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istharoth · 1 month ago

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watching the we’ll go together mv and the thought of visiting an amusement park on a motorbike made me instantly think of sho so this was born… 4.6k of dates i think the ghouls would bring you on… also gave myself the added challenge of inserting a kiss into every one so. that’s what this is!!

The night is soft around the edges. You are curled into his side, the quiet glow from the television at the foot of his bed throwing your profile into muted blues and greys.

Your hand traces sleepy shapes into his arm. He wonders if you can feel the way his heartbeat stumbles under your fingertips, feel the kind of ache that blooms in his chest at your warmth – the kind that reminds him how lucky he is, and how fragile luck can be in the face of your curse.

As he reaches for his phone he wonders how to go about planning a date, one that you’ll tuck away to remember at the beginning of the end.

Jin books out an art museum after hours. He books it at first so you can admire the art, and he can admire you, but neither of you remember the last time you’ve spent time perusing a fine art piece that wasn’t haunted or about to be auctioned off by Sinostra. You both end up, instead, making up stories about the sitters of the portraits you see, heads bent together and snorting like children about how the sitter has her nose in the air and her left sleeve rolled up because her sister rubbed pigeon poop into her gloves as a childish prank. The way your interlaced laughter bounces off the paintings goes against everything Jin knows about fine art museums, but so does the way joy slips out of his mouth, unbidden and boundless, with you. So does the pad of your stockinged feet on museum floor and the heels he slings over his shoulder, the kiss you paint onto the curve of his jaw, the realisation you sculpt into the dawning silver of his throat – that with you, he is nobody’s son and nobody’s captain. All he is, under the soft of the gallery lights and the unwavering gaze of characters long passed, is yours.

Tohma shows up at dusk in a beat-up van with his sleeves rolled up. It startles you at first, seeing Tohma out of uniform, but his grin is warm and his hands are gentle helping you into the van, and when you kiss him hello across the console he smiles at you with the same glint in his eye that’s only ever reserved for you. He takes you to the outskirts of the city onto clean camping grounds – it comes complete with a fire pit and clear view of the stars, and after you hopelessly burn half the skewers he prepared for this you find out it comes complete with the fond of his laughter, too. It is the most relaxed you’ve seen him in ages. The tension melts out of his shoulders the more marshmallows you hand-feed him, and the kisses he gives you are sugar-sweet, after. He lays a ratty Vagastrom blanket on the roof of the van post-dinner, and as he helps you up and into his arms the moonlight catches in the threads of his hair and soaks in between your shared breaths. Tonight, there is no talk of responsibility. There is only talk of you.

Kaito texts you to come over to Frostheim for lunch on a weekend. He doesn’t hint at the storm he has left in the steel Frostheim kitchens, nor at the hours he has spent whipping up a spread of different pastries. He tucks them all into picnic baskets, instead, and when you knock politely on his bedroom door, tugging your blazer tighter around you, he tugs you up to the Frostheim roof, baskets in his hand sunlit and glittering and overflowing with his hard work. The first bite you take of his strawberry shortcake sends you to heaven and back; the first look he takes of you, face tilted towards the sky and eyes closed in pleasure that he - he! - hand-delivered to your mouth, sends his heart thundering for miles. He can’t help the proud grin that spreads across his face at your contented hum, or the flush that climbs up his neck when he tastes strawberry off your sun-sweet kiss of thanks. If there’s one thing he’s confident about, it’s that nobody else can make your lips taste this divine.

Lucas hears about the carnival from Kaito. He isn’t sure what to expect at first, but when you get there there are too many people pressing into you from all sides; cheeks flushing, he takes your hand in his so he doesn’t lose you in the thick of the crowd. He doesn’t let go after. Lucas isn’t quite great at carnival games, as it turns out, but the moment he snags enough points for a prize he’s already turning to you, eyes wide in delight. (He chooses a teddy bear, in the end – so you can have something of his to protect you while you sleep.) When you look up at him, new teddy bear in his arms and your name on his lips and stars in the dawn of his eyes, all his edges soften under the carnival lights, so bright they blur the line between this moment and the previous and the next, between the future you want and the future you have and the future that Lucas is now presenting to you, fluffy and soft and blushing, between the tremble of both your palms. Thank you, you say, and you tip-toe to kiss the flush dusting his cheeks. It’s perfect.

