he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “i told some of the guys i’d meet them before class.” he turns to you, softening. “i’ll see you later?”
you nod, and he gives you this warm smile that makes your chest feel weirdly light. “bye guys!” ryan says, cheerful as always.
“see you!” dustin replies.
“later, man.” lucas waves.
max even gives a nod. “yeah. uh. cool meeting you.”
ryan leaves. the second he’s out of sight, literally the second, mike finally lifts his eyes. they’re tight, sharp, searching for an outlet. “okay,” he says, voice low but pointed. “i don’t like him.”
everyone groans at once. dustin actually drops his fork. “what are you talking about? he’s awesome!”
lucas frowns. “yeah. he was, like… cool. what’s your problem?”
“i’m serious. didn’t anyone else get a weird vibe? like—he’s too nice. too… polished.”
“polished?” lucas repeats. “he said ‘ass’ like three times.”
“yeah!” dustin jumps in. “he’s real! he’s not fake-nice, he’s just… a cool dude! honestly, we should invite him to play with us sometime.”
mike slams his pen down. “okay, can we not act like he’s joining the party? he’s not even—he’s not—no.”
“bro,” dustin says, eyebrows raised, “why does it matter so much?”
mike has no answer. he doesn’t want ryan at the table. he doesn’t want ryan getting closer. he doesn’t want ryan winning everyone over. he doesn’t want ryan replacing him. and he definitely doesn’t want ryan taking your attention like he already has. but mike wheeler would rather bite off his own tongue than admit any of that out loud. so all he does is sit there, arms crossed tight enough to hurt, glaring at the doors ryan walked through like he wants to will him out of existence. “i’m just saying,” he mutters, voice stiff and miserable, “i don’t like him.”
every part of him feels like it’s vibrating with something ugly and hot and directionless. because he doesn’t know why he feels this way, why the sight of you and ryan walking in together made his stomach clench, why ryan’s laugh grated against something raw in him, why every tiny brush of your shoulder against ryan’s made him want to leave the room and break something.
all he knows is that it’s wrong. it feels wrong. you two feel wrong.
why him? what’s so great about him? he’s not even that funny. he’s not even that interesting. he’s just some guy. some stupid guy who smiles too much and skates and knows d&d and is apparently good at everything.
ryan is the kind of boy who wins people without trying. mike has never been that boy. mike has never been anything that easy.
watching you fall into that ease—watching you laugh at ryan’s jokes, watching ryan lean in to whisper something that makes you blush—makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. it makes his hands clench under the table. it makes his throat close. he hates it. he hates him. he hates himself for not understanding why.
what is he even jealous of? you’re his friend. his best friend since forever. that’s it. that’s all. that’s supposed to be all. when you defend ryan—when you say, “mike, come on, i promise he’s actually really nice”—it hits something sharp in him.
he snaps without even meaning to. “yeah, well, nice is easy.”
no one knows what that means. not even him.
time jumps because life doesn’t wait for mike wheeler to figure himself out. weeks pass. then more weeks. you and ryan keep dating. mike does not warm up to him. not even a little. if anything, it gets worse. mike gets snappier. sharper. more impatient. he stops pretending to be polite. he stops pretending he’s “fine.”
when ryan shows up, mike leaves the room. when ryan talks, mike rolls his eyes. when ryan laughs, mike’s fists clench so tight his knuckles go white. he keeps saying things like:
“i’m telling you, he’s weird.”
“i don’t trust him.”
“he’s acting. nobody is that nice.”
