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Home Is Where The Heart Is

Rise Leonardo x Reader imagine

Info + Warnings: Reader's having a bad time. It's fluff anyway. No gendered language, pronouns, or Y.N used for Reader. Friends-to-lovers type beat, yearning era. Set a few years post movie. Suggestive comments, maybe.

Commentary: This is not proof read.

He loves this.

Not- not whatever your head's doing, with the grim skies and that far away look you get every now and again and the fact that your sleep's shit and- well, not that.

The way you're laying on his floor.

He'd left the room long enough to grab some snack mix- because it's easy, it's quick, you like it, and there's something almost like nutrition there, protein probably- and when he walks back in, you're on your back on the floor, arms draped by your head, one ankle tossed over the other knee as you stare at the ceiling.

He has literal benches against the wall of the old subway car. A bean bag chair. Your favorite chair is in the corner, the one he's all but verbally declared your seat, that he always throws a hoodie in (out of convenience, mind you. That's all. No ulterior motives here, no sir). His entire bed is free- and made, thank you- and yet you're sprawled on his floor as though social norms are nonexistent here.

He really, really likes that idea.

"Comfy?" He asks playfully, moving around you with ease.

You hum a yes, and he glances back at you.

You're tired. He knows that already. But somehow, the bags beneath your eyes look darker from this angle. The weight that's been holding your sunny smile back from its full force is almost visible here.

He gets hit with a wave of want- want to fix it, want to hold you, want to make it better- so hard that he feels it physically, just beneath his plastron, fierce and yearning in his chest.

An irrational part of him thinks you must feel it somehow, because you glance over at him as it happens. "What?"

"Trying to remember the last time I swept," He quips instinctively.

You roll your eyes- the way that means you're amused, the way that he chases like a dog after a ball- and they settle back on the ceiling. "Somehow, I think I'll manage a little dirt."

It's not quite right. It's off center. Off the mark. Your voice- it's just to the right of where it should be. It's missing its shine, the playful way you meet him where he lives and make his quips-and-wordplay house your home too.

Luckily, he's pretty damn mobile.

So he moves. He nudges you with his foot, and you move your arm to lay across your torso and clear a spot for him, and he easily drops down next to you and passes you one of the bottles of water he'd grabbed and sets the snack mix between you.

He lays down next to you in whatever this other house is, and he can feel the cobwebs trying to cling to you.

"Hi," He says softly, staring at the ceiling.

"Hi," You repeat, and it's monosyllabic and neutral and means nothing but he feels like you're making a space for him at your table.

It feels like an invitation, an acceptance, like a "why don't you stay for dinner?".

He thinks he'd stay forever, if it'd help. He's good with a duster. He can help tidy things up, if you let him.

Leo wants to ask why you moved in. What brought you here, to this dreary, haunted-looking old place.

"Wanna watch some Vine greatest hits?" He asks instead.

Not even half an hour later, your breathing has all but convinced him that you're asleep.

He's fighting the urge to check, not wanting to risk waking you up somehow.

Instead, he reaches up and into his little viewing-portal, turning his phone down slightly where it's resting on his bed. (No tired arms, no piecing together a makeshift phone stand, no risk of dropping it on your face. As easy as portals are to maintain these days, it's a no-brainer.)

The screen goes dark as another compilation ends, and instead of hitting "Play" on the suggested video, he finds your face in the reflection.

You look asleep. You look tired, and it aches a little to see.

He can let his eyes linger, now, with yours closed, so he reaches up to turn his screen off.

You're still gorgeous, he thinks with a fond half-hearted frustration. Even exhausted.

When he gets into these dark places, he looks like a wreck.

When you do it, he wants to pull you in by the waist and kiss it better.

Fucking ridiculous.

He finds himself trying to match his breath to yours. Inhale, small pause, exhale, longer pause, inhale, and in that second small pause he realizes this is how he always feels. Like you're synced, like you give him a rhythm to rely on, like you give him something to orbit around when he's knocked out of place.

It's not a new thought, but the analogizing makes something shift in his chest to make room for the sheer size of the feeling.

