#rain confession

[apple7ead]

♯; ⤷ THE LADY IN MY LIFE .ᐟ

pairing : michael jackson x maid's daughter!reader wc : 6.2k rating : fluff era : 1970s (j5 through otw)

summary : you were never supposed to leave your portion of the house. the rules were simple: stay in your wing, don't wander, don't forget who you are and who they are. but seven years later you're on a balcony in the rain and michael is finally telling you what you've both known for years, like it's been eating him alive. warnings : none really, slow burn, time skips, slight class difference & power imbalance, i introduced a pet rat named ben lol, mutual pining & jealousy, mild angst, emotional tension, angry rain confession, no use of y/n

playlist : : ̗̀➛ the things we did last summer - jo stafford : ̗̀➛ i’ve got a crush on you - ella fitzgerald : ̗̀➛ tonight may have to last me all my life - nancy wilson : ̗̀➛ be my baby - the ronettes : ̗̀➛ i’ll be there - jackson 5 : ̗̀➛ just the way you are - billy joel

a/n: based on this request. i enjoyed writing this! i hope u like it :c

Encino, California — May 1971

The house smelled like fresh paint and somebody else's life. Like someone had just finished making a house into a home and you were arriving right at the tail end of it. That was the first thing you noticed when your mother led you through the side entrance of the Jacksons' new Encino home.

Your mother was not a small woman in any way that mattered, but she looked small that day, wearing her “good” blouse that she saved for job interviews and church, clutching the strap of her pocketbook with both hands. She had taken the housekeeping position three weeks earlier, after two other arrangements had fallen through and the landlord had made it clear the apartment on Crenshaw was no longer a possibility. Katherine Jackson had offered the live-in arrangement as part of the compensation—a comfortable suite right across the wing from the kitchen.

Your mother had cried a little, signing the papers. Not from sadness, but relief. You had been in the car and couldn't see her face, but you knew from the way she drove that something had been decided. We'll be fine here, she'd told you that night, while you sat on the edge of the motel bed and watched her pack. The Jacksons are a good family.

The suite was comfortable—there was a queen size bed, a dresser, a window that looked out on the backyard. You counted eight Jackson kids in the front hall, the onetime you'd been near enough to look. There was an oldest one, Rebbie, who was already married at the time and moved in with her husband. Now, the oldest one was a boy who was a grown adult, and the youngest still small enough to be carried. You had never in your life seen a family with so many members living under the same roof. Your mother said, "Stay in our part of the house, baby. We're here to work, not play. Don't mingle too much."

The first week you did not leave the kitchen wing except to use the bathroom down the hall. Before the move, you had checked six books out of the Inglewood library and arranged them on the windowsill in the order you planned to read them. You read A Wrinkle in Time in two sittings and started it again from the beginning, because the due dates were still three weeks away and there was literally nothing else to do. This was something your mother had always been adamant about. You would be educated, you would read. It was not a conversation.

Sometimes you could hear the house through the walls, it was rarely quiet. Even at two in the morning you would sometimes wake to the sound of a voice somewhere far above you and would lie still, listening to it until it stopped. That was the thing about that house, you heard music and vocals constantly. The way music happened in other houses, was either on the radio or from a record player at a respectable volume, but that was not the case at Hayvenhurst.

On your ninth day, Katherine put a stop to the kitchen-wing arrangement.

You were eating breakfast alone at the small table where the rest of the staff took their meals. Your book propped against a glass of orange juice and a bowl of oatmeal next to it. Katherine appeared in the doorway in her housecoat and looked at you which made you sit up straight.

"How old are you?" she asked, caressing the back of your head gently.

"Thirteen, ma'am."

"Come eat with the family," she said. It was not phrased as an invitation. "From now on, at the long table. You sit near Michael and Randy, they're close enough to your age."

"My mother said—"

"I know what your mother said," Katherine said, and she wasn't unkind about it. "Come on now, bring your bowl."

So you reluctantly did.

The long table was exactly that—long, dark wood, with a bench on one side and mismatched chairs on the other, and it sat more people than you had ever eaten a meal with in your life. You learned their names by sitting there. Jackie who was the oldest, barely looked up from his plate. Tito was the quiet one, you could tell even on the first day. Jermaine made you nervous in a way you couldn't explain to yourself. Marlon was the one who asked your name first. La Toya smiled at you once and Randy talked the entire meal about something to do with a bicycle but nobody really listened. At the head of the table sat a man you understood immediately to be the father and you did not look at him for long. Janet was next to Katherine on the bench, still being fed, spoonfuls of something you couldn't see.

Michael was harder to place. He came to the table sometimes and sometimes didn't. He had big, dark eyes and a face that was still soft with from his young age. He had a way of saying please that sounded like he meant it, which distinguished him from most people you'd met. You exchanged, in that first month, perhaps only a dozen words.

Pass the rolls, please.

Thank you.

The butter, if you don't mind.

A few weeks later, you heard about it before you saw it: Michael brought in a rat. He had found it or been given it or in some other way acquired it, and had named it Ben. He had brought it into the house in the pocket of his jacket, and when the fact of the rat became known there was a response of significant volume from his brothers and considerably more volume from the sisters. The upshot was that Ben should be confined to Michael's room only.

You knew all of this because you were sitting in the kitchen doing homework when Marlon walked through saying there is a rat in this house, I'm telling you right now, there is a living rat in this house and went out the back door to cool off. That made you giggle but now you were curious about the rat.

You had never had a pet of any kind. Your mother did not believe in pets, which was a belief rooted in the conviction that anything you loved too much would eventually require either money you didn't have or grief you couldn't afford. But you had also read enough to know that small animals were frequently more interesting than their size suggested, and that people who loved animals were often more interesting than people who didn't. That made you curious about Michael as well.

So at dinner, you started to notice Michael more carefully. Waiting for him to mention something, anything about Ben at all. Nobody brought it up, which suggested it had been established as a territory no one wanted to enter. But every so often, in a lull between one conversation and the next, you would see something cross his face. His eyes wandering off as he picked at the food in his plate and a smile threatening to tug at his lips but it was gone before anyone else noticed it. That was the expression of someone trying not to look like they were thinking about something that made them happy. You did the same thing sometimes when thinking about your favorite book, or the afternoons in the park near your old apartment.

You saw Ben for the first time on a Saturday in November.

Your mother was cleaning the upstairs. Stripping linens, wiping down baseboards, the weekly deep-cleaning that was her specialty, and you had been asked to bring fresh towels to the rooms as she finished them. You knocked on doors that were closed, left towels on hooks and handles of rooms that were empty.

Michael's door was the last one on the right.

You knocked.

"Come in," he said.

You pushed the door open and immediately registered two things: Michael sitting cross-legged on his bed with a book open in his lap, which you had expected, and a small rat asleep on his shoulder, which you had not.

"I have towels," you said, because you needed to say something.

"You can put them on the dresser," he said.

You put them on the dresser. Then, because you could not come up with anything else: "What's his name?"

"Ben," he said.

"From the movie?"

He was curious now. "You watched it?"

"I read about it." You turned around. The rat had woken up, you realized, and was now regarding you with small bright eyes. "I didn't get to see it. We were—we moved a lot. I missed some things." You crossed the room and looked at Ben at closer range. He was smaller than you'd expected.

"He likes you," Michael said.

"How can you tell?"

"He usually hides when he doesn't like someone."

You stood there with a rat investigating your finger and thought about the fact that you had just exchanged more words with Michael than in the entire previous five months.

"Your brothers don't like him," you said.

"No."

"That doesn't bother you?"

He thought about that for a moment, like he was trying to come up with a good answer. "No," he said. "They don't have to like him. He's not their friend."

That made complete sense to you. "I think he's fascinating," you said.

Michael smiled and it changed his face completely, he looked at you again with a twinkle in his eyes. "Most people think he's gross and they get scared."

"They don’t know him,” you said. You put the towels on the dresser and left. But you thought about that smile of his for the rest of the day.

