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taomyou · 1 month ago

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nerds do it better - chapter 3: VITAL BRACE_normal_manual_10

synopsis: You know, most people wouldn't be all that interested in getting to know the weird Digimon kid. Good thing you're not most people! - or, you and Gojo meet at a Digimon TCG game night and become really, really good friends.

tags: gojo satoru x reader, nerd!gojo, fem!nerd!reader, modern au, college/uni au, fluff, friends to lovers, mutual pining, first date, gojo!pov, requited unrequited love, aquarium date || wc: 10.4k

ao3 || tumblr masterlist

As soon as the door’s open, Gojo giddily rushes past you and into the room, dropping his bags just before jumping onto the bed. He beckons you to come and join him, and you happily oblige, quick to close the door and haul your things further into the room. You let yourself fall backwards onto the bed next to him, and you sigh in delight as you feel its plushness absorb you.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” you marvel, looking up at the soft yellow light on the ceiling.

“I can!” He beams, stretching his arms up towards the headboard, moaning happily. “Need me to pinch you?”

“Nope. I believe you now.”

You and him both turn to face each other, the space between you too big to reach across the two beds. Still, Gojo looks pretty fuckin’ stupid trying to pinch you from where he is anyway. The two of you then silently agree to just close your eyes and roll around on your respective beds, making rather… suggestive noises as you both stretch out your tense muscles. You haven’t really got the brain power to register the groans he’s making as anything actually suggestive, thankfully, oh, you’re totally lying to yourself though because you’re too preoccupied by the relief that washes over your body as you lay on your stomach and fully extend your limbs to release the tension in your spine.

The car ride to get to the hotel was boring enough; the two of you decided that leaving a day earlier than you really needed to was the best course of action to avoid any traffic, so you’re just going to be in the hotel room for a half-day and a night before you have to lug yourselves over to the convention center down the street.

And, Gojo, the persistent and considerate loser he is, forced you to let him drive the whole way (even though you knew he was gonna be nervous as all hell to drive the nine-ish hours it would’ve taken if he listened to you and just went a little bit faster than the speed limit). You thought he’d be sufficiently tired by now between all 11 hours behind the wheel and his neverending rambling about all the things he was excited to get to at the convention (and if those two things weren’t enough to tire him out on their own, you figured he’d get annoyed by your sarcastic cheering whenever he’d successfully make a difficult driving maneuver).

Turns out you couldn’t be any more wrong.

Gojo pushes himself up, now sitting with his elbows propping his torso up. He lets his head fall back like he’s basking in the sun (which he is, I guess, if you count the early afternoon sun that’s coming through the highrise window).

“So,” he starts, a lazy smile on his face, “what do you wanna do?”

You whine and bury your face further into a pillow, turning your head just slightly so you still have space to breathe. “I wanna take a nap.” You’re half-lying—you are tired, but your nerves are fuelled by something so foreign and new that you don’t think you could truly sleep even if you tried—but Gojo doesn't have to know that.

“Oh, come on, you’re not really gonna go to sleep, are you? Let’s go do something fun!”

You turn over again, now on your back, forearm over your eyes to readjust to the light. “How do you have so much energy? You drove.”

“Well,” he nervously laughs, “I am tired, but I—.”

Nevermind. Guess you were right.

“Then go to sleep, Gojo.” You roll off the bed towards him, bending your knees before you’re at the edge so you can land and stand up fairly quickly. “I don’t want you to be too tired for the actual con. We’re here until Monday, anyway, we can do something then.”

You don’t mean to lecture him, but all the sugar in his system isn’t going to keep him awake forever, and you’d feel awful if he wasn’t able to properly enjoy the convention weekend because he’s too sleep-deprived.

“Ok, then, we could use Monday to catch up on sleep. I know you’re not going to actually sleep, you knocked out way earlier than I did last night, so I don’t want you to get lonely if I’m taking a nap either.” He interrupts himself with a yawn, pushing off his elbows to sit up even straighter, and he rubs his eye to satiate his tire.

