"You fall for Choso a little more every day, but you think he doesn't feel the same. Choso has been in love with you since day one, but thinks you're taken. Now, if only you'd both figure this out."
ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: request from this ask!
You met Choso at a grocery store.
Not in a cute, romantic comedy way where you both reached for the same overpriced organic avocado and your hands brushed, leading to a flustered meet-cute and eventual slow-burn romance. No. No. You met him because he was staring at a single head of cabbage like it had personally wronged him.
And he wasn’t just staring at it. He was glaring at it. Like full-on, laser-focused, resting-murder-face, anime-villain-music-playing-in-the-background type of intensity. He stood there, motionless, fists balled at his sides, exuding the kind of energy that made it seem like the cabbage had whispered something truly unforgivable about his mother.
Naturally, you did what any reasonable person would do: you stopped to watch.
You weren’t proud of it, but this was free entertainment. Some people pay for streaming services. You had this.
You observed in fascinated horror as this man continued his silent cabbage showdown. If he was having an existential crisis over the structure of leafy vegetables, he was committed to seeing it through.
After approximately three minutes of uninterrupted cabbage-staring, he suddenly turned and made direct eye contact with you.
Oh.
You, being the pinnacle of social grace under pressure, pointed at the cabbage and blurted out, “Do you need help?”
Choso, who you would later learn was the most socially inept man on the planet, stared for another agonizing moment before solemnly responding, “It does not make sense.”
“…The cabbage?”
He nodded. Very seriously.
You had no idea what to do with this information.
“What exactly doesn’t make sense?” you asked cautiously, like you were diffusing a bomb.
Choso’s brow furrowed deeper. He lifted one hand and gestured vaguely toward the cabbage, as though words alone could not convey the magnitude of his distress. “It is… round.”
You waited for him to elaborate. He did not.
You blinked. “...Yeah?”
Choso continued staring at it, clearly unaccepting of this fact. “But why?”
You took a slow breath. This was a crossroads in your life. You could walk away. Pretend this never happened. Resume your normal, non-cabbage-related existence.
Or, you could engage.
Like an absolute fool, you chose the second option.
And that’s how you spent the next ten minutes in the middle of the grocery store, giving an impromptu TED Talk on basic produce anatomy to a man who, by all accounts, looked like he had just been dropped onto Earth for the first time and was experiencing his own personal renaissance in Aisle 3.
And thus, a friendship was born.
You didn’t know much about Choso, other than the indisputable fact that he was, objectively, the strangest person you had ever met.
He rarely spoke unless spoken to, stared at people like he was trying to access their souls, and was so absurdly bad at human interaction that you had once witnessed him say “farewell” to a McDonald's worker, as if he was leaving on a life-threatening journey instead of just picking up his order. He didn’t seem to understand even the most basic human social norms—like how, when someone hands you change at a register, you don’t examine it like you’re determining whether it’s counterfeit.
So yeah. Socially, he was a disaster.
But despite all that, you found yourself increasingly drawn to him. There was something about his quiet presence, his unshakable calm, that made you feel at ease. He listened to you in a way no one else did, with an attentiveness that made you feel like the most important person in the room.
And then there were the little things.
The way he remembered your favorite tea even though you just briefly mentioned it in passing. The way he silently handed you his extra umbrella on rainy days because, somehow, he had already calculated that you would forget yours (again). The way he would tilt his head ever so slightly when you scrunched your nose in thought, like he was mentally cataloging the expression for future reference.
It was infuriating.
Because, against all reason, logic, and your own self-preservation instincts, you found yourself falling for him.
The problem? He didn’t feel the same way.
Or at least, that’s what you thought.
Choso, despite his complete lack of understanding regarding emotions, knew one thing for certain: he was in love with you.
And he knew it the second he met you.
The moment you spoke to him in the grocery store—when you, a complete stranger, willingly engaged in an impromptu TED Talk on cabbage physics instead of slowly backing away—something deep within him shifted. It was sudden, inexplicable, and deeply, deeply alarming. He had spent over a century with no real attachments outside of his brothers, had spent his existence floating through life with no concept of what it meant to want anything beyond survival and his brothers' safety.
And then you happened.
You, with your bright eyes, relentless patience, and ability to make even the most mundane things fascinating. Suddenly, Choso wanted more.
