“i’m still on the east side smoking with my og’s ‘cos they only ones that really know me.”
you’re the type of person that leaves the tap running when you’re brushing your teeth.
you saw something on tiktok about how small things like that can rack up your water bill but it’s an instinctual habit at this point.
the toothpaste is uncapped, your brushing your teeth so aggressively. you ate something chocolate earlier so there’s little bits of brown when you spit into the sink. you watch it swirl down the drain and sigh.
you’ve already double cleansed your face, but there’s remnants of black smudged into your waterline. you lean closer to the mirror, examine your skin for a minute, just picking at the white heads along your chin, and the corner of your nose, ew.
you start you nightly routine still in your bathrobe.
toner, spot treatment serums, vitamin e, or c, or whatever it was that is supposed to help with the hyperpigmentation around your eyes and the corners of your mouth. you open the tub of your bedtime moisturiser and slather some of your forehead, the apple of your cheeks.
you don’t put the containers back in the drawer, you leave them out on the side of your sink, next to your makeup bag from when you left it out earlier. there’s a concealer stain on the side of the basin.
you turn the tap back on to wash it away.
another yawn tears out of you as you slather body butter onto damp skin, the scent warm and sugary and expensive. it was kinda pricey but you like the smell, that's the sacrifice for soft skin i suppose.
at least you turn off the bathroom light as you leave.
your soft footsteps padding down your hallway, where the fuck did you leave your phone again?
you’re turning that way when…
no. not knock knock. this is not casually knocking, not regular person knocking, no, this is borderline thumping.
if you didn’t know who it was, you’d be kinda scared.
but you know exactly who it is, so instead you roll your eyes, yawn again, and make your way to the front door.
you crack the door open carelessly and barely look at him, because, of course.
slouched against the doorway, airpods in, phone in one hand, blue plastic bag in the other.
you roll your eyes at the sight of him.
him, posted up like your average dickhead, leaning against your door frame in his faded tracksuit.
“you’re early,” you say, already letting go of the door and heading towards your bedroom.
he hasn’t looked up from his phone, but he catches the door with his foot and kicks it open wider so he can step through.
“i thought we said 7,” he calls out to you whilst toeing off his sneakers. he straightens up with a stretch, your place smells nice, like lavender and something else.
only the main light is on so he flips a couple of switches as he makes his way to the kitchen. he dumps the bag onto your counter, drops his keys and airpod case next to it.
“no,” your voice echoes, semi exhausted, mostly unbothered “you said seven. i said that i’d call you after my shower.”
he mumbles a whatever to himself with an eye roll even though you can’t see it, as opens his phone to try to connect to your bluetooth.
he looks up at the sound of your slippers slapping against the floor boards as you re-enter the room. you look cozy, your face shiny in a glowy way. lashes slightly clumped, robe hanging loose at your waist. and you smell nice, maybe the lavender scent was coming from you. but more than that.
“you good?” he doesn’t know how to ask what’s up without making it sound like he cares a bit too much. but that’s okay because you know what he meant, you know him.
“yeah,” you sigh. “just a long week.” you start poking through the bag, “where’s my juice?”
he scoffs out a smirk, “you don’t want juice.”
“did i not ask for juice?”
“yeah, and you never drink that shit, so i got—”
“ugh, whatever.” you snatch the bottle out of his hand before he can finish and you wander off again.
he shakes his head, smiling despite himself, and follows you with the bag.
your room is clean if not a bit chaotic. and by chaotic i mean there’s shit everywhere. books you haven’t read pile on your dresser. candles, lighters, trinkets, old half-broken earphones, perfume samples, all arranged like you meant it. blankets kicked halfway off the bed. fairy lights you never plug in.
your speaker makes a sound as his bluetooth finally connects. “what’s with the attitude?”
“i don’t have an attitude.” you huff, fishing your vape out from under your pillow.
“okay…” he drawls, making him self comfortable on your bed, long legs spread out like he owns the place, his back against the wall.
he makes grabby hands at you, and you just stare at him in confusion for a beat. before you realise. you toss one of your pillows at him, which he catches and tucks behind his back with an easy, lazy grin.
he shakes his head again, something is definitely up with you. you’re so moody tonight, for no reason. has he done something, or said something? you guys haven’t spoken for a couple days, you’ve been busy, so has he. he tries to think back to anything he would’ve said to piss you off, which isn’t difficult to be fair, he enjoys making fun of you but that’s all in good spirit y’know, but maybe he crossed a line or—
he's got one thing that's gonna make up for.... whatever he did: “i got summin' that’s gonna cheer you up.”
you don’t even look at him. “i don’t need ‘cheering up’ dude, i already said, i’m fine.”
he digs in his pocket and flicks something at you
you snatch the foil bag one-handed without thinking and, oh?