Guess he can read you better than you thought he could.

“Besides,” he yawns again, “I wanna make the most out of us being here,” Gojo says softly, almost like he’s saying it to himself.

The sentiment makes you blush, but, thankfully, you’re facing away from him.

By now, you’ve gotten back to standing with your hands on your hips as you lean to the side to crack your bones, biting at the back of your lip to keep yourself from smiling too hard. After taking a second to recompose yourself, you turn back to him and approach him slowly, then pouncing on him to push him back down on his back.

“Aw, you’re so sweet, you big nerd!” You have to tease him because, otherwise, you’d take his words to heart.

“Woah, woah, hold on!”

You know he’s ticklish behind his ears (he’s a bit like a puppy, you suppose; you found out when you tried getting his attention at the library by poking him there with your pen and he laughed so hard you both got kicked out for the day), so you run your nails gently there to get him laughing and smiling again. He writhes underneath you, loud with thrashing limbs and all, but he’s careful not to hurt you as you continue to tickle him. Eventually, once you’re too lazy to keep teasing him, Gojo pushes you off him and positions himself on top of you to ghost his hands at your sides where he knows you’re ticklish.

In front of the bed is a large, ceiling-to-floor mirror that spans nearly the entire wall, and the two of you catch glimpses of your forms in the reflection. In any other scenario, you’d find the composition of your bodies like this incredibly… lewd, but the two of you look so wildly unsexy that you can’t help but roll your eyes at how in-character it is for the two of you to be like this, Gojo in a faded orange Tsunomon shirt and you in a Gabumon hoodie he regifted you after he couldn’t get Geto to accept it as his birthday gift, both of you in sweatpants.

Your heads turn back to face each other, and you burst into giggles as you push Gojo off you before he can get back at you, him rolling off onto the bedspace next to you. You stare up at the ceiling again, used to the light now because it’s nowhere near as bright as Gojo’s smile, and you sigh contentedly, slightly out of breath.

“Okay, okay, truce.”

Gojo squints at you, taking off his glasses to glare at you. “How is it a truce if you got the last hit!?”

You roll your eyes again. “Because I said so.”

“...Okay.”

You turn over to lay on your stomach, elbows propping you up so you can see Gojo better. “Now, mister, you take your nap.”

“But you’ll be awake on your own,” he says with a frown. “All alone without me.”

“I’ll be fine, promise.” You hold out a pinky for him to link. He complies with a half-smile, putting his glasses back on to free his hands. “I need to grab stuff for the room anyway. You don’t have to worry about me, like, gazing at your sleeping figure or anything creepy like that while you’re sleeping, either.”

“Oh, so you’re leaving me here all alone instead?” Gojo wails.

“Yes, Princess,” you scoff. “Your Prince Charming must leave you to slay the dragon and go downstairs to the ice machine.”

“Who are you calling ‘Princess?’”

“Please,” you snort. “Just go to sleep, Gojo, you’ll survive.”

“I guess I am pretty sleepy,” he yawns again, rolling over onto his side, still facing you. “But we’ll do something after my nap, right? I don’t wanna be bad company.”

“Sure, if you really want to.” You get up, stretching your arms up to the ceiling again to fully reawaken yourself. Gojo still looks so stiff, so you lean down slightly to ruffle his hair to try and get him to loosen up. He leans his head into your touch (again, like a puppy). “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Okay,” he muses, closing his eyes and reaching for the pillows. “If you get bored, you already know I'll sleep through anything, so do whatever you want. Have fun getting… ice, or whatever. Also, can you ask the front desk for—”

You pull away your hand to go back to your bed, cutting him off. “I already know, Princess, here are your pillows.” Before he can interrupt to say you need your own pillows too, you keep talking, moving again to take off his glasses for him and set them on the nightstand so he doesn’t crush them in his sleep. “I’ll grab more from the front desk for myself, just use those.”

He sighs happily, spreading out his body and spreading his limbs again to make a snow angel on his sheets. “You really are my Prince Charming!”