Alan picks you up at eight. He does the little short jog around the front of the car just so he can open the door for you, and when you slide into the plush of the car seat you find that he has already set out one of his warmer hoodies for you to slip on in case you get cold. Between you and the morning sun and the crackle on the radio, time in the car melts into something elastic and malleable, something golden and pliant that fits perfectly between your fingers and his and settles around your shoulders like a security blanket, solid and sure. Being with Alan is easy. It always has been. You blink once, twice, and the highway is already stretching before you, sun glinting off the asphalt and coating him in glow, made all the more brighter by the small smile he always wears whenever he hears you ramble. When Alan parks at an off-road camp site and turns to face you, you tangle yourself into the comfort of his scent, bloom into the warmth of his touch as he tilts your chin up. Hey, you smile, and watch the corners of his eyes crinkle. You kiss the pad of his thumb. Can’t wait to spend the rest of today with you.

Leo could plan a great many public dates for you. He could bring you to the latest donut shop that is all over Instagram, or the river cruise that’s making its way around TikTok. But he doesn’t – he brings you instead, to a quiet cable car ride just a city south of where you are. The lights aren’t bright and the couples there are more interested in each other than they are in either of you, and as the city lights wink back at you through the glass of the cable car they feel less like camera flashes and more like the blink of stars far away. In the swaying dark Leo’s hand finds yours without looking, silent, lemon-sweet. Because this is what it’s like, with you — always steady, always trusting, always you looking at him and past him and all the walls he has built to keep you out, always you choosing to stay, despite everything. You can see the ferris wheel from here, you say, quietly, and Leo hums against your shoulder, a static that drapes itself sweetly across the tip of your tongue. Why, wanna go on it after? You chase the smile in his voice with a kiss. Always.

Sho has many reasons to love Bonnie. He becomes aware of yet another when he realises her speed makes you press up against the broad of his back, arms winding around his waist and laugh echoing in his ear as you cling on for dear life. The date he plans, as a result, ends up having a lot of travelling - the amount of shuffling you do from place to place surprises you, until you piece together that all of the locations he’s brought you to and all of the activities you end up doing are things you’ve mentioned once in passing, in slips of off-hand comments about what you and Leo have seen on social media. It swells in the base of your throat, this silent thoughtfulness, and when he ends the day by bringing you to a quiet amusement park with barely any patrons you can’t help but kiss him in front of the carousel, bright and giddy on its merriment and the gold he has poured into your veins. Thank you, you whisper, pressing your lips to where the carousel lights have painted the curve of his smile warm. Thank you for remembering.

Haru glows under the glare of arcade lights. He is terrifyingly good at claw games, fingers deftly manoeuvring joysticks and tapping buttons to get you the exact toys you want, and half-way through the night you find yourself already carrying more plushies than could ever fit on your bed. When you mention that you want to catch one to keep him company too, Haru laughs. Then there won’t be enough space on the bed for the both of us, he jokes, but his chest is already flush against your back and one hand is already closing on yours on the joystick, the other curled around the soft of your waist. This way, he murmurs, warm on the shell of your ear. You can’t hold back the shiver that skips down your skin at the undercurrent of his voice. But you blink, and a plushie drops from the claw’s pincers, and Haru is cheering so loudly it turns your laugh breathless with adoration. You lean up to kiss him, then, his startled smile against yours sweet as honeysuckle, and as he steals kiss after kiss from you under the neon bloom of arcade lights you wonder if this is what it feels like to be addicted to the sun.

Towa doesn’t know how to apply for an R&R, but he doesn’t need to – the quiet beach he brings you to after sunset, tucked into a far corner of Jabberwock, belongs to an entirely different world. Its sand is almost pitch black under the light of the moon, fine under the sift of your fingers, and as you lay down it molds itself to the shape of both your bodies. Towa hums. His fingers play with the ends of your hair. Dandelion, he says, tell me a story. And so you do, your words wrapped in night and the soft cadence of waves coming home to shore, and as you do you feel Towa’s nose find home in the crook of your neck. If only you could stay like this forever, uninterrupted and warm, safe and adoring, your arm around his shoulders and your voice swirling around him like warm ocean breeze– Towa rises to his elbows. The moonlight fractures across the sea, winds itself into the glow of his eyes. You’re my favourite story-teller, Dandelion, he says, softly, and he kisses you, lips chapped and soft against the curve of your smile. You’ll always be his favourite.

