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[2:43 a.m.] ⋆ “when i was little, i had this recurring nightmare.”

mydei hums, curious. his arm is slung over your waist, fingers tracing slow shapes over your hipbone through the blanket, waiting.

you turn your head slightly towards him. “promise not to laugh?”

“i’d never,” he says, but his mouth is already curving into a sleepy smile you can feel more than see.

“okay. so. in the dream, i’d be in this… giant grocery store. massive. endless aisles. and i’d be trying to find my mom, but every time i turned a corner, i’d just end up somewhere weirder. like, once i opened a freezer and it was a tunnel? and another time, the bread aisle was full of mannequins.”

mydei snorts, then muffles it against your shoulder when you nudge him with your elbow.

“see? i knew you’d laugh.”

“i’m not laughing,” he says. “i’m horrified. truly.” 

you giggle, the sound light in the darkness. “i used to wake up in a panic every time. my heart would be racing like i’d actually lost her. and now when i think about it, i’m like—why the hell would there be mannequins in the bread aisle?”

mydei props himself up slightly on one elbow, and presses his mouth to your hair. “i think it makes perfect sense,” he says. “bread’s terrifying. i’d be afraid too. i’m glad you told me.”

“yeah?” 

“yeah. i like knowing what scared you when you were small.”

“why?” you say, turning onto your side so you can face him fully. some of his hair that spills over his shoulders tickles your cheek.

“makes me feel closer to you,” he says. “you’re a little sweetheart, y’know that?”

“you’d never say that out loud in front of everyone else,” you say, pulling a face at him.

“never,” he agrees, and kisses away the creases on your forehead.

in my head, i imagine this as the get him back! couple :’)

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[4:56 a.m.] ⋆ “you better have a good fucking reason for dragging me out of bed, miya.”

the hallway light is dim, and you squint at your boyfriend, standing at the kitchen doorway. it’s way too early for whatever he’s up to: the curtains are still drawn, the heater is still humming, and your dog is still curled into a ball at the end of the hallway.

atsumu doesn’t look the least bit guilty. he’s wide awake, hair sticking up in all directions, crouched in front of the freezer in nothing but sweatpants and a sock on one foot.

“craving hit,” he says simply, holding up a container. “y’know the fruity kind you like? they had it the last time i went to the store.”

“so you dragged me out of bed for sherbet?”

“it’s limited edition,” he says.

you rub your face with a sigh, but you’re already padding towards him anyway. the tiles are cold beneath your socks. atsumu steps aside to let you steal warmth from the open fridge light, and hands you a spoon.

“y’wanna sit down? i put the kettle on too. figured you might want tea.”

your grumpiness falters a little. the tea part softens you.

the two of you end up on the couch, legs tangled under the shared throw blanket, a half-eaten tub of sherbet between you. astumu uses your thigh as an armrest while balancing his tea on a coaster he didn’t grab until after he was scolded. the dog eventually joins you, curling into the crook of atsumu’s legs. the clock ticks softly.

“this is so stupid,” you mutter, though you’re not grumpy anymore. “it’s nearly dawn.”

he leans his head against yours. “but yer smilin’.”

you snort. “barely.” 

“still counts.”

he presses a kiss to the top of your head, and eats another bite of sherbet. you wipe a drip off his chin with your sleeve, and tuck your feet under his calves and nudge his tea closer to him. atsumu kisses your temple again, because he can. the sherbet’s melting. the sky’s starting to lighten, but neither of you move to clean up. there’ll be time for that later.

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u ever wonder if ur associated with a character forever to someone else. like. when ur scrolling ur dash and u see a url u don't recognize and after going to their blog ur like ohhh this is the Character person. yeah ok i remember now.

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[11:11 a.m.] ⋆ “i don’t understand how you can eat a pickle sandwich for breakfast.”

satoru pauses mid-bite, a slice of dill slipping precariously out of the corner of his bread. “you lack vision,” he says around a mouthful, chewing happily.

you lean against the kitchen counter, still in pajamas, a mug of tea cradled between your hands. “i’m pretty sure i lack nausea, actually. because that—” you gesture vaguely to the monstrosity on his plate—“should be illegal.”