You’re already slipping on your shoes at the door by now, but you look over your shoulder back at him, now curled up in a ball as he hugs a pillow to his chest and has all the others around him. From your own backpack, you see his little Agumon plush peeking up from the not-fully-zipped side pocket.

Poor thing. Gojo hadn’t even remembered to pack him until he was already 5 hours into the drive. Little did he know, though, that you’d swiped him the night before at your little slumber party at his place.

You’ll consider this payback for all the other times Gojo’s taken your things. Not your fault he said he was sure he had everything when you asked him before you started the road trip.

You smile to yourself as you rush back to go grab the cute orange digimon from your bag to leave him at Gojo’s headboard, excited to see the look on his face when he realizes you’ve properly gotten back at him.

☆

When Gojo wakes up, all he hears is the faint sound of fabric rustling and the drone of the air conditioning. He’s slow to open his eyes and even slower to grab his glasses from the nightstand, but as he’s barely-awake and feeling around, his hands meet the familiar feeling of felt claws. He bolts straight up, leaning on his hands as he turns his upper body to see Agumon sat at the headboard.

What’s he doing here? Had he gone back to grab him during the drive? There’s no way that happened, right? Uh, or, maybe, he really did remember to put him in his luggage and the plushie digitized to appear on the bed. That’s what happened, right?

“Good morning, Princess.”

Gojo’s head whips to the direction of your voice but is only able to see the top of your head, you sitting on the floor. He pushes himself straighter-up sitting to see what you’re doing, but before he can, you put whatever it is you’re handling back in your suitcase and zip it closed before turning back to face him.

“How was your nap?”

“Oh! It was great,” he yawns, rolling his head to release the tension in his neck. “Say,” after he puts on his glasses, he moves to sit criss-cross on the bed and pulls Agumon onto his lap, “where did this little guy come from? Did you find him in my luggage?”

You laugh, leaning back to put your head on the end of your bed and turn slightly to look at him. Your smile is bright and unashamed, and you shake your head, your hair grabbing static as it rubs against the sheets. “Nope, I snagged him before we left. Figured you’d forget him.”

He flushes in embarrassment, defensively patting the digimon on his head and turning his body away slightly. “What?! No, I wouldn’t!”

“Sure, then, I have no idea how he got there,” you tease, shaking your head again and getting up to join him across the space between your respective beds. When he’s still turned away, you whine and reach across to pull him back to face you. “Come on, please don’t be mad at me, Gojo! It’s just payback for when you steal my cables at the library!”

He’s firm in his position, not at all mad but wanting to play along to keep your hands on him as you beg him to forgive you. He chuckles behind a bitten cheek, and he watches you from the corner of his eye as you firmly keep your hands on his shoulders. You resign yourself to sighing and flopping down on the spot next to him, at which point Gojo lets out his long-held laugh and falls down next to you, setting Agumon down to lay between the two of you.

Your hair is still staticy, so when you both turn to face each other, he feels a small zap as he reaches out to try and meet you halfway. You flinch at the spark, and you frown again, reaching out to pull Agumon into your own arms for a hug.

“I hate you,” you huff, the telltale half-smile on your face telling him you’re lying.

He laughs. “Sure you do,” he teases.

“Well, now that you’re awake and I can’t escape your rambling,” you start, holding up the plush to the light, “what do you wanna do for the rest of the day?”

Even though he could’ve just checked his Vital Bracelet, he’s too lazy to bring up his wrist to his face to look at the time, so Gojo’s eyes dart to the digital clock on the nightstand.

Gojo frowns, sadness threatening to escape from the back of his throat. “It’s 7 already?”

“You’ve been out for a while, so, yeah,” you shrug.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d be knocked out for so long. It’s so late.”

Certainly much too late to do what he'd planned on taking you to. He should’ve set an alarm for himself earlier…

“What?” You prop yourself up, positioning yourself like you did earlier before Gojo’d taken his nap, on your stomach and looking down at him from his side. “You don’t need to be sorry! We can still find something to do, it's not like we had anything specific in mind, right?”