Ren cooks you dinner. He steals away from the circus of his dorm, sets up shop in the quiet Clementia kitchen with your pots and pans and bags of ingredients he bought under an R&R permit the day before. He hates doing the washing, hates waiting around for the food to cook, but oh, the way you look at him throughout it all makes the process worth it – your eyes shine under the artificial kitchen lights, smile button-cute and teasing as you trace the arc of his hands through the air. You even join in without him having to ask you to, your words and hands flying deftly alongside his to prepare all the vegetables needed, until all he needs to do is toss everything in a pot and set it on simmer. It makes it easier, he thinks. You make it easier. After you set the lid on the pot you turn to Ren. Everything you make always smells so good, you sigh, and watch his neck flush a pretty pink. Yeah, yeah, he mutters; he curls his arm around you anyway. If it were anyone else he’d suspect they were trying to manipulate him to cooking more often, but you’re tilting your chin up and pressing the softest kiss on the curve of his jaw, and the voice in his head quietens. He never feels obligated to do things, not with you.

Taiga doesn’t get the approval required to bring you off-campus, but he doesn’t need it – after all, what for be the most proficient gambler alive if he can’t just buy what he wants with his winnings? The next time you show up at Sinostra you find a photo-strip booth installed in the lobby. You don’t have to wait in line for it, of course – Taiga pulls you into it after hours, arm around your waist and tongue clicking in impatience. The first photos you get are blurry with laughter, of you trying to figure out the camera and the timing and why Taiga always startles whenever the flash goes off, of Taiga looking confused at your giggles with his mouth half-opened and his eyebrows furrowed. The next few are cuter, of Taiga tucking his teeth into the crook of your neck, of you pressing a kiss to Taiga’s cheek, of him turning back to you, eyes soft like a memory, tender like candle glow. The last few are blurry with something else, of Taiga’s searing grin, of Taiga coaxing gasps from the burn of your lips, of his rings digging into your hips and your hands running into his hair. He keeps these in his pocket. You keep them over your heart.

Romeo pretends that he’s doing it more for himself than he is for you. The hotel room he books out is opulence itself, with pearlescent floor and velvet curtains the colour of wine; you don’t have to touch the pillow cases to know its thread count soars into the thousands. He pulls out silk pajamas and three different lotions with hyaluronic acid and royal jelly, brews you tea the colour of blood. He orders room service. He snaps at you to lay back in the pillows, but his touch on the curve of your cheek as he applies a clay mask on you is softer than clouds. Because this is how Romeo loves — without false promises or niceties, just the stuttering gasp of need, just the quiet exhale of I will do anything for you, over and over, without you having to ask. When he holds you it is with the desperation of a man who knows he has a deadline, who has inexplicably found himself tangled in the ticking bomb of you, but when he kisses you it is like the dusk kissing the horizon kissing the dawn — like it is the natural order of things, like something that can never be lost, like something he will never give the universe a chance to stop.

Ritsu leads you around a history museum. The warm afternoon is dulled by the buzz of patrons around you, and yet further muted by the weight of Ritsu’s hand in yours. You meander, slowly, through the glass exhibits and the carefully penned panels, heels clicking quietly on the marble flooring, until you come to a stop before a collection of bronze rings, meticulously placed and described on the plastic panelling before you. This is my favourite exhibit, Ritsu says, quietly. His hand tightens around yours. Your eyes alight on the translucent inscription on the top right of the glass box. In loving memory of Irene and Rodolfo, who met and fell in love at this museum. Ritsu shifts. There is something about how old these items are, he says, that makes you wonder how many couples they’ve seen, wandering around the museum, hand-in-hand and in love. The June of his words bloom bright in the tight of your throat. You lean in to press a kiss on his cheek, and he turns to look at you, thumb skating over your bare knuckles. Now they’ve seen one more, you murmur, and watch the sky of his eyes crinkle up, clear with delight.

