So.... PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE can I request coat guy x homeowner!reader who's a foreigner, struggles with russian but can speak it a little although her accent is obvious that she isn't from there. Can she also be Japanese like me? (Love from Tokyo 🩷)
Oh hello and ofc here the headcanon I have in mind! (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)
When you first found him, bundled in that thick brown coat even indoors, your first thought was ' is he freezing or just eccentric?' He doesn’t answer immediately and only stares with those unnerving black-iris eyes before muttering something too quick in Russian.
You catch only a few words — “нет... человек” (not... human) — which confuses you. Your Russian is basic, learned from apps and your neighbor, so you think he just doesn’t like people. Turns out he literally means he’s not human (:
Your accent stands out when you try to communicate, but he never mocks you. In fact, you notice he listens more carefully than anyone else ever has, like he’s deciphering your effort, not your grammar.
Mikhail tends to speak in short, fragmented Russian sentences, and you in hesitant, accented ones. Sometimes you both resort to pointing, drawing, or using your phone’s translation app. It leads to quiet laughter & giggle when the translation completely butchers his phrases.
He’s unexpectedly patient, not warm exactly, but he waits. If you pause mid-sentence searching for a word, he’ll silently nod for you to continue. That calmness helps you relax and speak more freely. You sometimes slip into Japanese out of habit. He doesn’t understand a word, but he gets the emotion in your tone and gestures. Eventually he starts recognizing simple words like “daijoubu” (it’s okay) or “arigatou,” even replying with a low, hesitant “...aa... da.”
Once, he tries to pronounce “ocha” (tea) after hearing you say it, and it comes out “ocha... da?” You laugh softly, and he looks almost embarrassed.
Whenever you’re frustrated with your Russian homework, he’ll watch you struggle for a moment before writing the correct word in that sharp, almost calligraphic Cyrillic handwriting. His handwriting becomes your secret favorite thing — neat, precise, strangely elegant, just like him.
You start leaving him small Japanese snacks: mochi, Pocky, senbei on the counter. The first time he tries mochi, he freezes (probably because of the texture) and then mutters a long, confused Russian string you only catch part of: “...слишком мягкое... но вкусно.” (“...t-too soft... but good.”) You also notice his pupils dilate wider when you’re near — catlike, reflecting faint light. He doesn’t mention it, but you catch the way he averts his gaze, trying to hide the reaction. It happens most when you speak softly to him, or when you touch his coat to thank him for helping.
He brings odd gifts — old tea packets, a mismatched mug, or something he found “safe”. You think it’s awkwardly sweet.
You sometimes apologize for your accent or your poor Russian, but he quietly says: “Понимаю. Достаточно.” (“I understand. It’s enough.”) That’s probably the kindest thing you’ve ever heard from him.
Over time, he starts repeating a few Japanese words back to you, awkwardly but earnestly like “oyasumi” before he leaves at night. It’s his quiet way of showing that he listens, remembers, and maybe even cares.
He once tried to write your name in katakana on a scrap of paper. The characters are crooked, but your heart nearly melted. You would teach him small Japanese phrases; he teaches you ones in Russian that aren’t in your textbook — poetic, old words like “тоска” (a deep sadness). You realize those words fit him perfectly.
When you call him “Mikhail-san” out of habit, he pauses, then gives a tiny huff of laughter, actual for real. It’s one of the few times you see a spark of amusement in his eyes.