“it’s salty,” he says through a mouthful of pickle. you wrinkle your nose, but he continues, “it’s tangy. it’s got texture. honestly, it’s everything a person could want.”

“it’s 11:11 in the morning.”

“and i made a wish,” satoru says, tapping his sandwich. “this.” 

you groan. “you could’ve wished for literally anything. world peace. a vacation. my eternal love.”

“i already have the last one,” he says, grinning. “why waste a wish?”

you roll your eyes, trying not to smile as you turn back to the counter to spread jam on a slice of toast. behind you, satoru hums a satisfied little tune as he finishes off most of his sandwich, licking his fingers clean. 

“want a bite?” he offers, holding out the last piece.

“never.” 

he walks over anyway. “come on, just one little—”

you hold your toast up like a shield. “you get pickle juice on my strawberry jam and i swear i’ll revoke my love.”

“that’s harsh.”

“that’s justice.”

he relents and tosses the last bite in his mouth before reaching for your tea. “i’m drinking this in protest.”

“drama queen,” you say, but you don’t stop him. his hand brushes yours when he takes the mug, warm and familiar, and he leans in for a quick kiss on your cheek on the way out of the kitchen.

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[10:30 p.m.] ⋆ “you really don’t have to carry me, you know.”

your arms are looped loosely around satoru’s neck, your head tipped against his shoulder, and even though you’re grumbling, you’re not exactly resisting. your feet are sore—blame the new boots and three hours of standing, dancing, and getting jostled by the crowd. blame satoru for dragging you to the concert in the first place. or maybe don’t. it was kind of incredible.

“but i want to,” satoru says, grinning. “and when have i ever listened to reason?”

“you literally just carried me past a crowd of, like, at least a thousand people.”

“too late to be embarrassed, sweetheart.”

you sigh into his neck, face half-hidden in his coat collar. he smells like that lemony soap he always steals for special occasions, and the faint scent of cotton candy from the vendor you dragged him to at intermission.

“so,” you say, “do you carry all your dates home after concerts, or is it just me?”

“only the ones who complain about their new shoes within thirty minutes of the concert starting,” he says. “i don’t go on many dates. the bar’s not very high.”

you frown, sleepy but affronted. “you had fun, though. right?”

“i had a blast,” he says. “mainly ‘cause of you.”

you smush your cheek against his shoulder, while satoru, miraculously, somehow manages to unlock and maneuver through the front door at the same time. that’s weirdly hot, you think, fighting back a yawn. my husband’s a hottie.

“you’re a hottie,” you tell him. satoru carries you through the living room. you’ve both done this before—nights like this when you stay out too long, laugh too hard, and wear yourselves out on joy. “take me to bed, please.”

“thank you,” satoru says. “you’re a hottie, too. but i have to put you down for a second. my arm’s going numb.”

you hum in acknowledgement but don’t move. instead, you rest your chin on his shoulder. he shivers when your breath tickles his ear.

“okay,” he says. “never mind. guess i live like this now.”

“poor you,” you whisper, and kiss his jaw.

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[2:45 a.m.] ⋆ when the two of you sign the lease together for your new house, toji carries you in his arms and steps over the threshold. 

it’s nearly three in the morning, and technically, you were only supposed to move in tomorrow, but neither of you were getting sleep, and what better way to stay awake than together in your new house? 

it’s pitch-black, save for the porch light you don’t have the time to switch off. the night is warm and quiet, crickets chirping somewhere beyond the hedges, the air thick with the faint scent of new paint and jasmine from the overgrown trellis outside. his boots thud lightly against the hardwood as he steps inside, and your giggles echo down the empty hallway as he adjusts you in his arms.

“you know, you didn’t have to actually carry me,” you say, arms looped around his neck. “that’s, like, a wedding thing.”