1973

By the end of the second year you could navigate the house in the dark by feel alone. You knew the creak on the third step of the main stairs and learned to step wide of it. You knew which bathroom on the second floor had a door that stuck in humid weather. You had, by this point, read every book in the house's half-organized library—Katherine had said you were welcome to it early on. The shelves were more decorative than anything, books arranged by size in some places and by nothing at all in others, spines uncracked on most of them. Nobody in that house was much of a reader except Michael, but Michael kept his books in his room. He had his own small shelf that you had never been invited to and would not presume to ask about. So you worked through what was available.

The boredom was physical. It lived in your shoulders, in your hands, in the agitation of feet that want to be somewhere else. You were fifteen, and the world outside the house was enormous and inaccessible to you, and the world inside was fascinating and absolutely not yours.

You couldn't sit still. Your skin felt too tight. You had read every book in the house twice over, finished your summer assignments in the first two weeks of June, and spent the remaining weeks of July and August in a state of persistent desire to walk through doors you weren't supposed to open. You wanted to go somewhere. But there was nowhere to go.

One night in August, at approximately half past midnight, you got out of bed. You told yourself it was because you couldn't fall asleep, but it was more than that. You wrapped yourself in a cardigan and left the kitchen wing.

The service corridor led to the main hallway, and the main hallway stretched both ways—toward the front of the house with its formal rooms and its dark windows facing the street, or toward the back and the stairs and the ascending strangeness of rooms you had walked past or entered only for work. You went up the stairs slowly, lifting your feet carefully, placing your weight on the outside of each step where the wood was least likely to complain.

The second floor hallway was dark except for one exception. A thin gold line under a door at the far end, light from a room that was supposed to be dark at this time. You knew whose room it was. You did the reasonable thing, which was to stop at the top of the stairs and intend to turn around. You thought it was the most reasonable thing to do because what if someone opened the door and—

Then the door opened.

He was in an undershirt and pajama pants, barefoot, his hair a little messy from whatever it had been in during the day. He had a book in one hand—his finger still between the pages, holding his place—and the expression on his face was not startled exactly, but genuinely puzzled.

You were frozen solid. Your hands were at your sides, your feet were not moving and you were aware with great clarity, that you had no reasonable explanation for standing in this hallway at half past midnight.

"You good?" he asked.

"I was looking for the bathroom."

He looked at you and then down the hallway, which contained at its other end, a very visible bathroom. He looked back at you.

Then he laughed the way he usually does, covering his mouth.

You felt your face go hot and your own mouth curve upward against your will, the helpless response of embarrassment curdling into something else.

"The bathroom," he said between giggles, "is the other way."

"I know, I was going there." you said.

"I figured."

Now, you were waiting for him to stop laughing. It was becoming humiliating at this point.

"I couldn't sleep," you said finally.

He nodded, like this answered something more than the original question. "Me either. Happens a lot."

"Yeah," you said. "I hear you sing sometimes at night."

He was quiet for a second. "Does it bother you?"

"Not at all, I think you should pursue it professionally." you said jokingly.

"You think so?" he said, like he was genuinely weighing it. "I wasn't sure."

You were glad he was playing along with your horrible joke. Then he pursed his lips to keep himself from bursting into laughter again and stepped back from the door, opening it wider.

"You can come in," he said. "If you want. I'm just reading."

You stood in the hallway for one full second, internally negotiating between your two personas. The person who followed the rules and the person who had gotten out of bed at midnight to walk around a house that wasn't hers. The fifteen-year-old rebellious you decided to go with the latter.

You sat on the floor with your back against the bed because that's where the lamp was and it seemed less strange than the desk chair. Michael sat cross-legged opposite you with his book balanced on his knee, and for a few minutes neither of you said anything and this was somehow not uncomfortable.

"What are you reading?" you asked.

He turned the book so you could see the cover. The Little Prince.

"I've read that," you said.

"The fox?" he said, which was a question and also a test.

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly—" you said.

"—What is essential is invisible to the eye." He smiled.

You settled more comfortably against the bed. "I like that it's a book for children that isn't actually for children."

"All the best ones are like that," he said.

"The Phantom Tollbooth."

"Yes. And Charlotte's Web."

"Stuart Little."

"Where The Red Fern Grows," he said. "Because of the ending."

"I cried reading that one," you admitted.

He looked at you with a different expression than he'd had at dinner tables and in hallways. Something more open. "I cried too," he said. "Don't tell anyone."

You laughed, quiet so as not to wake anyone. He laughed too, and the room felt different after that.

You went back to the kitchen wing at four that morning, moving fast and careful down the dark stairs, and you lay in your bed and looked at the ceiling and felt, for the first time in two years, not lonely.

After that, midnight became a country you governed together. It had laws, like countries do. The first law was that neither of you spoke about it in daylight. The second law was that you always came to him, because your room was the easier departure point. The third law, which was never stated but was understood by both parties, was that in his room you could say things that would not have made sense anywhere else.

You began to learn the shape of him. You expected the gravity of the stage and fame, expected him to be the serious boy who sang with everything he had, and he was that boy absolutely; but he was also someone who found things helplessly funny. Who would begin to explain something and start laughing in the middle of it, who would catch your eye across the dinner table when something absurd happened and then have to look away because he knew you were both going to lose it.

You also learnt that he was lonely. It was the first thing you recognized almost immediately because you were lonely too, but his loneliness was different from yours. He was lonely in the middle of crowds, in the middle of stages, in the middle of rooms full of people who loved him in an abstract way and had very little access to him. He had his family, and he loved them, and they loved him back, but it was not enough. You learnt that he got a lot of love, but love at a distance doesn't keep you warm. What he wanted was so simple it made your chest hurt a little to think about it. Someone to sit with him on the floor at midnight. Someone to let him talk about the things he loved without watching the clock. Someone who wanted to be in the same room as him for no reason that could be written down or explained or justified. Not for what he could do, what he had, or what his name meant to the rest of the world.

And without realizing, that’s exactly what you became to him.

The following spring, Michael gave you flowers. When you came to his room one night, there was a small bunch of things from the garden sitting in a glass of water on his nightstand—jasmine mostly, some lavender, a sprig of something yellow you didn't know the name of.

"I thought jasmine might be your favorite," he said.

"How did you know that?"

"You always stop at the fence and smell it before you go inside," he said.

You had not known he'd seen that. So he walked over to you and tucked a piece of jasmine in your hair. You could tell he was looking at it fondly; but you did not say anything about that because your cheeks were burning and you did not want to scare that boy away by saying something stupid.

Your mother noticed the jasmine the next morning and asked whether you'd been picking flowers from the garden.

"No," you said. "Someone gave it to me."

She looked at you for a moment longer than usual. "Be careful," she said, which could have meant many things, and you chose to understand it as the most harmless one.

"Mrs. Jackson spoke to me today," she said. “Something about you and Michael spending time together in his room.”

Your stomach dropped through the chair and the floor and the kitchen below it and somewhere into the earth. "Mother, I can explain—"

She used your full name, which meant this was serious. Then said, "She's not upset."

You stopped. "She's not?"

"She says Michael has been—" Your mother paused, choosing her next words. "Happy. Happier than she's seen him. She wanted me to know that she doesn't mind. She was kind about it, baby. She was very kind."

"I wasn't doing anything wrong," you said. "We just talked. We just—"

"I know." Your mother set down her tea. "But I want you to be careful," she said finally.

"Not because he's a bad boy, he seems like a good boy. But because you are my daughter and this is their house, and I need you to understand the difference between us and them."

"I do understand it, mother," you said looking down.

"Then understand it every day," she said. "Not just today."

You nodded. She reached across and took your hand and held it once, briefly, and let go.

After that the midnight arrangement was not a secret, it simply became known to everyone else in the house that you and Michael were now friends. To other family members, you were still you. Still just someone with a name. But it mattered less when you noticed the jasmine on your windowsill was always morning-fresh, which meant you were the first thing he thought of before the house was even awake. Every day. You were the first thing.