“if you guys weren’t blinded by his stupid dimples you’d see it.”
and he has this whole plan in his head, this delusional mike wheeler blueprint where he sits you down, tells you all the reasons ryan is wrong for you, and you listen. you nod. you say, “yeah, you’re right, mike,” and you break up with ryan and everything snaps back to the way it’s supposed to be.
just you and him.
like it always was.
that’s how mike sees it. that’s how it should go.
except it doesn’t.
you stay with ryan. you stay for an entire month, and mike unravels. he gets more irritable by the day. more sarcastic. more blunt. more impossible to be around. he snaps at dustin over nothing, gets into stupid arguments with lucas, ignores max’s jabs and just stews silently instead. his grades slip. he can’t sleep. he spends too long staring at the ceiling, heart racing for reasons he refuses to name.
you barely know ryan. he’s just some guy. he’s just some stupid guy you met a week ago. he’s not even part of your real world, not the world you built with him. in mike’s head, one month is nothing compared to the years he’s had with you. the sleepovers, the walkie-talkies, the bike rides, the monster-hunting, the stupid inside jokes he still remembers. the versions of you he’s seen that ryan never will.
and he cannot wrap his brain around the fact that things didn’t snap back. that he didn’t get you back. ryan is .. popular. he has friends everywhere. he can sit at any table in the cafeteria and someone will shout his name.
mike doesn’t have that. he has you. he had you.
so the fact that ryan—this boy who already has everything—gets you too? it makes something poisonous coil tight inside him.
you and mike barely hang out anymore, not really. not alone. not the way you used to. not the way where you sprawled across the floor of his basement with snacks and bad movies and mike made sarcastic comments at everything because he knew they made you laugh. now mike barely looks at you unless it’s to glare across ryan’s shoulder.
he blames it on you. he blames it on the fact that you started dating ryan—as if that alone ruined everything. as if he hasn’t been the one acting like a storm cloud stuck in human form for weeks.
but that’s the thing about mike wheeler: when something hurts, he refuses to look at the wound. he refuses to admit it’s bleeding. he’ll blame the weapon, the room, the weather—anything but the feeling.
so when he asks you to come over, just you, you think about it for a long while. because it’s been a while. too long. avoiding mike forever isn’t an option. he’s your friend. your history. your whole adolescence wrapped in one stubborn, impossible, exhausting person.
so you agree. you go.
now it’s the two of you in his basement. he doesn’t look at you right away. it’s awkward. he never used to be awkward with you.
mike sits on the far end of the couch like you’re radioactive, close enough to pretend this is normal. he twists the cord of the basement lamp around his fingers, untwists it, twists it again. he used to sprawl everywhere, limbs everywhere, taking up space because he knew you’d fill the rest. now he sits like he’s trying not to touch his own shadow. you drop onto the other cushion. “so,” you say, because someone has to. “how’s… life?”
“oh, you know,” he mutters. “same old.”
you raise a brow. “that sounds fake.”
he huffs, barely a laugh but close enough that the tension flickers. “yeah, well. i’m trying.”
“trying what?”
“to be normal,” he says, shrugging too hard. “it’s exhausting.”
you snort, and for a second it feels like the two of you used to, easy, familiar, teasing. you toss a pillow at him. he dodges, barely, and it hits the d&d shelf with a dull thump. “you still can’t catch.” you say.
“i didn’t want to catch it.”
“sure you didn’t.”
he slants you a look that’s almost a smile. “you’re annoying.”
“you missed me.” you counter without thinking.
“whatever.”
for a second it’s fine—awkward but fine. you talk about school, about how dustin accidentally set off the fire alarm in chem, about how lucas is pretending he doesn’t care basketball tryouts are getting closer. mike’s shoulders loosen; he actually laughs, runs a hand through his hair the way he does when he finally stops overthinking. you think, stupidly, maybe this can work. maybe you can fix this.
then he does what mike always does. he pushes. he leans back, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to read every expression. “so,” he says, casual in that way he only is when he’s about to be mean. “how’s… everything? you know. with you.”
“with me?” you echo. “i mean, fine. i guess.”
“yeah?” he says lightly. “i wouldn’t know.”
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
mike shrugs, picking at the peeling sticker on the coffee table. “just that i wouldn’t know. probably because you’ve been too busy hanging out with your new—” he makes a little face, like the word tastes foul— “boyfriend.”
the way he says it. petty. like he’s daring you to deny it. you swallow. “okay. you know what? i’m not doing this with you.”
“doing what?”
“this,” you say, standing so fast the couch groans. “the passive-aggressive comments. the attitude. the—whatever this is.” you gesture vaguely at him, at the tension, at the room that feels suddenly too small. “i came here to hang out with you, mike. not to get judged.”