“it’s tradition,” he mutters, like that justifies everything, like that’s the reason his grip around your waist is so careful. “don’t start whining now.”

you smack his chest, and he grins, walking deeper into the bare living room where the moonlight streams in through uncovered windows, casting silver on the floorboards. there’s nothing inside yet but boxes, stray bubble wrap, and the dusty scent of moving tape and cardboard.

toji sets you down gently. you blink up at him, hair mussed from dozing off in the car, oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. “i still can’t believe it,” you say, looking around. “it’s ours.”

he watches you. he hasn’t said it out loud—not in so many words—but he knows what it means. this house. the keys in his pocket. the shared toothbrush holder already sitting in the bathroom.

you and him, together.

instead, he raises an eyebrow. “you gettin’ soft on me?”

you end up in the bedroom, of course, because the rest of the place is still half-packed. the mattress is on the floor. there’s no bed frame yet; no curtains either. he shrugs off his jacket, stretches, bones popping in the silence, and you toss him one of the throw pillows you managed to dig out from the box labelled misc.

he catches it with a raised brow.

“don’t get used to the royal treatment,” you say, already curling up on your side of the bed, feet cold against his shin when he slips in beside you.

“don’t threaten me with a good time,” he says, reaching out, palm sliding over your waist like it’s second nature. it is. it has been. but here, in this new room, on this quiet night, it feels nicer. he quite likes it, he thinks. likes sharing things with you, in this room, in this house, in his life.

outside, someone revs a motorcycle. a dog barks. then the neighbourhood settles again, tucked back into the lull of the early morning. toji hears you hum, the kind of sound you make when you’re somewhere between dreams and comfort. his hand is still at your side.

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[2:02 a.m.] ⋆ “okay, no, so, like. hear me out. when fish see humans way above them, do they think we’re birds?”

atsumu doesn’t open his eyes. he groans into his pillow, voice muffled and gravelly from sleep. “you’re startin’ strong tonight, babe.”

you’re curled up beside him, blanket bunched at your waist, wearing the oversized high school volleyball tee you always steal from his drawer. your legs are tangled with his under the duvet, and your hair tickles his shoulder every time you move—which is a lot, because, apparently, you’re in a ‘thinking mood.’

you nudge him. “i’m serious. we’re just floating silhouettes to them. it’s not like they know what people are.”

atsumu rolls onto his back and finally cracks an eye open. the ceiling fan spins lazily above. the bedside lamp is off, but the hallway light seeps in through the slightly cracked door, painting everything in a warm, honeyed hue.

he turns his head towards you, blinking slow. “baby. please. i’m barely alive right now.”

“but you heard the question, right?”

“unfortunately.” 

you grin, cheek pressed against his chest. “so? do they think we’re birds?”

he sighs, wraps an arm around you tighter, and pulls you in. “i think fish don’t think that much.”

“that’s rude.”

“they’ve got tiny fish brains. what d’you want from ‘em?”

you make a little indignant noise and poke his side. “so i guess that makes me smarter than a fish, huh?”

“sure,” he says with a yawn. “jury’s still out.”

you try to bite his shoulder through the fabric of his sleep shirt, and he snorts, low and fond. “okay, okay. yer smarter. way smarter.”

“it’s philosophy,” you explain.

“it’s you blabbering nonsense is what it is,” he says, but he turns his head and presses his mouth to your hairline. you fall quiet for a moment, letting your hand rest just under the hem of his shirt, palm flat over the steady rise and fall of his stomach. atsumu hums. his hand finds your hair, combing through it gently.

“sorry. do you want me to stop?” you say.

“god. no. i love you.”

you laugh, muffled against him. “you sap.”

he doesn’t deny it. instead, he shifts and presses a kiss to your forehead. “go to sleep, baby.”

“will you dream about fish?”

“i’ll dream about you bein’ a fish.” i love you, he thinks again. “go to sleep.”

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[4:22 p.m.] ⋆ phainon knows how to find you faster than anyone else. there’s only one place you would sneak off to, anyway.

the observatory in the grove of epiphany isn’t even that secret. everyone knows about the enchanted dome, the one that mirrors the constellations of amphoreus regardless of the hour. but for some reason, it always feels like it belongs just to the two of you.

when he pushes the door open, he’s met with the soft hum of enchantment and starlight stretching across the glass dome. you’re lying on the plush circular rug in the centre, with mismatched socks and a bag of spirit day’s lucky cookies open next to you.

he smiles without meaning to. you don’t even look up.

“knew you’d find me,” you mumble, popping a cookie into your mouth.

“i follow the crumbs,” he teases, stepping out of his boots and flopping down beside you. “literal crumbs, this time.”