1976

By 1976, Hayvenhurst had stopped feeling like the Jackson house. You weren't sure exactly when it happened—there was no single morning you woke up and thought this is home now. The biggest surprise was your mother. She had come into this house five years ago with her back straight and her rules firm and a very clear map of what this arrangement was and was not permitted to become. She had drawn the lines early and communicated them without sentimentality because she loved you and because sentiment, in her experience, was something people in your position could not always afford. She stopped asking where you'd been when you came in late. She stopped reminding you to come straight back after dinner. When you mentioned Michael in conversation she no longer got that particular careful and worried look on her face.

After that her warnings changed. She had stopped saying don't spend too much time over there. Now she said don't stay up all night again. She had stopped saying remember whose house this is. Now she said take a sweater, the balcony gets cold, which meant she knew exactly where you were going. She had stopped saying remember who you are and who they are. She had not replaced that one with anything but had simply stopped saying it. Your mother had decided Michael was a good boy. She asked after him when he was traveling. When he was sick once, briefly, a bad throat from too many late rehearsals, she brought him tea with honey and lemon without anyone requesting it and when he thanked her she waved it off saying of course, what else would I do, and you had stood in the doorway watching this and had to leave before either of them saw your face.

Now that the both of you were eighteen, you had started noticing him differently sometime in the past year and hated yourself for it. His face had changed, it had been changing for a while. Sharpening into something that was no longer the face of the boy in the hallway but something older and more defined, the jaw and the cheekbones and the eyes that had always been large and dark but now caught light differently, and his voice had settled and his shoulders had gotten broader. He still had the shy smile, still covered his mouth when he laughed, still sat cross-legged on the floor with a book like a child, but strangers looked at him now in a way that was categorically different from how they had looked at him before and you were aware of this every single time it happened.

You were aware of it when girls waited outside the gates of Hayvenhurst whenever he left the house.

You were aware of it when female celebrities, sometimes twice his age, flirted with him endlessly on national television.

You were aware of it when the fan mail arrived, which it did constantly, in quantities that required sorting. A few years ago, the letters had been mostly harmless. Girls your age writing in round handwriting about how cute he was, how much they loved his voice, how they had kissed his poster goodnight. You had found this funny.

By the time he turned nineteen, it was not funny anymore.

The envelopes started arriving heavier, more perfumed, some of them sealed with lipstick kisses pressed directly onto the paper in shades of red and pink that struck you as obscene. Who are these girls? Why do they think it’s okay to send this? You thought to yourself. The handwriting changed—less round and careful, more deliberate, more adult. The return addresses were from women who were not girls your age. Some of them were not girls at all.

You were in the kitchen one afternoon when you heard Michael in the next room say, with complete genuine puzzlement, "Marlon, what does this mean? Why is there—what is—"

"What? Spit it out, Michael!" Marlon said in a frustrating tone. The two brothers were reading their fan mail that accumulated over the course of a week. All envelopes were of different sizes, some were even packaged boxes of something you didn’t even want to know.

"Looks like.. measurements of some sort? She says I'm five-foot six, thirty-six..twenty-four..thirty—"

Marlon's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline in amusement. "Oh brother, she got the tape measure out and everything. Let me see!" He lunged across the couch.

"Why is she sending me her measurements?!" Michael asked, hiding the letter behind his back to keep Marlon from taking it away.

"She wants you to know what she’s working with, basically."

"How did United States Postal Service even allow this to come through? She also has a phone number at the bottom.." Michael folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. Not interested in reading it any further.

"If you're throwing it away, pass it over." Marlon said, half jokingly.

You had made the mistake of hearing that conversation and didn't want to hear any further. You told yourself this was about respecting Michael's privacy and not about the fact that knowing what girls thought about him made you feel something cold and ugly deep inside. You knew you were lying. You were extremely jealous, had been for longer than you wanted to admit. What you didn't know was that he was feeling his own version of the same emotions.

It started with the neighbor's son who had come home from college for the summer. He was tall and handsome, looked like one of the college jocks who spent their summers outdoors partying and having fun. Randy, Marlon and him were going back and forth under the hoop while you had been reading, mostly, glancing up occasionally whenever there was movement nearby. You were sitting on the porch steps with a book, which was where you often ended up on warm afternoons. A shaded spot, close enough to the garden that you could smell the jasmine, far enough from the kitchen that no one could find you with a task.

Upstairs, Michael had wandered over to the front window without really meaning to. Bill found him there eventually, standing with one shoulder against the frame, watching the game below with far more concentration than the score seemed to warrant. He came to stand beside him, following Michael's gaze until he spotted exactly what had caught his attention.

"You know you're staring," Bill observed.

Michael didn't answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the driveway where the neighbor's son had just peeled his T-shirt off and thrown it over the porch railing before calling for the ball again.

"I just think," Michael said at last, "you don't have to be shirtless to play basketball."

Bill looked out the window again, then back at him.

"It's seventy-four degrees."

"It's not that warm."

"You're telling me you've never taken your shirt off to play?"

"Not in somebody else's front yard," Michael said. "And certainly not with the ladies of the house sitting right there. I don’t like boys like him, you don’t know what they’re after."

Bill let out a short laugh. "Michael, the boy's been here twenty minutes. So far he's only played basketball and nearly tripped over the garden hose. I'd hardly call that suspicious."

Michael frowned without taking his eyes off the yard. "You don't know what boys our age are like."

Bill turned to look at him. "...Michael. You are boys your age."

Michael finally looked away from the window, as though that technicality had never occurred to him. "I'm talking about the other ones. You know that."

Bill laughed so hard he had to step away from the window.

1978

What nobody told you about falling in love with your best friend was that it would happen in the most mundane possible moments. It started much earlier, but you refused to acknowledge it until Michael tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear because the wind was blowing it in your face while you were trying to read. When he realized he did it without thinking, he went absolutely still with his fingers still near your jaw, both of you frozen.

"Sorry," he said.

You couldn't look at him. "It’s okay."

"Okay," he said quietly.

You stared at the same paragraph until the words dissolved into nonsense. He stayed perfectly still beside you, like he was afraid any shift might break whatever fragile thing had just passed between you. Eventually you both pretended to return to what you’d been doing—him with his sketchbook and you with your book.

Your face stayed warm for the rest of the evening. At dinner you caught him looking at you twice, and both times he glanced away first, ears faintly pink. That night you sat on the edge of your bed in the dark, hands pressed to your flushed cheeks, and thought it clearly for the first time, I’m in love with him.

Michael was twenty years old and the world was starting to pull at him harder than ever. The brothers were still together, but the cracks were showing. He spent more and more time away from Hayvenhurst—in studios with Quincy Jones, listening to new sounds, pushing boundaries the rest of the family wasn’t ready for. Late nights turned into early mornings. You watched him leave for meetings in crisp shirts and come back buzzing with ideas he could barely contain, eyes bright, hands moving as he explained concepts you only half-understood.

You were happy for him but also terrified. The more the world wanted him, the less this house—and you—seemed to fit inside his future.

One October evening, it had been raining since dusk—a relentless California storm that turned the backyard into a dark blur. You told yourself you were just checking if the windows in the sunroom were closed, but your feet carried you toward the back staircase like they always had.

You found him on the second-floor balcony off the family room, the one that overlooked the garden. He was soaked. Shirt clinging to his shoulders, curls heavy with rain, leaning on the railing like he was trying to decide whether to climb over it or not.

"Michael," you called softly.

He didn’t turn around at first. When he did, his eyes were fierce.

"You shouldn't be out here," he said.

"Neither should you."

Rain drummed against the roof, against the leaves, against the wooden railing.

"I'm leaving soon," he said finally. "For good. Not just for a tour. For…everything maybe. Quincy wants me to do my own thing. My own album. My own sound." He laughed, but there was no joy in it. "Joseph thinks I'm crazy for throwing everything away."

You stepped closer and rain immediately soaked through your shirt. "You're not crazy."