“my guy's last eight of that purple shit you love so much.”
you stared down at it and almost crack a smile.
this is how you know he’s too comfortable, throwing shit at you like you're a dog. it lands on your pillow next to your crossed legs.
you glare automatically, but when you look back at him he’s smiling like an asshole, all wide mouth and pearly whites.
it makes you wanna kick him.
“y’know, something sweet for someone sweet.”
you do kick him. and roll your eyes.
it’s not a lot. it’s not a big deal. you know that, he knows that.
it's a nice feeling. the feeling of being known in the little ways. the ways that don’t matter but also kinda do. knowing your favourite strain. knowing you go crazy for gummy worms after you smoke. knowing to buy a drink in a bottle instead of a can because you have a bad habit of spilling things and complaining about a juice stain on your favourite blanket.
you turn your head so he doesn’t see you smile.
he can tell. just by the slight drop in your shoulders, the way your posture relaxes just a smidge.
sero's liked you for a while now. way longer than he’d ever admit.
he tried not to, honest, because you guys have been friends for time. like early days. like back when you were still getting high off of his burnt cart behind the library. back when he still had braces, and back when you were taller than him and meaner than him. back when you would screech when he tried to hug you because his b.o stink was so bad. back when he thought you were the coolest person alive.
now he’s chilling in your room, watching you cross your long-ass legs, the soft jiggle of your thighs when you shift, the familiar way you tuck your foot under the other. he’s seen you drunk off your ass and screaming at random guys for looking at you funny. he’s seen you greened out in the back of bakugou’s car giggling at his equally stupid face. he's seen you on the floor outside of bars burping in denki's face and absolutely pissing yourself with laughter. he’s seen you half naked and running around this same room with only half your make up done and yelling down the phone.
you’ve always been on his mind, in the back of his thoughts like an earworm. the sound of you cussing, the picture of you laughing or yelling or screaming or crying or even just, talking.
rolling a joint and venting about work like it’s the most normal thing in the world. he watches you push your hair behind your ear, the tired slump in your spine. he watches you lick the edge of the paper absentmindedly and nearly has to look away.
the image of you is burned into his brain.
but, you’re friends, he’s your homeboy or whatever.
he tries not to think about it. about how he would treat you so right, how he’d give you the world, if only you’d let him.
you spark the joint and take the first hit. and another, and another, while he queues up a couple of songs.
you exhale loudly, dramatically, as you pass it to him, and crumple in on yourself as soon as he takes it.
“fuuuuck, i needed that.”
he takes a couple of tokes, passes you the joint back, steals your vape off of your blanket.
you watch as he takes a big drawn from the vape, exhales, and he scrunches his face in disproval. “this tastes like denki.”
you bark out a laugh, so sudden it makes you choke on the smoke in your nose, and spills over into residual giggles. you crack open the drink that sero got you and take a big swig to calm yourself down, while he watches, smiling so big his dimples show.
you motion for the vape back and hand him the joint. he knocks the ash off carefully so he doesn’t dust your sheets.
“yeah, a little bit. only ‘cos it’s pineapple. but kami’s more like that—”
“—that bullshit blue razz, sour raspberry, blueberry whatever the fuck.”
“exactlyyyy that, ugh," you lob the geekbar at him, it only misses his head by a smidge. "i don't even want this any more.”
“true say. wait, have you finished naruto yet?”
he hums, distracted, eyes dropping to his phone. the glow paints half his face in warm blue, highlighting the tiny crease between his brows he gets when he reads.
he drops his head back against the wall like you’ve told him someone died. “you’re kidding. y/n, how long have you been watching that shit? i told you not to start from the beginning—”
“how the fuck else am i supposed to get the full experience of the storyline?” you shoot back, defensive for no reason.
“bro,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face, “i can’t even send you no edits or nothing.”
“yes you can?” you insist.
he scoffs. “no. no i cannot. you won’t get it like how I get it.”
“then i’ll save them and watch them later,” you say, waving him off, already stealing the joint back. “s’no big deal.”
“ugh.” he flops sideways dramatically, shoulder brushing yours. “you’re so useless sometimes.”
“sorry?!” you straighten, offended. “i’ve been busy?”
“busy with what?” he challenges, leaning right up into your personal space. he doesn't know when to quit.