“you weren’t supposed to see those.”

he snags a cookie from the bag, bumping his shoulder against yours. “you’re very bad at sneaking snacks.”

“you’re very annoying for someone i like so much.”

phainon hums, rolling onto his side to look at you, chin propped on one hand. his other arm stretches out lazily, fingers brushing over your thighs. “you like me?”

“for cerces’ sake,” you groan, covering your face with one hand. “you knew that.”

“i like hearing you say it,” he says.

you peek at him from between your fingers, trying not to smile too wide. “you’re so annoying.”

“you like that too.”

overhead, the illusion shifts slowly: stars rearranging themselves into a heart, then a lopsided flower, like the dome’s magic is eavesdropping again. phainon glances up at it and grins.

“subtle,” he says.

“shut up,” you mumble, reaching over to flick his forehead. but your fingers linger, brushing through his bangs to smooth them out. “your hair’s all messed up.”

“you always do this,” he says, amused.

“and i always will,” you retort. “get used to it, phainon.”

he looks at you like you just hung the moon, like your smile is brighter than the false stars above your heads. you lean your head against his shoulder, and he shifts slightly so you fit better there, curling into his side.

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[11:00 p.m.] ⋆ sukuna thinks it’s adorable how riled up you get when he shows you videos of his nephew playing football at his first ever preschool football tournament.

not that he’d ever say it out loud, of course. but he watches you from the couch, one arm thrown behind your back, the other holding his phone steady while you lean in, legs crossed beneath you and your face the picture of righteous indignation.

“oh, come on,” you say, stabbing a finger at the screen. “that kid shoved him! where’s the ref? what sort of lawless league is this?”

sukuna hums, pretending to be engrossed in the video, though he’s more interested in the way your nose scrunches when you’re upset on someone else’s behalf. “you think i should write a strongly-worded letter to the preschool committee?”

“you should. i mean—look at him!”

on the screen, four-year-old yuuji stumbles, wobbles back to his feet, and immediately runs in the opposite direction of the ball.

“he scored on his own team three times,” sukuna says. “are we sure we want to die on this hill?”

“he’s learning,” you argue, smacking his arm. “and the point isn’t winning, it’s sportsmanship. that other kid was downright mean.”

“mm,” he says lazily, tossing his phone aside. “i’ll let his mom know you’re filing a report.”

you roll your eyes and shift to face him fully, legs knocking against his as you settle into the cushions. “you joke, but if i ever see that kid again—”

“you’ll what?” sukuna reaches out to tug you closer by the ankle until you fall back against his chest with a disgruntled squeak. “trip him with your foot while pretending to tie your shoelaces?”

you open your mouth. close it. “...you’re not supposed to encourage me.”

“you make it too easy.” 

he tilts his head back, rubbing circles into your thigh. his eyes are half-lidded, watching you with that same idle affection he always wears when you don’t notice him noticing. except now, you do. you shake your head, smiling all the same.

“you’re the worst,” you say.

sukuna grins. “tell me again while defending my nephew’s honour.”

by football, i’m referring to soccer for all you american folks out there ✊

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[2:56 a.m.] ⋆ gojo satoru knows you have a thing for his fingers.

he’s not subtle about it, either. never has been. not when he catches you staring during movie nights, drumming those absurdly long digits against the bowl of popcorn like he’s trying to be annoying (and succeeding). not when he tilts your chin up with just two knuckles, smug because he knows it drives you insane. 

and definitely not now—when it’s nearly three in the morning and you’re both in the kitchen, half-awake, standing barefoot on the cold tile while he brandishes a can of whipped cream.

you squint at him. “are you seriously doing this again?”

“what, indulging in life’s simple pleasures?” he says, lifting the can with his head cocked to a side.

you watch him spray a generous swirl of whipped cream directly onto the pad of his index finger and then stick it in his mouth with exaggerated bliss.

“jesus,” you mutter.

he grins around it, withdrawing his finger with an audible pop. “you say that, but your eyes are glued to my hand.”

“yeah, ‘cause that’s disgusting,” you say.

“disgustingly hot, you mean.”

you toss a dish towel at his face. he catches it with one hand, twirling it around his wrist. 

“you’re unbearable,” you tell him primly, turning to the fridge to mask the way your cheeks burn. “and you’ve had, what, three hours of sleep in two days? maybe less?”