“i wasn’t judging—”
“yeah, you were. and i’m not dealing with it today.”
you’re already halfway to the basement stairs. mike just stares, stunned, mouth parted like you slapped him. you don’t give him time to catch up. you climb the stairs two at a time and push open the door. karen wheeler is at the kitchen counter, peeling potatoes. she looks up with that bright mom-smile, ready to say hi—until she sees your face. the smile crumples instantly. “sweetheart? everything okay?”
you force a tight smile. “yeah, mrs. wheeler. just heading out.”
you slip past her before she can ask anything else, shoes thudding lightly across the kitchen tile. ted doesn’t even look up when you pass, just turns a page of his newspaper with all the enthusiasm of a tranquilized sloth. the air outside is cold in a way that wakes every nerve. you breathe it in. you need that. clarity. space. anything that isn’t mike wheeler and his catastrophic ability to ruin the simplest moment.
why does he have to be like this?
you walk across the lawn, hands stuffed into your pockets, heart drumming a tired, frustrated rhythm. mike is maddening. painfully, historically maddening. he can’t go five minutes without pushing a button—your button—like he’s testing the limits of how much you’ll take. he does it every time. he always has. and the worst part? half the time he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
you know him. you’ve always known him, and that makes it so much worse, because every time he acts like this, like he’s trying to drive you away, some part of you aches like you’re losing something you never figured out how to keep. why couldn’t he just be normal today? why couldn’t he just let it be the way it used to? why does he have to spit fire the second he feels even a millimeter out of place?
you reach your bike and grip the handlebars, knuckles whitening. if you leave now, maybe you’ll cool off. maybe tomorrow will be less impossible. maybe—
the door slams behind you. the sound slices clean through your thoughts. “hold on!”
you turn, startled, breath caught in your throat. mike is barreling out of the house like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. he stumbles down the porch steps, nearly tripping over his own shoelace, hair wild, chest heaving like he sprinted a mile. his face—god, you’ve never seen him look like that. frantic. unguarded. almost scared. “don’t go yet.” he says. “just—can you… just wait a second?”
you don’t answer. you’re too stunned by him. by the way he looks at you like everything inside him is spiraling.
he swallows hard. “why do you like him so much?”
the words fall out of him, unfiltered, fast, messy, the way mike gets when something breaks inside him. “i mean—he’s just—he’s just some guy,” mike continues, throwing his hands up. “he’s not even in the party. he doesn’t even know you. like, actually know you.”
you stare at him, stunned into silence, but mike keeps going, pacing one quick desperate line in the driveway. “he bought you the wrong soda at lunch,” mike says, pointing sharply like it’s definitive evidence in a murder case. “he brought grape. grape. who the hell likes grape?”
“mike—”
“and he doesn’t know your jokes,” mike says louder. “he laughs at the wrong ones. and he thinks you like those stupid pop quizzes in english—what?! nobody likes those! you get stressed over those! i know you do! you’ve only known him, like—a month. a month. and suddenly you’re always with him and he’s at your locker and he’s at your table and he’s—” mike gestures helplessly, like the word everywhere is too big for his mouth. “and i don’t get it. i don’t understand why things can’t just—go back to how they were. with us.”
you open your mouth before you can even think. “we aren’t even—” you start, but the sentence chokes on your tongue. you stop. hard. mike’s eyes flick up, confused. you shake your head, breath slicing out. “forget it.”
but the heat is already rising in your chest, curling under your ribs. all month you’ve been swallowing it down, smoothing it out, pretending it didn’t burn. and now it just—erupts. “what has been up with you?” you snap, louder than you mean to. “seriously, mike, you’ve been such a—such a dick lately. like, constantly. do you even hear yourself?”
his eyes widen, hurt flashing fast before he smothers it under anger. “i’ve been a dick?” mike shoots back, voice sharp enough to cut. “i’ve been a dick? seriously? you disappear for a month with your—your boyfriend—” he spits the word like it tastes sour, “—and i’m the problem?”