But Choso, in all his profound wisdom and utterly nonexistent romantic experience, believed you loved someone else.
And the reason?
A framed photo of a man on your nightstand.
A man you clearly cherished, a man you had chosen to keep in your most private space, right by your bed, watching over you as you slept.
Choso had seen it one night when he had visited your apartment for the first time. The moment his eyes landed on that framed image, his stomach had twisted with a foreign, awful feeling. He didn’t fully understand jealousy, but he knew he hated that photo. He hated the way it stood there, mocking him with its perfect, static, two-dimensional smugness.
From that moment on, he had resigned himself to the bitter truth. He had lost before he even had a chance.
So he swallowed his feelings. Buried them deep, deep down. And if he sometimes caught himself watching you a little too long, or memorizing the way your face lit up when you laughed, or wishing—just for a second—that the framed man didn’t exist, well. That was his problem.
The moment of truth arrived in the most ridiculous way possible.
You and Choso were watching a movie at your place, curled up on the couch in comfortable silence. Everything was normal. You were focused on the screen, lazily sipping from your drink, enjoying the warmth of his presence beside you.
And then, completely out of nowhere, Choso turned to you, his expression as serious as if he were about to announce the apocalypse.
“You love him, don’t you?”
You blinked. “…Huh?”
“The man on your nightstand.”
Your brain flatlined. “My—wait. What?”
Choso’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists on his lap. “The framed picture,” he clarified, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “You love him.”
For a long moment, you just stared at him. Then, as the gears in your head sluggishly turned, realization slammed into you like a freight train.
Oh.
Oh no.
“…Choso.” You fought valiantly against the urge to laugh. “Are you talking about Keanu Reeves?”
Choso didn’t answer.
Just kept staring with that same grave intensity.
You lost it.
“Oh my god.” You slapped a hand over your mouth, wheezing. “Choso. That’s—” You gasped between laughs. “That’s not my boyfriend. That’s Keanu Reeves.”
He blinked. Once. Slowly. “…Who?”
“You don’t—” You exhaled sharply. “Oh my god. He’s an actor. A celebrity.” You gestured wildly in the general direction of your bedroom. “I don’t know him personally. That’s just a framed picture I keep because my friends gifted it to me as a joke.”
Choso’s continued to stare at you. You could practically see the gears in his brain grinding, processing this information in real time.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he muttered, “…Oh.”
You burst out laughing again, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. Choso, meanwhile, was going through about seventeen different emotions at once, but on the outside, his face remained locked in its usual blank stare, the human equivalent of a buffering symbol.
“So,” you wheezed, clutching your stomach, “you thought I was in love with Keanu Reeves this whole time?”
Choso didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sat there, visibly reevaluating every single life choice that had led him to this moment. His voice, when it finally came, was solemn.
“…Yes.”
You gasped for breath between laughs. “For how long?”
“A hundred and seventeen days.”
You gaped at him, laughter halting. “You counted?”
“Yes,” he repeated, unwavering. Then, after a pause, he added, “It was a reasonable assumption.”
“No, it wasn’t!” You threw your hands in the air, incredulous. “It’s a framed meme! Do you really think I’d keep my boyfriend’s picture in a cheap novelty frame with the words ‘Baba Yaga’ in Comic Sans?”
Choso blinked, slowly. “…I do not know what that means.”
That was it. That finished you.
You completely lost it, collapsing back onto the couch in hysterics, clutching your sides. Choso just sat there, arms folded, staring intently at the floor like it had personally betrayed him, his aura radiating pure sulk.
After a full minute, your laughter finally quieted, replaced by something softer, something warmer. Your chest felt too tight, too full. You turned to him, your amusement melting into something gentler. Carefully, you reached for his hand, prying it open before lacing your fingers through his.
“Choso,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “I’ve been in love with you for months.”
Choso froze.
Like, full-body, Windows blue-screen-of-death levels of freezing.
You could practically hear the critical system error noises playing in his brain. His eyes flickered between your face, your intertwined hands, and the sheer sincerity in your voice.
His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. Nothing came out.
And then, in a voice so small it was almost unrecognizable, he asked, “You… have?”
You nodded. “Very much.”
Choso swallowed thickly. His fingers twitched against yours. “…Are you certain?”