"I know that," he snapped. "But I don't know if I can do it without…" Michael turned fully toward you. Water ran down his face. His eyes—those huge, expressive eyes—were shining with something wild and angry and scared.

"Without you," he said, and it came out like an accusation.

You froze.

“I’ve tried,” he continued, voice rising over the rain. “God knows I’ve tried to keep it like it was. Just friends. But I can’t anymore. Every single time I leave this house, all I think about is getting back to you. I'll be sitting in the studio, Quincy will be talking, everybody's working, and somehow..." He clenched his fists in frustration. "...somehow I end up wondering if you're on the balcony. If you've eaten. If you're waiting up."

He looked away for a second, swallowing hard.

"I'll write something I love, and the first person I want to play it for is you. Something good happens..." He laughed again, "...I want to tell you before anybody else. Something goes wrong..." He shook his head. "I want you."

The rain had become heavier now, soaking through both of you.

"And I'm angry." His voice rose slightly. "I'm so angry because I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that." He took another step until there was barely any space left between you.

"I've got this chance—this one chance I've wanted my whole life—and every day it feels like it's pulling me farther away from the only person I've ever wanted to come home to."

"I hate leaving you here." His breathing had become uneven and his eyes were shining now, though whether from the rain or something else, neither of you could tell.

"And I hate..." His voice broke completely. "...I hate that after everything I've worked for... after everything I've dreamed about..." He shook his head helplessly. "None of it feels complete if you aren't in it."

The rain swallowed the silence. You couldn't speak.

You had imagined this moment a hundred times—always in secret, always right before sleep when your imagination was kinder than reality. In every version, it had been soft. Never with him standing in front of you like his heart had been torn open and left bleeding in the storm.

"You don't have to say anything," he whispered.

The anger had drained out of him, leaving only exhaustion. "I just…" He swallowed hard, shaking his head as his eyes dropped to the soaked floorboards between you. "I've spent so long pretending this wasn't happening that I don't know how to stop. I couldn't leave without you knowing."

Michael dragged a hand down his face. His voice was barely audible beneath the rain. "One day you were the girl who sat on my bedroom floor reading books with me and then somehow you became the first person I look for every morning. The last person I think about before I fall asleep."

He stepped closer, rain trembling on his lashes.

"I don't know when it happened. I only know it happened to me."

Your chest ached with the weight of every unsaid thing you’d carried for years. You decided to reach for his hand, fingers interlocking with his—warm despite the cold rain. He looked down at your hand like it had answered every prayer he’d ever been afraid to speak.

When his eyes lifted again, they were glassy.

"So I wasn't imagining it," he breathed.

You shook your head, tears mixing with the rain. "I've loved you for so long, Michael… that I don't remember what it felt like before."

He stared at you, stunned.

"I love you. I'm in love with you," you said again, clearer this time, voice breaking.

Something inside him finally shattered. Michael rested his forehead against yours with relief. Your noses brushed.

"I love you too," he whispered, the words raw and reverent against your lips. "God, I love you. I've loved you for years." He said it like the confession had been waiting his whole life to be set free.

"So many years…" he murmured.

"So many." You repeated.

His hand came up slowly, brushing rain-soaked strands of hair from your face exactly the way he had months ago on that same balcony. This time he didn’t apologize, his thumb lingered on your cheek.

"Is this okay?" he asked softly.

You leaned into his touch and that was all he needed.

He kissed you—first so gently it was barely a kiss at all, just the softest press of his lips to yours. Then deeper, surer, seven years of almosts melting away. His hand slid behind your neck, yours fisted in his soaked shirt, holding on like the storm might still try to tear you apart.

When you finally parted, foreheads still touching, neither of you opened your eyes. For the first time in years, coming home meant the same thing for both of you.

[heldbybarnes]

Hiiii! I don't know if i can use a video as an example for a request, i hope it's not a problem!

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNRqsGyVs/

bucky and reader are besties since they were little kids and he confesses like this?

My english is not good i hope this is understandable

You’re halfway down the steps of your apartment building when you hear it—wood cracking against the frame, the echo sharp enough to rattle through your ribs. The sky had been threatening rain all evening, thick gray clouds sagging low over Brooklyn, and the first crack of thunder splits the air just as you hit the sidewalk.

“Don’t,” you mutter to yourself when you hear his boots behind you. “Don’t you dare follow me.”

Of course he does.

“Hey!” Bucky’s voice carries easily over the rising wind. “You don’t get to walk away like that.”

You whirl around in the middle of the sidewalk just as the sky opens up. Rain crashes down in sheets, soaking through your clothes in seconds. Your hair plasters to your face, mascara already smudging under your eyes, and you can’t tell if you’re shaking from the cold or the anger.

“Watch me,” you snap.

Cars hiss past on wet pavement. Neon signs blur in the downpour. And there he is—James Buchanan Barnes, your best friend since before you knew how to spell it, standing ten feet away from you looking wrecked.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he says, rain dripping from the ends of his hair, his t-shirt already clinging to his chest. “You’ve been acting weird all week and now you won’t even tell me why.”

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, I’m being ridiculous?”

“Yeah,” he shoots back. “You’re mad at me for going on one date.”

“It wasn’t one date!” The words tear out of you before you can stop them. Thunder cracks again, punctuating your outburst. “It was three, Bucky. Three dates. And you didn’t even tell me.”

His brow furrows. “I don’t have to tell you every time I grab dinner with someone.”

“No,” you agree, your voice wobbling despite your best efforts. “You don’t.”

The rain soaks through your shoes. Cold water pools around your ankles. You should go back inside. You should stop this. But years of swallowed words are clawing their way up your throat, and you can’t push them down anymore.

“You’re my best friend,” he says, stepping closer. “Since when do we keep secrets?”

You swallow hard. “Since you started falling for someone else.”

His whole body stills.

“What?”

You shake your head, laughing again, but it breaks halfway through. “God, I hate this. I hate that I even care.”

“Care about what?” he demands, frustration bleeding into his tone. “About me dating? You’ve dated people. I didn’t freak out.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Because none of them were you.

The thought is so loud it feels like it echoes off the buildings around you.

You step back, water splashing under your heel. “I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”

The words hang between you, heavy and irreversible.

Bucky’s face drains of color. “What?”

“I don’t want to be your friend,” you repeat, quieter this time, but no less certain. Rain streams down your cheeks, mingling with tears you’ve given up trying to hide. “I can’t do it.”

His metal hand flexes at his side, fingers curling like he’s physically restraining himself. “Did I miss something? Did I do something to hurt you? Because if I did—”

“You didn’t,” you cut in. “That’s the problem.”

He stares at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“I don’t want to be your friend,” you say again, and this time your voice cracks clean down the middle. “I want to be the one you call after a bad day. I want to be the one you take on dates. I want—” You suck in a shaking breath. “I want you.”

The city feels like it goes quiet, even with the storm raging around you.

Bucky just stands there.

Rain runs down his face, over the curve of his jaw, soaking into his collar. His lips part slightly, but no sound comes out.

“You’re my favorite person,” you continue, words spilling now, unstoppable. “You’ve always been my favorite person. And every time you look at someone else the way you look at me, I feel like I’m being carved open from the inside.”

His chest rises sharply.

“I tried to ignore it,” you whisper. “I told myself I was being selfish. That I should just be happy for you. But I can’t. I can’t stand next to you at your wedding one day and pretend I’m okay. I can’t be your friend anymore because I’m in love with you.”

The last three words shatter whatever fragile dam you’d built. You press a hand to your mouth, as if you could shove them back in.

For a second—one horrible, endless second—he doesn’t move.

Then he’s crossing the distance between you in three long strides.

His hands land on your arms, warm and solid and shaking just as much as you are. “Say that again.”

Your heart pounds against your ribs. “I’m in love with you.”

He exhales like he’s been punched.

“You absolute idiot,” he breathes, but there’s no anger in it—just disbelief and something bright and frantic. “You think I went on those dates because I liked her?”

