@apocalypticgenocide:
We’re married.
---
We’re Married.
Slowly, Nagito stirs. Raising an arm to shield his bleary eyes from the morning light, it takes longer than it ought to realise the other is immoveable. Trapped beneath something too heavy to merely shift in his tired state, he can only stare dumbly.
It takes a moment to sink in. The mess of long hair, the steady breathing of a still-sleeping someone, and the way his arm is wrapped around her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Nagito is careful in freeing himself, holding his breath for fear of waking her.
It’s bad enough that he can’t recall how he got here, nestled comfortably between the sheets with someone in his arms. Worse, still, that she just happens to be the most skittish girl in school. The first few times they’d spoken - and it was inevitable they would; though they were assigned separate classes, it seemed they shared haven among the shelves of Hope’s Peak’s ample library - Toko had yelled at him and run off. He liked to imagine his efforts to remain calm and kind had eventually soothed her nerves enough that she could hold a conversation without accusing him of something inappropriate, but it seemed more likely she’d come to understand that, in a school of Ultimates, he’s about as unnoteworthy as white paper in snow. A bug like him couldn’t, and wouldn’t, pose any threat to her.
It was a relief, to be honest. The truth is, Nagito had been a fan since her very first book. As someone who often sought refuge in the depths of a novel, hers especially managed to enchant his weary mind so thoroughly, he found he could easily forget his own troubles and instead lose himself in all the wonders of a love well beyond someone like him. And he’d told her so, first chance she gave him - and from then on, while Nagito would never be so presumptuous to call them friends, she was kind enough to allow him, on occasion, to gush unapologetically about her talent. They’d meet up somewhere in the library, and talk for so long that, if there was someone to miss him, they surely would.
But that doesn’t explain how they got like this, why she’s in his bed. No...not his bed. It isn’t familiar at all, and nor is the room he finds himself in, or the ring on his left hand. He fiddles absently, nervously, with the plain band, clawing in his mind for an explanation that makes sense. His luck has always brought about strangeness, but this...
Ah, but he shouldn’t stare. Even this is no excuse to forget his manners. Nagito turns from the bed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. ❝A dream...? Yeah, it has to be. This kind of thing doesn’t happen...❞
