⊹ about a garment ; reca x f!reader (he refers to the reader as lady), selfship coded and sappy stuff. Not proofread ; 600 words. I was feeling a little rusty & too in my head about my writing.
You undo him, he always says. Wonders at which thread of his very being are you pulling to disarm him so and where does the need to care for you even come from; Reca cannot quite feel as a human partner would, but still, layer by layer he undressed you by night never forgoing any detail.
"Still wearing these? aren't they quite old..." he smiles, makes it sound like he doesn't remember exactly the very date he gifted you with them down to the hour and the minute. Nimble fingers give the floppy end of your sock a little tug, almost removing it entirely.
They are the checkered ones, sheer and glossy, that he'd given you years ago. They'd gone especially thin on the heel from repeated use and wear and tear, but of course...
"Naturally, they hold sentimental value" you nudge his cheek with your toes.
You too remember perfectly the moment he'd picked them from you.
Out of the movies, into the rain; your shoes had gotten waterlogged the moment you stepped out of the building, and Reca had taken actual time to peruse the stock in the nearest store and make sure he at least was getting you something cute.
You held into the knicknack as if it were a piece of time, and now they were worse for wear.
"Then maybe you should keep them on a treasure box in your wardrobe instead of on these darling little feet, you know. I can get you new ones..." he chides but doesn't really want to either, just wishes he could stop decay (a general notion).
"Don't want new, these make me happy, and..." you chew on your lip, falling back on the shared bed and only then resuming, "the look on your face when you see I still wear them means a lot to me too, I hope you already know."
Your sentimentality no longer surprises him. if anything, it serves as enrichment. For every time he's ever felt despondent toward the world, your bright notes on nostalgia have made him feel hopeful a hundred times over — a refreshing downpour of that which he most valued in people, and from none other than yourself, whom he adores...
However, he does raise a brow at the remark.
"You heard me," and a wink at him.
Reca would be lying if he said he never hoped for these (or any present) to become an heirloom. A memokeeper, even one such as himself with little regard for the mundane, held onto things others were quick to discard, but he had not accounted for the fact that this little lady would do the very same.
"Come on, now. Don't mix things up. These are tattered; give them mercy."
When he cradles your ankle and is finally afforded an even closer look, he's a moment away of admitting time and wear had made the thin garment precious.
He's bending forward before you can refute, and the kiss he presses to your ankle is feather-light and followed by another to the curve of your calf, and a last one left over the slight indent the elastic made upon your skin, until your ticklish and about to kick him across the face.
"Don't think I will," it is but a weak protest under his kisses.
Like so (with you) he is so close to the truth, he ponders; no thing touched by time or love remains unchanged, and so attempts at preservation as response to loss have started to appear foolish in front of what you do to him.
His crimson eyes roll at your petty remark, and at last he concedes,
"Very well, keep the relics, wear them down into dust." and him as well.