“you are the problem!” you fire back, stepping closer because you can’t help it. “you’re rude every time he’s around! you glare, you sulk, you make everyone uncomfortable! i can’t even eat lunch without you acting like someone stole your bike!”
“maybe because they did!” mike snaps, flinging his hands out. “he’s trying to take you away from—”
“he’s not taking me!” you yell, fully incredulous. “i’m a person, mike, not a chess piece you get to guard!”
“oh my god, that’s not what i meant—”
“no? because it sure sounds like it!”
“he sucks, okay?! he just—he sucks! he acts like he knows you and he doesn’t and he—”
“he doesn’t what?” you snap. “he doesn’t treat me like I’m doing something wrong every time I breathe?” you push on, voice trembling with anger and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “have you ever thought—just once—about how you’ve been acting? you keep blaming ryan for everything, but have you ever considered that maybe the reason i haven’t been around is because of you?”
his mouth opens, then closes. he looks like he’s been slapped. “because of me?” mike repeats. “that’s what you think?”
“you make it impossible to be around you. you’re angry all the time. irritated, mean, snapping at everyone. every time i try to talk to you, you push me away or pick a fight or—” you throw your hands up. “god, mike, how am i supposed to want to hang out with you when you’re like this?”
“i’m like this because he—”
“it’s not about ryan!” you cut in, louder than you intended. “it’s about you. it’s always been about you!”
“he is the problem,” mike insists. “he’s—he’s wrong for you, okay? he’s—he’s trying to take you from the party, from me—”
“he’s not!” you shout back. “why do you care so much?!”
he freezes in the middle of the driveway, breath snagging, eyes wide and almost… terrified, like he knows exactly why. like he’s known for a long time. you can see it hit him: the realization he’s been dodging, the answer he’s been choking on for weeks, the thing he’s terrified to say and even more terrified you’ll somehow already know. he forces himself to move anyway, forces himself to swallow whatever cracked open in him. he shakes his head fast, stubborn, angry in the way only someone who’s scared can be. “it is his fault,” mike snaps, stepping forward again, the space between you shrinking to nothing. “i’m not wrong about this. i’m not. you shouldn’t trust him. he—he doesn’t even notice the right things about you, he—he just—”
“mike—”
“he’s the worst,” he barrels over you, desperate, relentless. “he’s the worst, he’s—he’s not good enough for you.”
“mike—”
“i’m trying to help you,” he insists, voice cracking with how hard he’s pushing it. “i’m trying to make you see he’s bad for you, okay? he’s wrong.”
“mike.”
he shuts up instantly. the two of you are close enough now that you can feel the heat of his breath, the tremble in his shoulders, the panic trembling behind every inch of him. he looks furious and terrified and breakable all at once. you take a breath. a real one. “it doesn’t even matter,” you say. “we’re not together anymore.”
the world drops out of his face. “…what?”
“we broke up,” you repeat, more tired than angry now. “a few days ago.”
he stands there, absolutely still, like you’ve short-circuited him. like his brain is trying to reboot and failing. his mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. “you’re not—?”
“no, mike,” you say, exasperated. “we’re not.”
something bright flickers in his eyes, it almost looks like joy. the second he realizes he’s showing it, he slams it down, forcing his expression back into something flat and neutral that fools absolutely no one. “oh,” he manages. “well. uh. good. i mean—not good. not good-good. i just—i didn’t—”
“yeah,” you cut in, arms folding. “you didn’t know.”
“of course i didn’t know,” he snaps weakly. “you didn’t tell me—”
“you didn’t notice,” you shoot back. “if you’d paid attention to anyone besides yourself, you would’ve realized he hasn’t even been around the last couple of days. i wasn’t with him. i haven’t been with him. you didn’t notice, because you never do, mike. you only see what you want to see. you only hear what you want to hear. if it’s not about you—if it’s not something that affects you—you don’t pay attention.”
you’re too wound up to stop. “i don’t even know why you care so much,” you say, breath uneven. “why does it even matter to you who i date or don’t date? why do you get to be mad about this? why do you get to act like i’ve—”
“because i like you!”