Well, he did, but telling you about it now wouldn't do either of you any good if it's not like you can even make it now.

You don’t seem to be down about the lost time—if anything, you look more energized now than you did earlier despite not having gotten any extra shut-eye yourself.

Maybe you enjoyed the time you had to yourself without him bothering you, he thinks to himself. He should know better by now—that you genuinely enjoy his company—but there’s always that thought nagging him at the back of his head, telling him he’s way too in over his head. Maybe that’s why he has such a hard time keeping his mouth shut around you; he’s terrified you’ll see through him and realize how utterly pathetic he is, so he feels like he has to distract you by talking about anything and everything under the sun.

You look down at him, though, eyes begging him to gather his spirits, and, really, who is he to refuse?

Gojo leaves his disappointment for himself to deal with later, and smiles with what little confidence he’s got left in him. He moves to stand up, holding out a hand for you to grab and pull yourself up. “Yeah, let’s.”

Gojo moves to go fix his hair in the huge mirrored wall while you fix up the bed (and tuck in Agumon beneath the covers—his heart is just about to explode), and once he’s figured he’s presentable enough, he heads over to sit at his suitcase to look for something to wear.

“What do you think we should do? Dinner for sure, but are you in the mood for anything to eat in particular?” Gojo pauses for a second to wait for your response, but he laughs to himself anyway before you can give your usual response. “Nevermind, we’ll figure it out once we’re out.”

You chuckle and gently pat his head, and he can see the begrudging smile that’s probably on your face right now. “You’re finally learning.”

“Dress code?”

“Uh,” you pause to think it over, your hand still mindlessly patting his hair, “let’s find somewhere casual, I doubt anywhere too fancy is open right now anyway.” Before he can make any sort of comment about you messing up his hair (because he definitely cares more about addressing that more than the butterflies in his stomach), your touch disappears, and you go to your own suitcase at the end of your bed.

He starts to dig through his luggage to find something casual (which, yes, he’s grateful you suggested as much because all he’s got in his suitcase are casual clothes and the three-piece suit he decided to pack because, well, who knows if he’s going to need it at some point this trip?). After a while, though, Gojo notices you’ve been angling yourself to have your back facing him, almost like you’re hiding something in the main compartment of your luggage. He doubts you’ve got your underwear at the top of your main luggage—you’d made it a point to tell him to stay out of the front pocket of your suitcase, so he assumed your intimates were in there—so what’re you hiding now? He leans over to the side to try and get a look, only really curious because you seem so secretive about it.

When you notice him trying to peer over your shoulder, you angle yourself between your suitcase and him again, glaring at him. “What do you want?”

“What’re you hiding? Can I see?”

“Um, no,” you say plainly, turning away.

“Why not?”

“You don’t see me trying to peek into your luggage.”

“You can look through it if you want, I don’t mind.”

“...Are you serious?”

“I mean, if you want to look, I don’t care.”

“Gojo, you should care,” you scold, shooing him away from looking over in your direction by swinging out your arms. “You’re the one that wanted to hide our cosplays from each other, remember? Not my fault you wanted to wait.”

“Oh!” Gojo nervously laughs before turning back to look down at his luggage, then staring down the neatly-wrapped bag of red and white clothes he’d pieced together two months before. “Uh, right, right.”

Okay, really, it isn’t even his fault he forgot! He just woke up, like, five minutes ago!

☆

Several weeks ago, Gojo had finally gotten all the things he needed for the cosplay he’d planned to wear at the convention, and he was so excited to show you a picture of him in the outfit. Despite his excitement, though, he absolutely wanted to see your reaction to it live, so even though it was hell trying to hide it from you, he waited until you and him were out celebrating the end of finals with the rest of his friends at some karaoke studio he couldn’t remember the name of to show you.

”Hey, hey,” Gojo called to you as Haibara queued the next song for him and Nanami to sing together. “Come here.”

You turned to look at him, scooting closer to hear him over the new running instrumental. “What’s up?”