You blink. “You… didn’t?”

“She laughed at my jokes,” he says helplessly. “She talked about you for half the night because I wouldn’t shut up about you.”

Your brain stutters.

“I tried,” he admits, voice breaking in a way you’ve never heard before. “I tried to feel something for someone who wasn’t you. Because I figured if you wanted me, you would’ve said something. And I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

You stare at him, rain dripping from your lashes.

“I don’t want to be your friend either,” he says softly.

Your breath catches.

“I want to wake up next to you,” he continues. “I want to hold your hand in public without pretending it’s an accident. I want to be the guy you call yours.”

A sob-laugh tears out of you. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Takes one to know one,” he mutters, and then his hands slide up to cup your face.

He kisses you like he’s been starving.

It’s messy and rain-soaked and desperate, teeth knocking and noses bumping, but it feels like something finally clicking into place. Years of almosts collapsing into one perfect, undeniable moment.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“Still don’t want to be my friend?” he murmurs.

You shake your head, smiling through tears. “Never again.”

[zartyflette]

Day 5 of #lTFSWeek2026 🖤

Theme: Rain Confessions

[mishtay]

Oxford’s Finest

Tags: Muggle AU. Literature professor!Theodore Nott x History professor!reader

Word count: 2.9k

A/N: This is the longest thing I’ve ever written, extremely self indulgent with the Trojan war refs, sorry not sorry. I love a good rain confession now don’t I? :)

Synopsis: the one where a competition about who can teach the fall of Troy better, leads to a rainy confession

Header by me!

Oxford was the same as you remembered. The walls were still covered with ivy, the students still ran in the halls with their cloaks billowing behind them for class and you still felt the giddy anticipation in your stomach as you walked inside your alma matar. It had been a dream to return here one day, as a teacher, not a student. And after years of hard work and being the top of your class in not only history but your teaching degree you’d managed to bag the job of Oxford university’s history professor, on the recommendation of the old, retiring professor wourbough who’d taught you at your time here.

You had a lot to prove here, and you wanted your first day to be absolutely perfect. But of course, the universe had it out for you.

“Oh dear–?” A rich, heavily accented voice yelps as you collide with a wall, which is a man on closer inspection. Your books scatter out of your hands and onto the tiles, and you would’ve joined the tomes if your perpetrator hadn’t grabbed your elbow.

You glance up, and truly, from that instant you are an absolute goner. He was tall, enough that you had to crane your neck up to meet his devilishly handsome face, all sharp features and watercolor eyes.

“Are you alright?” His eyebrows furrow in concern and he leaves your elbow, stepping back to survey you.

“Im okay,” you say with much effort swallowing the lump in your throat. Your gaze falls to your poor, fallen books.

“Oh,” he breathes, dropping to a crouch beside you when he catches your form bent over your books.

“I’m so sorry, let me.” He’s quicker than you, easily grabbing your books and handing them back to you in a neat stack. He seems sheepish as he does, another apology leaving him.

“No it’s alright. My fault just as much as yours,” you smile, hoping and praying it’s polite and not the awkward quirk of your lips that drives him away. It’s received well, because he huffs out a laugh and adjusts his grip on his briefcase.

“Professor Nott, I teach literature.” He says with a half smile, offering you his hand.

You do not, under any circumstance, adore the calluses on his palms that you assume must be born from his pen. You shake it like the decent, well mannered woman you are, nodding your head as you introduced yourself.

“I teach history. Well, starting today,” you add with a little laugh that seems to break the ice. His handsome face splits into a bright grin as he drops your hand and nods.

“Oh, today is it? Good start to your day then, Professor?” He says, with a cheeky smile that has you biting your tongue.

“Different than I expected,” you admit, juggling your books in your arms.

He looks like he wants to say more, like ask you something, but the bell rings above you both, the signal for class and he shakes his head.

“Goodluck professor L/N. Oxford’s students tend to eat a teacher alive,” he says with a wink, and then he’s gone.

That was extremely reassuring now wasn’t it?

It is an absolute miracle you find the class, a greater one when your students don’t instantly write you off the second you walk in. You’re a good professor, and a lover of history first. So when you humour the students with obscure history facts, like how ‘Dracula’ was a real man from the Ottoman Empire, or that the city of Troy burned for ten years…you have the history majors eating out the palm of your hand.

The staff room is abuzz when you enter, and you could handle talkative children in class, but coworkers and socialising? That made you get cold feet.

Luckily, professor Nott seemed to spot you, and for the second time that day, he stood before you.

“We keep finding each other,” he said pleasantly, his briefcase gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows. You felt like a Victorian woman as you ogled his arms.

“Oh, is it? I could’ve sworn it was you who found me now,” you grin and his smile brightens, like the challenge in your tone is riveting.

“Very well professor. You’ve uncovered my scheme,” he says dramatically, crossing his arms. “Survived the ravenous children?”

“Barely,” you chuckle, setting your books and purse down on the desk that had your name tag. “But I think I got through to atleast a few of them.”

“On your first day?” He leans against your desk languidly, no shame in imposing on your space. “What a talent, my dear.”

“I’ve been told I have a rather charming personality,” you say, lips quirking. He lets out a sharp bark of laughter.

“Now now, you must tell me the name of who led you to believe this instantly. Can’t have liars like that running around,” he smirks and you roll your eyes at the sass this man was giving you.

“Such a comedian, professor Nott. Are you sure teaching literature is your only calling?”

“I’m a man of many talents, Bella,” he says, aggravatingly suave.

“Italian?” You raise a brow.

“Caught me,” he chuckles, raising his hands up in surrender.

“A language connoisseur now too?”’you tease and he leans into the back handed praise, his eyes flashing with amusement.

“What can I say?” He chuckles, and you pretend like the banter doesn’t make your cheeks heat, nor does it make your stomach flip.

You’d just met the man. You were not attracted to a fellow professor, this was just plain intellectual banter. Nothing more.

You were a god damn liar.

Professor Nott seemed to be becoming a constant in your journey at Oxford, and you would find it aggravating if you didn’t enjoy teasing him back just as much.

You both fought over the coffee machine in the staff room, traded inside jokes between meetings, graded papers together, shipped your students and everything else that made students and professors alike suspicious of your involvement in each other, few months into your joining.

“Professor L/N, a minute?” Theo said, knocking on your classroom door twenty minutes into your lecture. You nodded, ignored the snickers from your children as he ducked into class.

You two were a hot topic for the students of Oxford, and you had no clue just how invested the history and literature majors were in the relationship of their professors. They’d always ask you about Theo between class, and you’d laugh and wave them off. But your students were smart, and today was a golden opportunity for them to do something.

“What are you teaching?” Theo whispered, glancing at your textbook as you rummaged in your purse. He’d lost his pen, and had come to you to borrow a spare. It was a sore excuse to see you, and he hoped you wouldn’t catch on.

“Trojan war,” you explained, fishing the pen out of your purse and brandishing it to him with a winning smile.

“Oh?” His lips quirked as his fingers closed around the pen, “I’d say The Illiad is a better way to teach the kids about Troy than history textbooks.”

You raised a brow at his challenge and the students leaned forward to spy on the conversation.

“The Illiad is an epic, professor Nott. It’s not concrete enough, I can’t quote sonnets to my students,” you joked and he shook his head, twisting the pen between his fingers.

“The whole reason we even know of the fall of Troy is because of homer’s recount in The Illaid, professor.” He argued.

“Why don’t you both teach it your way and compete, professors?” Avery, a first row student of yours called out. You and Theo exchanged a look. It wasn’t the worst idea, you both had to teach the fall of Troy in your portions. Theo, through the illaid, and you through the lense of it being a legend on Greek mythology.

“What do you say, professor L/N?” Theo asked, meeting your eye with a competitive look you knew all too well.

“I’d say, prepare to lose, professor Nott,” you leaned forward as you locked gazes. You barely heard your students cheer, or the way most of them texted their shared group chat with the literature students. The group chat’s name was your ship name, created by your doting, incredibly nosy students.