“whipped cream is basically therapy at this point,” satoru says. “i’ve got everything i need to feel better. sugar, company, and the deeply gratifying knowledge that you are, in fact, thinking about my fingers.”

“i’m thinking of breaking them.”

“still thinking of them.”

you grab a carton of milk and turn back around. satoru reaches behind you for the cupboard—purposefully too close, arm brushing against yours—and grabs a mug. you don’t move, though you really should. your body’s too warm, and your brain’s too slow, and he’s too… him.

“you’re lying,” he says, bringing his arm back down. “you could’ve broken my fingers just then.”

you let out a disbelieving laugh. “i’m this close to pouring this milk over your head.”

“this close?” he asks, holding up his thumb and pointer finger with a sliver of space between them.

you swat at his hand without thinking. he catches your wrist mid-air, self-satisfied as always, but instead of letting go, his fingers curl around your pulse point.

“satoru—” 

“yeah?”

“you’re right,” you whisper. “i do like your fingers a lot.”

his grin returns. “hah! see, i knew—”

you elbow him in the stomach before he can finish his sentence. he wheezes in pain, but follows you back to the bedroom anyway.

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[00:01 a.m.] ⋆ maybe they’re lying. he has to be alive. he has to.

you tell yourself this even though the silence pressing in through the four walls of your room is impossibly loud. even though you haven’t moved in hours and the clock just tipped past midnight like it was nothing. like the world didn’t just end.

your fingers curl tighter around your phone.

there was no body. just words passed along the hallway, low and solemn and soaked in grief. just someone’s trembling voice on the other end of the line saying “i’m so sorry,” like that could mean anything at all.

gojo satoru is not the kind of person who dies quietly.

so maybe—maybe they’re wrong. maybe he’s just trapped. maybe he’s somewhere, fighting his way out like he always does, bleeding but breathing, laughing with one eye blackened and his shirt half-destroyed, coming back to you just to say something stupid, like, “did’ya miss me, baby?”

maybe.

the ceiling blurs above you. you didn’t even lie down; you just ended up here, sprawled across the bed too big for one but just right for two, wearing the sweatshirt he left on the back of a chair two days ago, still smelling faintly of his cologne. it’s warm. you press the sleeve to your face like that might keep him there.

he has to be here.

you close your eyes. you try not to imagine him in pain. you try not to imagine anything at all.

somewhere, in the quietest place inside your mind, a voice softer than breath whispers: what if he’s not coming back?

you cover your ears. you listen to the clock tick past 0:01. maybe he’ll walk through that door tomorrow.

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[11:59 p.m.] ⋆ you’re both supposed to be asleep. the room is dark save for the soft glow of the lamp on your nightstand, and the sheets are warm, tangled between your legs and his. but sleep doesn’t come easy tonight—hasn’t, for days.

so instead, you lie shoulder to shoulder with suguru, sharing a half-crumpled newspaper crossword between you, the pen clutched loosely in your hand.

“thirteen across,” he reads out, frowning. “nine letters. ‘a universal remedy.’”

you hum, skimming over the letters already filled in. suguru sighs in concentration, shifting slightly. he’s on his side, one hand tucked under his cheek, the other resting over your stomach.

“panacea,” you declare.

“look at you,” suguru says. “smart and beautiful.”

you snort quietly, filling in all the boxes. “means cure-all. fixes everything.”

“if only.” his fingers twitch a little against you.

“what would yours be?” you ask, tracing over the letters again with the pen, softer this time. “if you had one.”

he doesn’t answer right away, but he leans forward slightly, breath brushing against your hairline.

“you,” he says. “if i could bottle you up and take a sip when things get hard.”

you wrinkle your nose. “you have a strange way of telling me you love me.”

he laughs, and his nose bumps against your temple. he presses his mouth to your forehead.

“panacea,” he repeats the word. “sounds like pancreas.”

“sounds more like pancakes to me.” you yawn, and he smiles.

“we’ll have them for breakfast,” suguru promises.