“busy with— oh, oh my god.” your eyes widen a fraction. “did i tell you i went on a date?”
sero pauses, joint half way to his mouth.
because you didn't tell him.
but it's fine, he's okay, he's not about to freak out all over your nice bedsheets and make everything awkward. he won't do that.
instead he just inhales the smoke, the bitter taste is not making him feel better, and nods at you.
but you, you don't look happy, or excited, if anything you look bored, you've picked your phone back up, scrolling through something, is he supposed to ask—
the words feel sticky in his throat, like he can barely make the question seem casual, and your still not looking at him.
"meh." you shrug, and now your softly laughing at something on your screen, is it him? is he texting you—
the exhale of relief he let's out is audible. you've finally spun your phone around, pushed the device into his hands and plucked the joint from his fingertips. it's your chat log with mina, presumably from the day of the date. there's a couple snaps of you saved in the chat, you look good, like capital G good, mina herself has said so. he scrolls a little bit through your conversation, and oh, oh...
"y/n, you dirty dog." he says it casually, an easy smile curling on his face, but it's fake, fake as shit. "you kissed a boyyy, on the first date, i can't believe this, call the church— "
you squeal in embarrassment and smack him on the arm, but he's too busy laughing at how easily flustered you are to notice the downtrodden look flash in your eyes.
"just, ugh—look!" he startles, a tiny bit, when you crawl over to him, with the back of your head in his face, the scent of your hair floods his senses. you lean over the phone to see where he's at in the conversation, and scoff, before scrolling down some more.
but he's not looking at the phone screen now, because the warmth of your body has transferred over to his, and he's trying to manually keep the heat in his chest from creeping up to his face.
you point to a specific message you've sent. it's practically a full paragraph, riddled with spelling mistakes and emojis but he can decipher it well enough.
you lean back a touch, your legs are resting in parallel with his. you lean back against your bedroom wall next to him. and sigh.
"so... it didn't go well?"
"pssh, it went fine." you're not looking at him when you speak, your eyes on the joint that has dwindled down, maybe a puff or two left in it. you pass it to him, and when your fingertips graze it's like time slows for a minute and a dam breaks. "it's just–erghh—i dunno, i think i'm just weird when it comes to dating, or like relationships in general."
"like, every time i go out with a guy, it feels like i'm searching for something that isn't there. or like, interviewing the dude for a role i know he can't fill."
he listens carefully as you talk, the words swimming in his ears. he lets you finish before stubbing out the joint on your ceramic ashtray.
“dude, you’re not—you’re not weird,” he starts lowly, carefully, because he really does want to say what he means correctly, and clearly. “i think, that maybe, you should stop going out with guys if you don’t know what you’re looking for.”
and you’re listening, intently, carefully, because although sero hasn’t had a girlfriend for like, as long as you’ve known him, everybody knows he gives the best dating advice.
“i’m just saying, if you are, as you said, treating dates like interviews, then like, maybe you should try and figure out what you want first, y’know if you’re actually looking for a boyfriend, or a quick fuck, or whatever, but you need to know.”
he’s not looking at you, he’s just staring at both of your legs spread out, side by side, trying to speak neutrally, as if he was talking to denki, because he knows that if he looks at you, your face, those eyes you have, he’ll say something he’ll regret.
“else you’re gonna keep wasting your time–or your energy? on bullshit like this, and keep yourself up at night wondering why—”
“—why shit never seems to work out, right?”
he turns to you at that point, and you’re already looking at him, fuck, you’re already looking at him. you’re so close, and his heart is beating so fast it feels like he’s gonna throw up.
“yeah, exactly.” his voice is soft, and breathless, and the way you’re looking at him, with those eyes, he’s always loved your eyes, surely you must know?
“hanta.” his heart stops. “i think, i think i know what i want.”
you look so shy, he’s never seen you like this before. your tongue peeks out when wet your lips.
“what do you want?” his voice breaks, he can barely get the words out. you’re so close. he can feel your breath intermingling with his.
you dare to make the first move, your hand snakes up around the back of his neck, and he closes his eyes and sharply inhales when you say.
his lips crash into yours, and fuck it’s so good, it’s so, so, good. soft and chapped, and gentle, the way he cradles the back of your head with one hand, he’s trembling. he has to remind himself to breathe, he exhales into your mouth and it’s full of everything you’ve ever wanted, ever needed. right there for you to have.
god, it’s like waves crashing against the shore, the way your bodies move in tandem, your straddling his lap with two hands either side of his face, everything, every second is so gentle, and careful, and raw.
the way he licks into your mouth, like he knew you would like it, and you do, you melt into him and he holds you tenderly, pulls you closer to him, like he’s scared that this is some weed induced delusion, and if he breaks for you’ll evaporate.
but you don’t. because when you do, eventually, pull yourselves apart, all you do is smile down at him, swipe the hair from his forehead and say…
“i think i left the water running…”
andulkaphoto
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s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