the words explode out of him, like they’ve been pressing against his teeth for days, weeks, maybe years. you stop breathing. mike’s chest rises and falls like he just sprinted across the neighborhood. his eyes are huge, terrified, already regretting everything and unable to shove any of it back inside. “i—” he hesitates. “god, i didn’t—i didn’t mean to say it like that, I just— I don’t know, okay? i don’t know what’s wrong with me lately, i don’t know why i’m acting like this, i just—” he swallows hard. “i thought i hated him. like, really, really hated him. but then you said you weren’t with him anymore and it felt like—” he grimaces, shoulders curling inward. “like something in me just let go, i guess. i don’t know.” he shakes his head violently, like he’s trying to knock the words loose. “i didn’t get it at first,” he rushes out. “i didn’t know why seeing you with him made me feel so—angry. or sick. or… whatever. i thought maybe it was just because he was popular or because he didn’t fit with us or because he kept taking you away but then—” he stops himself, hands flexing uselessly. “but then i realized it wasn’t him. it was you. it was me. it was— i don’t know.”
you’re staring at him. you can’t not stare.
“i think—” he tries again. “i think i like you. or maybe i’ve liked you for a while, and now everything’s a mess because i screwed everything up and i can’t stop screwing things up and i—” he trails off, hopeless.
your heartbeat is in your throat. you’ve loved mike wheeler for as long as you can remember—through childhood, through monsters, through eleven different kinds of heartbreak he never even knew he gave you. now, the moment you finally tried to move on—finally tried to build something that wasn’t just you waiting for mike to look at you the way you looked at him—now he says it.
“i don’t know what i’m doing, but i don’t want you with him. i don’t want things to go back to how they were either because—because that wasn’t enough anymore. for me.” he forces himself to meet your eyes. “i really think i like you,” he says again, smaller. “a lot.”
your ribs are too small for everything suddenly pressing against them. “how do you even know that? you can’t just—say things like that. you can’t drop that on me. don’t—don’t mess with me.”
his face twists. “i’m not,” he shoots back, too fast, too earnest. “i’m not messing with you, i don’t know what else you want me to say. i’m just—i’m trying, okay? i’m trying to be honest.”
“honest?” you repeat, disbelieving. “since when?”
he swallows, like that one stung. “since max yelled at me.”
“what?”
“she’s the one who helped me figure it out. told me i was acting weird. told me i got… annoying whenever you were with him.“
your stomach twists, hope and fear tangling so violently it almost hurts. because you’ve dreamed of this. of him standing here, admitting something real. yet loving mike wheeler has always been a gamble with terrible odds, and you just crawled out of something that left you bruised and confused and tired. you don’t know if you can afford to trust him with something this big. not when you’ve lost him before without ever having had him. “i don’t believe you,” you say, because it’s safer than the truth: i want to believe you so bad that it terrifies me.
“i can prove it.”
you laugh—sharp, disbelieving. “yeah? how, mike? how are you going to prove it? because words aren’t—”
you don’t even finish. he moves before you can think, before you can breathe, hands coming up like he’s afraid you’ll shove him away but he still steps into your space, close enough for his breath to tremble against your cheek. and then he kisses you.
it’s not smooth or practiced or anything he had time to think through. it’s desperate, uneven, like he’s been holding his breath for years and this is the first inhale that doesn’t burn. his mouth meets yours with this startled, aching hunger, but it softens almost instantly, like he realizes mid-kiss that you’re real, that this is real, that he’s actually doing this.
your brain doesn’t catch up. it’s white noise—shock slamming through you so hard you forget every reason you had to stay angry. his lips are warm, and he’s making these tiny, barely-there sounds like he’s afraid to push, afraid to lose you, but too pulled in to stop.
your hands stay frozen at your sides for a full second—two—while your heart stutters violently in your chest. then the instinct you’ve spent years burying finally claws its way out. you kiss him back.
it’s small at first, cautious, but the second you respond he shudders, like your mouth on his is something he didn’t let himself hope for. his fingers finally touch you, sliding to the sides of your face, gentle in that frantic, unsteady way of someone who’s been imagining this and still can’t believe you’re not pushing him away. it’s overwhelming, dizzying, this thing you’ve dreamt of since you were a kid but never thought you’d have.
you pull back first, lips tingling, everything inside you way too loud. “you’re such an asshole.” you whisper, because it’s the only thing that makes sense when nothing else does.