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[2:41 a.m.] ⋆ “look, i love you and all, but can you please, for the sake of all things good and holy, come to bed?”

phainon, hunched over the counter, back to you, doesn’t even glance up. he carefully drizzles icing over a tray of star-shaped cookies. there’s flour on his sleeves, on his jaw, in his hair. another tray sits cooling beside him, and a third is already half-eaten—presumably by him.

“you weren’t supposed to see this yet,” he mumbles, tongue poking out slightly in focus. “it was meant to be a surprise.”

“a surprise at two in the morning?”

“it’s two-forty-one, actually.”

“even worse,” you sigh.

he straightens slowly, flexing his fingers, then glances back at you with a sheepish smile. “i couldn’t sleep. and the dough was already resting, so…”

you wander over, arms folding around his waist from behind. he’s warm. smells like sugar and cinnamon. “you’re crazy,” you mutter into his back.

he leans into you, tilting his head to rest against yours. “i made your favourites.”

“i know. that’s why i’m still here instead of dragging you back to bed by the collar.”

you reach over and pluck a cooled cookie from the tray, nibbling the edge while he watches for your approval.

“it’s good,” you say. “too good, actually. like, suspiciously good.”

“i had a muse.”

you nudge his hip with yours. “flirt.”

“guilty.”

“come back to bed.”

“okay.”

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[3:41 p.m.] ⋆ you think it’s incredibly unfair that your boyfriend looks objectively good while doing something as ordinary as chopping melon.

“i’d climb you like a tree if i could,” you say thoughtfully, voice muffled by the way your cheek is squished into your palm, elbow propped on the dining table.

kuroo laughs. “what’s stopping you, weirdo?”

you shrug, watching him work with half-lidded eyes. “you said not to bother you when you’re holding a knife.”

“that was for your safety, not mine,” he says. “you’d trip over your own feet and take us both out.”

“true,” you admit. “still feels like a missed opportunity.”

kuroo finishes cutting the last of the honeydew and slides the cutting board aside, wiping his hands on a dish towel before walking back to you. he leans down, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. his hands smell like melon and dish soap.

“you were watching me cut that fruit for fifteen minutes,” he says. “don’t tell me you were thinking that the whole time.”

“i was also thinking you’re due for a haircut,” you say, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “and that we’re out of coffee.”

“romantic.” 

“i’m a woman of range.” you smile without looking up.

he snorts and settles into the chair beside you, plucking a piece of melon from the bowl he just filled. you nudge his knee with yours under the table. he taps your ankle back.

“i wasn’t kidding,” you say, still staring at the table.

kuroo swallows his bite, amused. “about climbing me?”

“at some point,” you say, nodding. “just a heads-up.”

“weirdo,” he says again, but it’s only with fondness and adoration, and he picks up another melon cube and holds it out for you to take.

what i would give to climb kuroo tetsurou like a tree 🤧

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[11:16 p.m.] ⋆  “you sure you know what you’re doing?”

you lift your pair of scissors with both hands, comb tucked between your fingers. “i watched, like, five youtube videos.”

“ah,” satoru says, mock-serious. “then by all means, do your worst.”

you roll your eyes, fingers threading through the soft strands at the base of his neck, where his hair curls slightly when it gets too long. it’s damp from the spray bottle you used earlier, beads of water glinting under the overhead light. his blindfold is tossed to the counter. his eyes are closed. he trusts you.

“keep still,” you say, gently tilting his head forward again with your palm. “unless you want to walk into work tomorrow looking like a dandelion.”

“the kids would love it, honestly.”

the scissors make a satisfying snip, then another, hair falling in tiny pale tufts to the towel you laid out around his shoulders. he hums tunelessly as you work—quiet for once, content.

“why so late?” he asks after a while. “you usually won’t even let me microwave leftovers after ten.”

you brush a few strands from his cheek. “you’ve been gone all week, and you come back looking like this?”

satoru smiles, eyes blinking open. “i missed you, too.”

you snip again. when you’re done, you set the comb aside and brush away the last few stray pieces of hair from his shoulders.

“you look decent,” you say, squinting. “like, an 8.5.”

satoru grins and spins the chair to face you, reaching out, catching your waist. “bold of you to insult someone holding this much raw power.

you make a face. “you did not just say that unironically. i’m the one with the scissors, satoru.”

he laughs, pulling you into his lap, careless of the hair dusting your shirt. “fine, fine. 8.5 and lucky to have you.”