Subaru brings you around a quiet town two hours away from the city. The locals know him not for his career but for the boy he once was, meek and sweet and stubborn, and as you enter the Showa era shophouses you are surrounded by sweets and tea and a delight that echoes past your bones. You spend most time, in the end, in a small kimono store run by a kindly grandmother — she presents you and Subaru a rainbow of beautiful fabrics in intricate pinks and greens and blues, but the only thing you return to again and again is a pastel purple, so pale it is almost white. When you step out of the dressing room it sends Subaru reeling. He has seen you in white before, yes, but never before has he been so vividly struck by the vision of you in a shiromuku, smiling at him, walking towards him like he is a future you’ve always wanted. Subaru rocks back on his heels, dizzy— but then you are laughing, and kissing him sweetly on the cheek, and suddenly he sees himself in a montsuki, black as night and just as sparkling. It drums through his heart, this shared glow of a shared future, and as the warm squeeze of your hand through his gloves brings him back to reality he can’t help but smile. He will buy this kimono for you, of course, but perhaps— perhaps he will also indulge in a black haori for himself, to go with you.

Haku brings you the stars. Or rather, he books you both tickets for an evening at the planetarium, the one midtown with private plush beds reclined just at the right angle for you to watch the stars in the warmth of his arms. The night starts off with your head on his shoulder, narrator’s voice melting into your seats as you watch the universe expand across the domed ceiling; it ends with Haku’s lips on your temple as you track constellations across the silently rotating sky – he murmurs old myths into your hair, hums shrine stories of how all stardust is said to carry memories of the star they came from. He intertwines his fingers with yours, low voice tucking reverence between the stitch of your palms, and suddenly you are dizzy with the ache that sings through your chest at the promise of colliding again and again with Haku, of each insignificant particle of you finding particles of him over and over in every lifetime past and every lifetime to come, of carrying the home of his hands and hymn of his lips in the blueprint of your very atoms, indelible and indefinite and sure. You look up at him, after, at the way he is outlined in silver and starlight. Haku, you say. The honey of his name drips off your tongue like a prayer; he kisses it from your lips. He kisses you like he has known no other sweetness, until he is no longer him and you are no longer you, until neither of you carry curses or demons or responsibilities, until you are once again two dust motes spinning across the universe, drifting together, drifting home.

Zenji takes you to a bookstore. After all, how better to know what kind of poetry resonates with your soul? The bookstore is tucked away between an old tea shop and a bakery, its green awning long bleached colourless by the sun and rain. When you step inside you are first greeted by the singing creak of the floorboards, then the dance of dust notes in the morning sun. They swim in the warm rays of sunlight, lightly disturbed only by your entrance and Zenji’s humming, but give way to the stacks upon stacks of yellowed books neatly shuffled into nearly-toppling piles. Zenji inhales deeply. One of my favourite smells, he intones, and you can’t help but smile and take a deep breath too. You shuffle between books, reading their jackets and occasionally flipping some open to peer inside, and laugh quietly when Zenji’s voice, deep and resonant over your shoulder, brings the words to life. Because isn’t this what words are for – to carry love, to be carried by love? Zenji’s reading brushes your shoulder, kisses the shell of your ear, sweet as mint. You look up at him, then, with all his love carried in the sparkle of his voice and the ruby of his eyes. Maybe it is.

Ed offers you a rainy day in. He complains of the rain and the wind, of the ache in his joints that don’t quite go away whenever the moon is covered, and the current of amused dramatics running under every word of it makes you laugh fondly. It isn’t very different from all your other dates, not really – you end up dozing in the velvet of his covers, his nose pressed into the intoxicating scent of your pulse point and his arms around your middle – but neither of you mind. Perhaps if the days blur together they will extend far beyond your understanding of time; perhaps if this becomes your new normal you will forget that your days have been limited in the first place. Or perhaps, he hopes, you will look up at him at the end of your days, your bare back spread with bruising violets and crimsons, and curl your burning hand over his, murmuring kisses of acquiescence against the cold of his lips– Ed sighs. Humans. For now he will simply listen to the drum of the rain on the window and watch as flashes of lightning linger in your eyelashes. There will be time still.