“i know.”
you shake your head, overwhelmed, but his hands are still hovering near your face like he doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you again. then his expression breaks, soft, pleading, all the bravado gone. “come back inside.” he steps closer again, just searching your face with that startled honesty he only ever shows when he’s seconds from falling apart. “we don’t have to talk about anything. we can just—hang out. or sit. or… i don’t know.”
you’re caught between everything you’ve ever known and everything that’s happening right now. mike’s eyes are earnest, completely unguarded for the first time in what feels like forever. he looks like the whole world has narrowed to him, to the way his hands hover near your face, hesitant, like he’s daring himself to let go of his own fear long enough to just… be real.
you don’t move. you can’t, really. your stomach twists and uncoils in a way that’s half panic, half relief, half something you can’t name. he’s finally said it. he’s finally admitted it, and you want to believe him but you don’t quite know how. your heart stutters in your chest with hope, fear, longing, because that’s what mike does. he’s always been like this: impossible to pin down, impossible to read, impossible not to feel.
“unless,” he says suddenly, “you’d rather be with ryan.” the name slips out before he can stop it, and the way he says it makes it obvious. jealousy. pure, stupid, human jealousy, and somehow it makes something flutter in your chest in a way that isn’t irritation or anger—it’s… kind of cute.
mike, dense, stubborn, impossible mike wheeler, is jealous of someone he doesn’t even like but can’t stop himself from obsessing over. instead of being annoyed—like you probably should be—it strikes you as painfully human. it’s a side of him he can’t hide, a glimpse behind the walls he builds so meticulously around himself.
you try to find words, but the sentence won’t form. there’s too much, all at once. you think of every moment you’ve loved him, all the moments you’ve fantasized about him finally saying something real, and here it is, tumbling out in the middle of a driveway. he swallows, jittery and exposed, watching you like he’s afraid your reaction will break him. you can see the restraint in him, the way he’s holding back, trying to appear calm and collected, and failing. you think about how much you’ve wanted this since you were kids, how much you’ve longed for him to feel something you’ve always felt, and it hits you in a tidal wave that maybe, just maybe, this is real.
you take a shaky breath, realizing that you has always wanted this—always wanted him like this. the flutter in your chest spreads, a dangerous, thrilling kind of hope that makes you want to both laugh and cry at once. “okay,” you say softly, letting your voice carry more calm than you feel. “okay. we’ll figure this out. we’ll… start somewhere. just… don’t mess with me, mike.”
he blinks, the faintest relief flickering across his face before he tries to mask it with a shrug. “i won’t. promise.” he says, though the words are almost too small to carry the weight of everything. he steps back just enough to give you space, but not enough to break the tension, not enough to let go.
you nod, a smile threatening at the corners of your lips despite the lump in your throat, the whirl of emotions. “okay,” you whisper, because you’re tired of avoiding him, tired of holding back, tired of the endless guessing game. “okay.”
you almost laugh, a tiny, strangled sound, because it’s mike. mike wheeler. always stubborn, always dense, always impossible, and yet somehow, here he is, looking like a boy who’s realizing his own heart too late but still willing to risk it. you shake your head, grinning despite yourself, and think, god, he really is the world’s biggest asshole. but the kind of asshole you’ve loved for forever.
he clears his throat, a little embarrassed, hands shoved into his pockets, and mutters, “so… uh, you gonna… come back inside or just stare at the street all night?”
“fine, i’ll go inside. but you owe me popcorn.”
“deal.” he says, finally cracking a grin that’s just a little too victorious, like he’s survived something fierce and now gets to savor the small victory. as you walk back toward the house, the sky deepening to twilight above you, you feel light, dizzy, and like maybe, just maybe, the hardest part is over.
a/n: genuinely not happy with how this one turned out but that’s okay 🥳 been on my stranger things shit .
