His eyes are more interesting than any star in this galaxy. You can't really understand what could be so dazzling that he'd spend the entire day behind a telescope. Adjusting. Peeking. Adjusting. Peeking.
You call out to him, and only after the third time does he acknowledge you.
From any other person you would be offended, but you know that any of his attention is all his attention. A noncommittal grunt is the same as an attentive smile with his exceedingly simple, unbearably fickle attention span.
You don't feel bad for interrupting. "I came to visit you. Isn't it a bit rude to ignore me?"
You also don't feel bad for guilting him. It's his fault and you want his attention. The stars aren't going anywhere. You might.
His eyes are big and they suck the air from your chest when he turns them on you. He does indeed look very sorry. Sad. Sad for you. He approaches you. Instead of meeting him half way and lifting him off his feet like you usually would, you eye him from your perch on the frame of his elevated nest.
He likely doesn't notice the difference in your demeanor. He never seems able to tell when you're being particularly prickly. Which in turn makes you want to get pricklier.
He can't reach you up here. So he just stares up at you with those big eyes, olive green just barely peeking out from behind a lingering film of grey. Those eyes smile, the wave of guilty sadness having left them nearly as soon as it arrived.
You have his full attention now. Which is great, but also not great, because you showed your ass and whined for it, but you actually have nothing to do or say.
You are generally content to just look at him. To know that you are the one in his space. In his hive. In his room. On his nest. And no one else has that privilege. And generally, he lets you. Stare at him. He doesn't say it's weird nor does he ever seem concerned or bothered by it. His friendship is unconditional and contingent on whether or not you want it to exist.
He doesn't mind doing his own thing while you watch him. He also doesn't mind doing what you want to do no matter what it is. He also doesn't mind that you clearly never want to do what he wants to do, which is why he lets you watch him do him while you don't have anything you want to do.
So really he was doing you a favour by letting you silently watch him, but now you complained about wanting attention so you have to do something with that attention or else this will continue. Him watching you stare at him while you monologue yourself into a breakdown.
"Are you hungry?" His eyes narrow as he enters SMILECON PHASE 2. The one where his eyes squint happily and his grin gets wider and the dimples appear. When will you be allowed the rest in peace?
You shrug. No matter how much you just want to pick him up and hold him, you stubbornly maintain your nonchalant attitude. Even though you can't be too nonchalant when you literally begged for his attention not even five minutes ago.
The shrug is enough for him though. He bounces on his heels, his expression somewhere between excited and meditative. "I'll make your favourite pastries!"
And you're predictably on the floor and leaning into his personal space before the sentence is finished. Because he's just so sweet that you could quite happily die each time he looks at you like that. That look he gets when he's suggesting something that might make you happy, but he kinda already knows it will so there's no might about it.
You don't tell him how willingly you'd die for him and instead just nod towards his door with a gruff, "After you."
He listens, trotting easily out of his nesting room and down the curved staircase that leads to the great room turned living area. You follow him all the way over to the open kitchen space, where you perch on the island while he leans over the upright refrigerator and pulls out the ingredients for the pastries.
You know that he only stocks the dough and sugars and chocolate chips because you like them. Because despite the fact that he's the spitting image of a "the kind of person that likes sweet things" he actually kind of hates them a little and prefers bitter flavours.
Watching him knead the dough of the treat he probably wont even eat himself into submission has you hot. Warm with the knowledge that this can't be misconstrued as something not all for you, because it's not at all for himself. He values you enough to do things solely for the purpose of making you happy, and you can't stop your cheeks from burning with delight.
Your hands flex instinctively and you're tempted, oh so tempted, to touch him. Somewhere where you couldn't get away with normally. Somewhere no one else gets to touch. Like his lower back. His bottom. His neck.
Ideally his neck. To get your hands around his slim, blemish free neck would probably be the most satisfying. Because no matter how inappropriate, a butt touch is a butt touch. A hand on a lower back can be explained away. But a hand on his neck is a threat. And you want to threaten him. You want him to know how you really are, deep down. (Not so deep actually. Not very deep at all.)
You want to do things to him that should scare him, but you want him to accept them. Because they're from you.
If the pastries got you hot, that thought gets you hotter.
Him accepting all the ugly, terrible, violent parts of you. Loving those parts. Enjoying those parts. Begging for those parts. Maybe while crying.
"--shing so much?" Oh lord. How long has he been talking?
You let out a stupid sound. "Muh huh?"
He blinks, but his kind expression doesn't change. You are in your head a lot and you're sure, to him, this happens all the time.
"What has you blushing so much? Are you hot? Should I turn the air up?"
The counters are smeared with flour and so are his hands. The oven is glowing warmly. He's mixed and prepared all of those ingredients and put them in the oven. A task that should at least take him a minimum of fifteen minutes, which means he was either in overdrive or you've spaced out for at least that long. You don't kid yourself into thinking it was the former.
"Gil~" You have no answer for his question. He doesn't ask again.
Instead you open your arms invitingly, and like a moth to a flame he walks into them, that gleeful grin still dimpling his cheeks. You wrap your arms around him like an octopus, sapping warmth from his tiny body. You even let yourself nuzzle your nose into his hair, carefully not to jostle his meticulously-placed, lazily-constructed bun.
He places his hands on your chest, leaving white fingerprints on your black shirt. You inwardly shiver. It's like a mark. You pretend it's intentional. You place your hands between his shoulder blades, just barely pressing there to create the illusion of him arching his chest towards you.
That's enough. You wouldn't dare touch his neck.
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