You let out a small giggle. “Yes, Choso, I’m certain. This isn’t some elaborate prank. There’s no hidden camera crew waiting to jump out and humiliate you.” You smiled at him, warm and teasing.
Choso exhaled sharply, something between a breath and a disbelieving laugh. His grip tightened around your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in what you could only describe as stunned affection. He shook his head slightly, dazed. “I just… I thought I had lost.”
You squeezed his hand again. “You never even needed to compete.”
Choso stared at you, his expression shifting—something unspoken, fragile, and completely raw settling in his gaze. And then, very suddenly, very Choso-ly, he asked with the most serious tone:
“Do we kiss now?”
You snorted. “What kind of question—”
“I do not know the protocol.”
That nearly took you out.
Your breath hitched as you bit down a grin, shaking your head fondly. “You don’t have to kiss me right now, Choso."
He furrowed his brows, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “But… I want to.”
Your breath caught.
It wasn’t just the words—it was the way he said them. Blunt, honest, like the concept of wanting something—really wanting it—was still new to him, still foreign.
Your heart thudded, warmth flooding through your chest.
“Then…” You swallowed, feeling your own fingers twitch against his. “Then you can.”
Choso hesitated, his dark eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes, visibly weighing the situation like it was some high-stakes battle. And then, leaned in, movements stiff, careful, as if he was afraid he’d somehow mess it up. He tilted his head at an awkward angle, way too focused, like he was trying to solve a particularly complicated math problem.
And then—just as his lips barely brushed against yours—he suddenly pulled back.
You blinked. “What—”
“I must prepare.”
You stared. “...Prepare?"
“I need to Google how.”
You groan, dropping your head against his shoulder, and letting out a dramatic sigh as he fumbled for his phone like he was about to research The Most Effective Techniques for Optimal Lip Contact.
“You don't need to Google how.”
“I wish to do it correctly.” His tone was so serious, so earnest, that it took everything in you not to burst out laughing again.
“It’s literally just—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head in exasperation. “Oh my god, come here.”
Before he could protest, you reached up, cupped his face in your hands, and just did it yourself.
The kiss was soft, deliberate—your lips pressing firmly against his in a way that did not require an instructional YouTube tutorial.
Choso, for his part, went completely rigid for a solid two seconds, clearly hyper-analyzing every aspect of the situation in real time.
But then, something in him melted.
His hands, previously hovering like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you, finally settled on your waist—tentative but warm. The tension in his shoulders eased as he sank into you, tilting his head just right this time, as if realizing that, actually, this was quite nice and, actually, maybe he should’ve been doing this a lot sooner instead of spiraling over framed memes.
And just like that, the months of waiting, of quiet yearning, of all the ridiculous misunderstandings—including the great Keanu Reeves fiasco—all faded away.
When you finally pulled back, Choso just stared at you, utterly wrecked, looking like he had just been hit by a truck. “…Oh.”
You grinned. “Good ‘oh’ or bad ‘oh’?”
His lips parted slightly, as if trying to form words, but his brain was still buffering. “...Very good."
You let out a laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Told you you didn’t need Google.”
Choso exhaled, and when he looked at you, it was with something so soft, so full of wonder, that your heart ached.
“I love you,” he murmured, quiet but sure.
Your breath hitched at the way he said it. So simple. So honest. Like a fact of the universe. Like gravity.
You smiled. “I love you too."
And that was apparently the final emotional straw, because Choso—completely overwhelmed—did what he always did when experiencing an emotion too strong for his body to handle:
He short-circuited.
Which, apparently, meant throwing himself forward and burying his face in your shoulder like a giant, overgrown cat.
You went stiff. “Choso?”
“Give me a moment,” came the muffled response from the deeply flustered voice against your shirt. “I am experiencing emotions.”
Your heart absolutely exploded.
You barely managed to choke down a laugh as you gingerly patted his back. “Uh. Take your time, big guy.”
He made small, quiet noise of contentment against your shoulder.
And that was how you ended up spending the rest of the evening with a very emotionally overwhelmed, 150-year-old half-cursed spirit wrapped around you like a human-weighted blanket—all because he thought you were in love with Keanu Reeves.
i saw these on tiktok and they were too cute not to share, they are not mine!
there was no credit to the artist so if anybody knows who the creator is let me know xoxo edit: artist has been found _GOGAEK
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