Rui brings you to the botanical gardens. The flowers there are different from those in Obscuary, of course, and not quite as pretty, but how nice it is, to smell the sweet of blooms not meant to die in the moonlight. How nice it is, to flirt with you among reminders of life. He takes you down winding paths shaded by rustling trees, brings you to see the multitudes of orchids and tulips and sunflowers lining the insides of greenhouses and brings you to see more flowers still. He talks you through the honeysuckles and the lilies, and as the sun kisses your faces through the leaves and your hands drift closer and closer to home, he can’t help but feel the sprout of some stubborn hope he has long since buried. It winds itself between the stalks of you, sinks itself into the sun between your feet — that the both of you, stubbornly surviving between the cracks of Darkwick and determined to bloom still, will be able to live again, side-by-side, in the dirt-stained hands of spring.

Lyca teaches you how to draw. You settle on the floor of his room, thick sketchbook paper strewn out between the both of you, and by the time the sun goes down the pages have been filled with beautiful portraits (Lyca’s) and pencil squiggles (yours). The afternoon itself was quiet, filled only with the scratches of graphite on paper and the occasional conversation about what went wrong in the mess you’ve made on your papers; Rui only popped in once, just to ask if you needed water. (And, you suspect, to gather some intelligence too — you get a polite text soon after from Haku enquiring after the reason for Subaru letting out a relieved laugh and hugging his phone to his chest.) The rest of the evening passes by in almost a blur, and at the end of it, scattered amongst the sketches of you and doodles of Lyca’s swishy tail, is this: the sunshine-glass of laughter, bright and sparkling on the floor between you. The graphite-shine of Lyca’s eyes printed onto your heart, the melt of him onto the margins of your pages. The skip of your heart when he leans in a little too close to look at your scratches, the sweet blush that spreads across the scrunch of his nose when you finally, finally, lean back in and kiss him.

Yuri brings you to an open lecture hosted by a known expert at the University downtown. It doesn’t matter that it has nothing to do with medicine or biology — the sheer delight on your face when he off-handedly mentions the permit he got from Professor Nicolas is enough to turn his cheeks bright red. He makes you give him a crash course on the subject before the lecture, of course, but it is only so he can cover up the fact that he has spent the last two nights reading up all he can about the subject matter you love, buried up to his nose in books and reading materials he tucks away before you come in in the morning. All he learns doesn’t make a difference anyway — the entire lecture goes by without Yuri absorbing anything into his brain. This is what he remembers instead: the soft of your cheek as you settle your chin in your hand, ready to listen, the sparkle in your eye, bright like stars even as the lights in the auditorium are lowered. The thank you kiss you leave on his cheek after, burning him some shade of lovestruck and self-satisfied and grateful all at once.

Jiro looks almost intimidating when backlit by aquarium blue. But he is half-smiling in wonder, blood-red of his eyes cooling into something child-like and animated, and you can’t help but laugh as he tugs you from room to room, peering into the well-kept glass habitats with focus and intent. You drift from coral to eels, from starfish to anemones, the cold of his hand the only thing anchoring you in the flow of the experience. Before you know it, the next room Jiro pulls you into opens up into a floor-to-ceiling display of jellyfish, gently pulsating with life, and you can’t help the little gasp that escapes your lips. Jiro peers down at you, grin crooked and fond. Did you know, he says, that jellyfish exist in all sorts of different water conditions? There are jellyfish in the Artic oceans and in freshwater lakes. You look at him through your reflection in the dark glass – even in the backdrop of mindless jellyfish there is still a rare sparkle in his eye that swells like a tide in your lungs. I didn’t, you answer. You tug him down to kiss his cheek, and let him sweep you away on the current of his smile.

in writing this i realised that like . i’ve planned the date actually not them. booooo. anyway on ao3 here!

#lin i hope you know how much i love your writing style #You're so poetic it makes me sob--i love how your words flow so well and how *head in hands*#point blank i love your writinv #PLEASE NEVER DIE #AND ALSO SPEAKING OF DATES?? LIKE OMFG THEYRE SO ???? I WANNA GO ON DATES #with them--like wow... in awe of how theyre all written 😭😭

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