You and Theo had just been played by seventeen year olds and you didn’t even know it.

You both shook on it, Theodore going as far as signing a fake contract with you that made you roll your eyes and your students text the group chat rapidly, but as you signed it you couldn’t help but feel giddy.

“Oh you’re on,” you told him and he tucked your pen behind his ear with a smug grin.

“Don’t be a sore loser, okay?” He teased, and he would’ve gotten a slap to his arm in front of the entire class if he hadn’t ducked his head away and snickered, waving at you smugly as he left your class.

Oh it was so on.

Now you were a highly competitive person by nature. It wasn’t a bad trait, it just tended to overdrive every other winning trait and made you out to be a bit intense.

Nonetheless, you poured over texts the entire week leading to the ridiculous ‘competition’ you had signed up for with Theo. It was stupid, and it was incredibly foolish of the two of you to give into the whims and fancies of your students. But you were weak when it came to challenges, and so was he.

Theo was one smug bastard as he swaggered into class that day, his chocolate brown suit crisp and his hair neatly combed back, with the most distracting delicate golden spectacles on the bridge of his nose. His smile was assured, his fingers busied in an ear marked copy of the Illiad as he waited for you.

Whatever he or your combined class of students had been expecting when you walked in…it hadn’t been this.

Your hair was down, a braided crown the same way it was worn by women in Ancient Greece, but really, it was your dress that sold it.

In the famous painting of the spartan princess, Helen was clad in a beautiful pink silk dress, and of course you’d gone the extra mile and worn a similar dress from your own wardrobe, a smug little smirk on your face when you entered.

Theo was a weak, weak man for a smart woman, weaker for one so beautiful. His knees nearly buckled at the sight of you and he cleared his throat, pushing his glasses up his nose as a sign of false composure.

“Ah,” he told you with a half smirk. “The face that launched a thousand ships.”

“You’ve done your homework,” you grinned back, because the reference didn’t go past you. Nothing relating to history ever did.

Let today be a day marked in Oxford history, because the literature professor and history professor were flirting through teaching, and it was a sight to behold.

Theo was a meticulous bastard, and he’d led the class by quoting the Illiad, going as far as citing a few lines in Greek that had the girls fanning themselves. He spoke of Troy like it was a romantic setting, like war was poetry.

You disagreed. You spoke of Helen of Sparta, her abduction, the wrongness of Paris and Cassandra’s prophecy about the Trojan horse. The class had ended to thunderous applause, and students unable to decide who deserved the better teacher mantle.

You would never admit it, but you thought he deserved it. Theo would rather eat sand than tell you, but he believed you should’ve won it.

“You were good out there,” Theo bumped your shoulder after class, as you both walked side by side back to the staff room.

“You too, professor.” A teasing smile pulled on your lips, pleased at his compliment. He hummed, shifting his briefcase, a nervous habit of his you’d picked up in the past few months. But, why on earth would he be nervous?

“All good? Are you feeling threatened by my amazing teaching?” You joke, glancing at him. He chuckled, shaking his head.

“I just might be Y/n, you’re a fabulous professor.”

You hadn’t expected that. Something so earnest and sudden, it caught you off guard. Your cheeks colored and you brushed your fingers down your dress.

“Thank you,” you cleared your throat. “Professor Nott.”

“Theo,” he corrected, eyes crinkling with his smile.

“Pardon?”

“Call me Theo.”

You paused, then allowed yourself to smile too, “Theo.”

His smile was worth everything.

It didn’t matter who had won, who’d taught Troy better, whose perspective on the war mattered. All that mattered to you right now, was that Theo kept looking at you like that.

Your gaze shifted to the downpour outside and your eyebrows furrowed. You didn’t carry an umbrella, and you usually walked home.

“Ah,” Theo said, his gaze following yours. He seemed unbothered by the rain, or maybe used to it. “Forgot an umbrella?”

“It was sunny in the morning!” You insisted, like the rain gods should’ve thought twice before making it rain.

“It’s London, bella.” He reminded, an amused smile quirking on his lips that made you feel dizzy and stupid. Like you should pull his lips to yours.

“My bad,” you said dryly, glaring at the sky like you could will the rain to retreat.

“Not a fan?” He teased, arms crossing across his chest as he watched your irritation.

“Not when I have to walk home,” you sighed. He got that look in his eye then, the stubborn determination you’d seen when a student challenged him.

“I’ll come with.” He said, already walking into the rain leaving no room for argument. Your mouth opened to protest, but he was pulling your arm out and despite your best efforts at resistance, he’d pulled you into the downpour. You would’ve let this man pull you to the depths of Tartarus if he kept his hand in yours.

“It’s not that bad!” He yelled over the downpour, his glasses fogged, his perfect hair dripping water and his pristine suit darkening.

“It isn’t,” you breathed. You weren’t, in any way, referring to the rain clinging to your skin, the drops trailing from your lashes to your lips. Not when he looked liked a tragic romance hero, not when his hand was still in yours.

You were not a quiet person. You were loud, opinionated but today, you’d traded your spitfire for walking beside him, hands still held as you both trudged through foggy roads and weeping skies. You’d never hated reaching home as much as you hated it today. You almost invited him in, almost told him to come up, almost pulled him by the front lapels of his coat and mess his hair and kissed him.

“Thanks Theo,” you said instead. “Reach home safe.”

“I will.” He grinned, but when he dropped your hand it looked like he didn’t want to.

It was inappropriate to catch feelings for your colleague. It could lead to suspension, it could lead to breaking up and working with him for years later, it could lead to so much more than what you had the courage for, so you smiled, and you turned away from him.

“Wait.”

You turned so fast you almost fell over.

“Yes?” You breathed, eyes on him automatically. He looked devastating like this. His fingers fidgeted with his briefcase, his tall stature blocking the flickering lamplight that radiated from the end of the street. His gaze was unblinking, fixed on you.

“I have something to say.” He said then, stepping forward. You didn’t dare move, didn’t even speak. You nodded, because if you spoke you’d crumble.

“I’m glad we did this today,” he ran a hand through his hair. “The competition was stupid, but seeing you teach like that, looking like Helen incarnate it..it was worth it.”

His eyes flicked to your lips for a moment, he stepped closer. The rain beat down harder. You didn’t care.

“I am a man of many words, professor. I’ve learnt the right words to say, how to make everything sound poetic and devastating. But you…mio dio, you render me speechless. Words fail me when I look at you. I can’t sleep, I can’t think, I can’t breathe without your presence. You have bewitched me, captured my heart and made it your own, and I cannot ask for it back, so please, give me yours in return.”

You were not a woman of beautiful words like him. But you knew actions very well, so you laughed, and then you closed the gap, yanking him down by his tie and pressing your lips to his.

“The words you’re looking for, professor Nott,” you whispered against his lips. “Is, I love you.”

His hands reached for your waist, and he offered you a sheepish smile that had you pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“For the record,” you brushed your thumb over his bottom lip. “I love you too.”

It really didn’t matter who the students chose as their favorite teacher, if the rain lessened or if Troy had ever really been better taught from the illaid rather than historical records from various experts. Because Theo’s lips fit quite well against yours, and really, what was literature or history when you had your movie romance with your present and future?

[dllypop]

dallypop confession in the rain

[w2slvr]

Harry Lewis x Y/N -

Casual?

Harry Lewis let out a deep sigh as he slumped down into his chair at the table, surrounded by the rest of the Sidemen—JJ, Simon, Ethan, Tobi, Josh, and Vik. The music thumped in the background, but his focus was elsewhere.

Then, the door opened, and you walked in. Faith was on one arm, Freya on the other, both of them laughing and chatting with you. Harry’s gaze snapped up, his eyes immediately landing on you. He watched you for a second, taking you in from head to toe.

You smiled as you approached, your eyes catching his, and you waved a greeting to the guys.

"Hey," you called out with a grin, your steps smooth and easy as you made your way toward the table.