“that’s right,” you say happily, and kiss him, laughing against his mouth, scissors still clutched in your hand, home pressed heart-close to your chest.

requests are open! check out this post if you’re interested!

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[6:44 a.m.] ⋆ the light in the observatory filters slow and syrupy through the domed glass, amber-gold and gentle, like it’s afraid to wake the world too harshly.

phainon stands by the telescope, hair damp from his shower, his robe shrugged carelessly over his shoulder. one of his hands rests lightly on the scope’s edge, the other wrapped around a mug you’re sure has gone cold. he hasn’t noticed you yet; he’s too absorbed in whatever celestial body has caught his eye.

a soft buzz hums from the monitor beside him, displaying coordinates and shifting orbital lines—the planet is his namesake, maybe. or something he insists has a prettier orbit. you can’t keep them straight.

“hi, handsome.” you yawn. “you’re up early.”

phainon doesn’t startle, but he tilts his head just slightly, that familiar curve of a smile barely visible from where you stand. “so are you.”

“i could feel the cold spot in the bed,” you say, brushing your fingers along the curve of his arm. “didn’t like it.”

“i did try to leave quietly.”

“doesn’t mean i have to like it,” you say, resting your chin briefly against his shoulder.

phainon’s smile deepens, slow and fond. “and here i thought the stars were calling you too.”

you glance at the telescope, then at the screen. it means little to you. 

“no offense,” you say, reaching to toy with the strings on his robe, “but i think you’re prettier than whatever you’re looking at.”

he chuckles, and it warms your chest. when he finally turns to face you, his eyes catch the morning light just right: rich and deep like molten amber, steady as a sunrise. you can’t help but stare.

“flatterer,” he says, but he kisses you like it’s thanks.

requests are open! check out this post if you’re interested! i have no clue if this is how observatories/professional stargazing works but this idea was birthed because i found out that phaenon, in greek mythology, is the sky god of the star cronus (aka saturn) & the word itself means “bright” or “shining.”

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[10:34 p.m.] ⋆ when toji unlocks the door and toes his shoes off at the genkan, it’s to a flurry of giggles, and your voice telling it to shush. he frowns. it’s way past megumi’s bedtime.

he shrugs his jacket off, brows still knit as he pads towards the source of the noise. the apartment’s quiet otherwise—no tv, no clatter of dishes—just the soft hum of a lullaby being half-whispered, half-sung under someone’s breath, and the rustle of tissue paper.

when he rounds the corner into the living room, he finds you and megumi sitting on the floor, surrounded by flowers: pink carnations, sprigs of baby’s breath, a handful of sunflowers, and something he doesn’t recognise with soft blue petals. a pair of dull scissors lies between you, and megumi is concentrating very hard on twisting a ribbon around a jar.

you look up when you spot him. “hey,” you whisper, smiling like you’ve been caught but aren’t sorry.

megumi glances up too. “we’re making bouquets.”

“at ten-thirty?” toji asks, raising an eyebrow.

“i told him we’d only do one,” you say, sheepish. “but he said he needed three. one for his teacher, one for the neighbour lady who gives him those fruit candies, and one for the receptionist at the dentist.”

toji leans against the doorway, arms crossed. “and i don’t get one?”

megumi frowns, like this is a serious oversight. “you’re not leaving town tomorrow.”

“hm.” he nods like that’s fair. “still. might be nice to get flowers once in a while.”

“here.” you pluck a tiny carnation from the pile and toss it at him.

“romantic,” he deadpans, catching it.

“don’t say i never give you anything,” you say, grinning.

megumi snorts at that. his jar bouquet is a little crooked, but you help him fix it, fingers moving gently as you nudge the stems into place. toji watches, his frown long gone. he hadn’t expected this tonight. hadn’t expected to come home to flowers and ribbon and a boy who wants to thank the people who’ve been kind to him.

he places the lone carnation in the glass on the windowsill before moving towards the two of you. ruffles megumi’s hair. presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“you owe me a real bouquet,” he murmurs against your temple.

“you get the kid. that’s better than flowers.”

he thinks about it and shrugs, because, yeah. you’ve got a point.

requests are open! check out this post if you’re interested!