He loves you. That's not news. You're one of his closest friends- his closest, maybe- and he loves you.

But he's been having the dangerous thought that he might love you, lately.

Might be in love with you.

And when you do things like instinctively look at him right as he glances your way and play off of his jokes like a tennis match and text him pictures of the sunset just because you think it's pretty, he thinks it's more than a might.

But now, something's dragging rainclouds into your sky. And you've found your way to his floor, his space, his company. Again.

He'd barely even had to offer it on the phone earlier, hearing the gray in your voice and tossing the idea of company your way.

You'd barely even had to consider it. You'd just said you'd have to stop by your place, first, and set your stuff down.

You were tired enough to fall asleep, and still came.

You're comfortable enough on his floor, in his space, in his company to fall asleep.

And, if the way he knows in his bones he'd sit here for forever if it means not disturbing you is any indication, he's fallen into something else entirely.

Something that feels like listening to the ocean hit the piers, something that feels like the humming of all of Donnie's security gadgets, something that feels like brushing against his Ninpō. It's familiar, consistent, comforting.

You make a little moaning sound eventually, rolling your shoulders some and inhaling deeply as you rejoin the land of the conscious.

It sends blood straight to his cheeks, and he tries not to think about anywhere else.

"Sorry," you mumble, voice thick and syrupy from sleep.

For half a second, he thinks you're apologizing for the sound, and he's trying to figure out how to tell you to never apologize for that ever, and actually, do way more of it.

Then his brain takes over, shuts his body up, and points out that you probably meant for falling asleep.

"Nah," He says lazily, the picture of chill. You could commit a murder on his floor and he doesn't think he'd care much.

"Didn't mean to fall asleep," You continue, groggy as you dig the heel of your palm into your eye. "How long was I out?"

He has no idea. "An hour, maybe?"

He catches your eye in the reflection on his phone screen, and you tense, and then you soften again.

"You weren't just laying here, were you?" You ask, in that gentle hidden-guilt way of yours, and he kinda wants to shake you by the shoulders until your brain reconnects and realizes that he'd just lay there forever if you'd let him, attention span be damned.

He opts to tease you, instead. "Oh, so when you think the floor is comfy-"

"You have a shell," You point out dryly.

"You think a turtle can't enjoy the floor? Rude."

You grumble something about it being too early for this, and he doesn't even bother to bite back his grin.

"Thanks," You say after a minute, catching his eye again. Your features are soft and vulnerable and open, and he has to fight not to turn to you, to let you stay in the safety of a reflection. "For being here."

"Always," He says immediately, not even considering it. It's instinctive, reactive, true.

It makes you smile, and he thinks- knows- he's a goner.

He gets three proper laughs from you before you leave.

Two actual smiles, too. They're muted, but they're there, and he hopes he can keep his mental snapshots of them for forever. Longer than that.

You're still gray, still muted, still hazy, but you're here. You're bathed in the multi-colored light of his room and comfortable and safe, and he's wondering how he ever thought he might be in love.

And when you finally do leave- late, and only because you have life again tomorrow- he portals you straight to your room.

He catches your hand impulsively on your way out, giving it a quick squeeze, and smiling in what he hopes is a reassuring manner when you look at him.

You give him a small smile back, and it's resilient and strong and it feels like hope.

You're resilient and strong and feel like hope.

He's in love.

"Wanna do this again tomorrow?" He asks, sounding much more casual than he feels.

"I don't want to-" And you cut yourself off just as he feels an eyeroll building in his skull, bracing himself to hear bother you or be a pest or something similarly insane. "...Yeah. I do."

He squeezes your hand again and grins, and he has to swallow back something gooey and too-much. "Just say the word, and your chariot shall await," He says instead, tilting his head towards the portal.

You study him for a second, something calculating and scrutinizing in your eyes. "Thank you," You say softly, like you mean it.

"Always," He repeats softly, like he means it.

You step through the portal, your hand slipping from his, and he gives you a little salute before letting it close.

He glances at his bed.

He lays down on the floor, instead, and makes a mental note to actually sweep.

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