Harry's lips twitched into a faint smile, and without breaking his gaze, he patted the empty seat beside him. “Sit here,” he said, grinning. 

You raised an eyebrow at him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Hiya," you greeted, settling into the chair.

His eyes flicked over you once more, a smirk curling up at the corners of his mouth. 

“What?” you echoed, a small laugh escaping your lips.

"Just… taking in the view," he said, his smirk growing wider.

You rolled your eyes. "Ha-ha,” you replied sarcastically.

He laughed, the sound light but genuine. 

The rest of the Sidemen exchanged knowing glances, grins tugging at their lips. It wasn’t exactly a secret that you two, despite being friends liked to flirt. You both shared a back-and-forth that everyone was used to by now.  

Harry leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, still watching you as if you were the only person in the room. The rest of the guys made their usual jokes about how long it was taking for you two to finally get together, but neither of you really paid attention. You’d heard it all before.

The night carried on, the usual banter and chaos of the Sidemen setting the tone. But despite the distractions your focus kept drifting back to Harry. It was like he had a magnetic pull, always there, always in your orbit, even in a room full of people.

Every now and then, you’d catch him looking at you with that half-smile, like he knew something you didn’t. But it wasn't just the looks. It was the way he'd sit closer to you than others, the subtle touches, a hand on your back, or a brush of his fingers against yours. 

The music continued to play, the bar filled with laughter and chatter. Harry, however, remained focused on you. He was trying to act nonchalant, but the way he kept glancing at you gave him away.

As you laughed at something JJ said, Harry couldn't help but watch. Your smile, your laugh, they were addictive, like some kind of drug. But he forced himself to look away, you were just his close friend, nothing more. Right? He leaned back in his chair, trying to appear casual, though he couldn't stop his eyes from drifting back to you.

Simon, sitting next to Harry, noticed his friend's distracted gaze. He smirked and nudged Harry's shoulder.

“You’re staring,” he said, his tone teasing.

Harry immediately snapped out of his thoughts and turned to Simon, his expression betraying his embarrassment for being caught looking.

"I'm not," he said defensively.

Simon snickered, not buying it for a second. "Yeah, right," he replied. "You were straight up gawking at her."

Harry rolled his eyes and chuckled lightly, Simon knew him too well. He knew there was no point in denying it.

"Alright, maybe I was," he admitted, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Happy now?"

Simon grinned, clearly enjoying his friend's moment of weakness. He knew Harry was usually so good at covering his emotions, so seeing him crack a little was rare.

"Very," he replied, still grinning. "It's about time you stop denying it, mate. Everyone knows you're head over heels for her."

Harry's glare intensified as he nudged Simon's arm, signalling for him to lower his voice. He didn't need you heating the conversation. 

"Say it louder why don’t you.” He grumbled. Their conversation is interrupted by one of the waiters doing the rounds asking your table what they want to drink. 

The waiter was quite tall, with messy brown hair that had a natural tousled look to it. Freya smirks and raises her eyebrows at you playfully. The waiter smiled at you, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary as he filled your order. Despite his attractive appearance, there was something about him that seemed a bit smug. 

Harry noticed the subtle smirk on the waiter's face. It only fuelled his jealousy further. He knew the waiter was flirting with you, and he didn't like it at all.

He took another sip of his drink, still watching you and the waiter's interaction. He felt a pang of irritation seeing the waiter's gaze linger on you, the knowledge that he was interested in you was killing him. 

It got late and the group started to leave the bar. Harry's mood was sour. He could feel his frustration bubbling up inside him, and he couldn't quite pinpoint why he was so irritated. 

He was silent for most of the walk to the car park, his gaze fixed straight ahead as he followed the group. Occasionally, he'd cast a quick, slightly frustrated glance in your direction, his jaw clenched tight.

As you cast a quick look over your shoulder at Harry, he met your gaze. For a brief moment, his irritation softened as he met your eyes. The look on your face was confused, and he knew you were probably wondering why he was acting so strangely.

Harry's mood didn't improve much as you both walked back towards the car park. He was still in a foul mood, and he wasn't hiding it well. It was obvious something was bothering him.

As you walked through the car park to say farewell to the rest of the group, Harry walked alongside you in silence. His face was expressionless, and he seemed distant, lost in his own thoughts. He gave the other boys a half-hearted wave as they got into their cars, but his focus was entirely on you.

As everyone leaves you look at him and frown. “Alright Harry what the fuck is up with you?”

Harry's demeanour didn't change as you questioned him, his expression still cold and tense. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with you.

"Nothing's up," he responded, his tone gruff. "I'm fine."

He was lying, of course. But he didn't want to admit what was eating at him. He was too prideful to show weakness.

As you both walked down the street, towards your respective flats, which were conveniently located on the same street near the bar, Harry continued to keep his distance, his steps heavy and unenthusiastic. He still hadn't dropped his cold, expressionless demeanour, and it was clear he was still troubled by something but too stubborn to talk about it.

Rain started to fall heavily, the soft pitter-patter on the pavement suddenly creating a somber atmosphere. You groaned at the sudden downpour, while Harry simply let out a gruff sigh.

He had his hands shoved in his pockets, his face slightly shielded by the rain-soaked fabric of his sweatshirt. He glanced over at you, noticing your annoyed expression.

"Great timing," he muttered sarcastically.

“Oh my! I just realised… the weather is matching your mood!” You say sarcastically. 

Harry let out a sharp scoff at your comment, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Very funny," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're just full of useful comments tonight, aren't you?"

“Jesus what is your problem?? You were fine earlier, who shoved a stick up your ass?” You glare, raising your voice. 

Harry's expression darkened further at your words. Your raised voice surprised him, and he turned to face you fully, his gaze intense and almost angry. You’d never seen him this way. In fact the pair of you have never argued before, despite knowing one another for 10+ years.

"Fucking hell, you just don’t get it do you?” He yells. 

“No Harry, I don’t. But please do tell me, cause if it’s something I’ve done I’d really like to fucking know.”  

He ran a hand through his damp hair, frustrated and annoyed with himself.

"It's not... you..." he started, his voice quieter than before. "It's just... fuck I don't know. Can we just get to my flat first?"

“Harry just fucking say it!!!” You groan in frustration. 

Your plea for clarification seemed to hit a nerve, and Harry's frustration boiled over. He took a deep breath, his hands clenched into tight fists in his pockets.

"It’s not what you've done, it's what you haven't done," he replied, his voice low and gravelly. "You haven't done anything, and that's the problem. You're so damn oblivious, it's infuriating."

Harry's mind was racing, his emotions warring inside of him. The rain continued to fall around them, adding to the heavy atmosphere.*

"You drive me crazy, you know that? You just have no idea frustrating you are!"

He ran a hand through his messy hair, his gaze locked relentlessly on you. His chest heaved as he spoke, a mixture of anger and something else, something deeper, filling his expression as you look up at him confused and upset. 

Harry stood there, rain dripping off his face, staring at you with an intensity that was almost too much to handle. For a second, everything around you seemed to fade—just the two of you, in the middle of a downpour, standing face to face with all this unspoken tension hanging in the air.

His voice broke the silence, quieter this time, almost hesitant.

“You… you really don’t get it, do you?”

You blinked, momentarily thrown off by the shift in his tone. There was something softer in his voice now, the anger and frustration from earlier melting into something else—something deeper. Something you hadn’t expected.

“What don’t I get?” You frowned, trying to process what he was saying.

Harry exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair again, as if trying to calm himself. He stepped closer, his shoes squelching in the rain-soaked pavement, and for a second, the space between you seemed impossibly small.

“You and me… It’s always been there. All the stupid back-and-forth, all the flirting… it’s not just for fun, is it?”

Your heart skipped a beat, and suddenly, the world felt a little too small. He was so close now, and the realization hit you like a punch to the gut.

“What do you mean?” You swallowed, not sure if you even wanted to hear the answer, though a part of you did.

Harry sighed, his face unreadable, but his eyes intense. He seemed to be struggling with himself, his fingers fidgeting in his pockets as if the words were stuck somewhere deep down.

“I mean…” His voice trailed off for a second, and then he just said it, almost too fast, like he needed to get it out. “I mean, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore. But I can’t keep pretending that I don’t care about you, and I can’t keep watching you flirt with anyone except me.”

Your chest tightened, and you weren’t sure if it was the rain or the vulnerability in his voice, but something about the way he said it made you feel like the ground underneath you had shifted.

“Harry…” You started, your voice barely above a whisper. "You… you can’t just—"

“I can,” he cut you off, his gaze unwavering now. “And I will. I’ve been a bloody idiot about this. I’ve danced around it for so long, and I’m just… I’m done.”

His words hung in the air, the space between you two now filled with a tension so thick, it felt almost suffocating. You stared at him for a moment, struggling to find the right response, you were both shit with your feelings. 

“Why now?” You finally said, your voice barely audible above the sound of the rain. "Why after all this time, Harry?”

He didn’t hesitate, his eyes softening as he took a step closer, and then another, until the distance between you was almost non-existent.

“Because I’ve spent so many years pretending it didn’t matter… pretending I didn’t care that much, but I do care.” He exhaled sharply, almost laughing at himself, the sound dark but bitter. “And it does matter. You matter, to me.”

You could feel the electricity in the air, a tension that had been building up for years, thick and heavy between you both. The rain poured harder now, the water splashing against the ground as if the world itself was holding its breath. Your heart thudded in your chest, erratic and wild.

Harry reached up, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face, his fingers lingering along your jaw. His touch was tentative at first, almost as if he were afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Slowly, you reached for him, your hands finding the sides of his wet jacket. You weren’t sure what you were waiting for, maybe just a sign, or the courage to do what you both had wanted for so long. 

And then, as if everything had been leading to this moment, you leaned in. His lips met yours softly, tentatively at first, as though asking for permission. You melted into him, the kiss deepening, the world around you fading into nothing but the feeling of his mouth on yours, the rain drenching you both, turning everything into a blur of sensation. 

There was no more distance between you now. No more unspoken words. Just the pounding of the rain, the beat of your hearts, and the warmth of each other’s presence, as if the storm outside wasn’t the only one in your lives anymore.

When you finally broke the kiss, both of you gasping for air, the world still spun. Harry rested his forehead against yours, your thumb tracing the outline of his damp jaw.

The rain fell harder now, the droplets pounding against the earth, with a rhythmic urgency that seemed to mirror the pounding of your heart. He closed the space between you again. You could feel the slight tremble in his hand as it reached up to your face, his fingers brushing your hair back from your forehead, his touch so gentle it almost felt reverent.

It wasn’t enough. You needed more than that. Slowly, you leaned in, kissing him back, giving him the permission he needed. This time, it was different. There was no holding back. His lips deepened against yours, a tender pressure at first, as though he was still afraid, still unsure, but as the seconds passed, something inside him seemed to release. 

His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, his other arm wrapping around your waist, drawing you in as though he never wanted to let go. The rain was relentless, soaking through your clothes, but it didn’t matter. His kiss was all that existed. You could taste the rain on his lips, feel the soft pulse of his heart through his chest as it pressed against yours. His mouth moved with growing intensity, tracing the contours of your lips, then slipping deeper, as if he was trying to pour every ounce of everything he’d kept hidden into that kiss.

You slid your hands up his soaked jacket, fingers gripping the fabric like you needed him to stay, needed him to be here in this moment. His tongue brushed against yours, slow at first, as though savouring every touch. It was soft, then hungry, then desperate, as if both of you were trying to make up for lost time.

You pressed yourself against him, letting the kiss grow deeper, more urgent, as the tension that had been building for so long between you both seemed to spill out. 

[failing-to-write-again]

A Rainy Conversation; Shu Sakamaki x Reader

(Below audio is rain noise incase this link doesn't work, just for thematic background vibes)

"What a bother, you'll catch a cold and then that will be my problem"

You didn't hear him open the sliding door to the school's roof. He stood under the metal overhang protecting the welcome mat. You crouched on the lip of the bottom stair leading up to the more open area overlooking the sports courts. Instead holding an umbrella over your shoulder as you stared out to the town surrounding the school. The edges of your skirt damp from the cold, shoes shiny from the smattering of water droplets. You don't turn to him like you normally would.

"Heh, or do you just want the rain to turn guys shirts see through...perv."

He walks over, rain quickly causing his blonde curls to clumps and cling to his face, his blazer protected most of his cardigan from the rain. He sat beside you, most of his broad frame protected by the plastic. You then spoke.

"Why do you hang out with me so much?"

He scoffs at your deadpan comment. His hands remain in his pockets and he stretches one leg out straightening it.

"Why would you ask stupid questions like that? You always do."

"Because for all that talk you keep doing weirdly nice things, things that not a month ago would have you proclaiming how much of a bother they are."

His tongue runs across his teeth, a shallow soothing of his shame.

"You're imagining things."

"You've attended every class we have together, and suddenly I'm getting apologises for rude comments or being left out. My bed is now heated whenever you plan on sleeping there. Whenever I wake feeling anemic there's cranberry juice everywhere! And then this you keep talking all casual to me like we're friends."

Your head turns slightly as you look at him through the corner of your eye. Neither of your voices were very loud, the rain drowning you out what few noises of life remained in such weather. Shu's gaze remained transfixed on the ground, head tilted to the side slightly. His shoulders raised and fell slightly as he shifted.

"You cried all night a while ago."

His tone despondent and distant. As if he was somewhere else. His fingers tapped uncharacteristically against the stone, small droplets being flung as they moved. He let the words linger as he considered his next words.

"After the exams, I found your album with the ballet pictures. Then you just looked so sick compared to them, I went to leave and then I heard sobbing. It was you crying in your sleep about being taken away. That man, the priest, you kept saying his name begging him to let you go home."

You scoff, rolling your eyes and looking at your shoes. He looks to you in response.

"I don't see why that would make you act so weird, you don't care about anyone. 'Too mich effort.' That's your catchphrase right. So what you want to fuck up my life more?"

You stand, increasing the distance between you but still keeping him under the umbrellas protection.

"What's your deal?" You spit.

He shrugged.

"I didn't care. But it felt wrong whenever you looked hurt, I thought I wanted to hurt you, but everytime something did it felt horrible. I don't want to care, whenever I care about something it gets hurt. But then when you would fall asleep after I drank you, you never cried in your sleep."

"Shu this all sounds so round about. Just be brief. I'm sick of this!"

Your knuckles turn white gripping the umbrellas handle. Your chin wobbling slightly as you whispered.

"I don't like being played with, so if this is to get blood easier just say and I'll be easier. Because I'm starting to think you like me, and I'm starting to like you. So call me stupid and disappear."

He slowly pushes himself to stand before you. Now entirely out of the umbrellas reach to look down at you.

"You're an annoying pain but it's more of a pain when you're not around now. What you said when you first met me was right, I run away from people. But you, I can't run from without feeling even worse, especially after seeing everything that gets put on you."

His hands touch your waist, ducking under the umbrella as he slips into your space. His head comes to rest on your shoulder, sopping wet locks soaking through your uniform.

"I don't want to run anymore. You don't cry when you sleep next to me, so I'll stay by your side so you don't cry while awake."

Your shoulders begin to shake as tears begin to roll down your face. Your free hand gripping the soft wool of his cardigan tightly.

"You're an asshole. You're meant to say this before you start acting sweet."

"Cruel woman, a man pours his heart out for you and you insult him."

"Said the cruel man with the unbeating heart."

He laughs at that, pulling you closer and taking the umbrella from you. Your hand slips around him in turn. You feel a pressure on your forehead, similar to a kiss.

"It doesn't need to beat to belong to you."

Pulling back he holds your face up wiping some tears away with his thumb.

"Stop crying, it's bothersome"