He grinned. “Wanna see my cosplay for the con?”

You were already in a good mood, high off the end of exams, so you beamed. “Oh, I didn’t know you were cosplaying!”

As he tapped around to get the picture, you leaned closer onto his shoulder to get a closer look at his phone.

He flushed at the contact, grateful for the low lights in the room and the bellowing sound of Nanami’s off-key start to the song, but he laughed to ease his own nerves. “Yep! Bet you can’t guess who I’m going as, either,” he sing-songed. He saw the thumbnail of the picture towards the bottom of his screen now, so he turned his phone away to build on the moment. “Okay, you ready? Or do you wanna guess first?”

“You know,” you mused quietly, trying not to disturb Haibara’s more on-key second verse, “you should’ve told me you were gonna cosplay, too. We could’ve worked on ours together.”

You’d said it just as he was about to turn his phone back to you, so he froze and stopped with his phone half-angled away.

You were cosplaying, too?

“I can guess, though. Are you going in an inflatable Agumon costume? I can’t really imagine you going in anything else.”

“Oh!” Gojo exclaimed, now shaken out of his freeze. “Uh, actually,” he clears his throat and looks away, embarrassed he hadn’t also thought you’d also be cosplaying (and definitely not because the first image that came to mind was you dressed as his first real fictional crush, the purple in her design the same shade as the blouse you were already wearing). “No, I’m not.”

“Do I get another guess before you show me?”

“Tell you what,” his mind raced a million meters a minute. “Let’s both hold our guesses, and we can make it into a game.”

“What?! I wanted to see, why’d you build it up like that if you’re just not gonna show me?!”

“You always call me a tease, gotta uphold my reputation,” he rolled his eyes. “Besides, I wanna guess yours, too.”

“You don’t need to guess, I can just show you now. I don’t mind,” you pulled out your own phone, but before you could find your picture and show Gojo, he bit his lip and shook his head frantically.

“Nope, I’ve decided,” he turned off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket, turning to face you instead with his side pressed to the back of the seat and his eyes averted.

He didn’t know why he was so shy all of a sudden—maybe it was because he was too afraid your cosplay would completely show his up, maybe it was because the feeling of your arm against his was too much in combination with Nanami’s botched high note just now—but he doesn’t want to think about you prettied up in cosplay right now while all his friends (no doubt) watched the exchange unfold.

“We’re guessing. Winner can buy dinner on the last day of the trip.”

“How would that even work? We’re either right or we’re wrong. Come on, just show me!” You whined, trying to grab his phone from his pocket.

He blocked your hands, laughing again to keep the situation light as he felt the attention in the room shift to the two of you as the extended instrumental after the chorus played. “No can do, Princess.”

You were quick to also catch onto all the eyes on you from around the room, and you huffed before scooting away from him to get back closer to Shoko.

“Can I at least get a hint?” Gojo threw in as a joke to try and get you back on his good side.

You only leaned in closer to his friend, Shoko now looking over at Gojo with an entertained smirk.

“No, fuck off.”

☆

And, so, both of you have gone without any other mention of what you were going as. It’s been killing him to keep his a secret, but it’s been so, so much worse trying to guess yours.

In the beginning, he earnestly tried to guess, but you made it impossible. You hadn’t given anything away—no offhand comment, no mention of what shoes you’d be wearing, nothing at all—-you just never brought it up again. When he tried (several times, mind you) to call off the wager, you refused, telling him he just had to wait like he made you. With no hints to pull from, it’s not his fault his mind started to conjure images of you dolled up in different outfits, but he was quick to shut that down. No way he was ruining his friendship with you like that (or at all)!

He’s done an awful okay job not thinking about you in any of the million outfits available for you to wear from all the franchises you enjoy, but nonetheless!

It’ll be fine.

Okay, not really, but he’s trying his best.

It’s not his fault, really!

After he’s finished staring blankly into the void that became of his suitcase, he chooses a plain white tee shirt and a pair of baggy cargo shorts to put on (and, obviously, he's got his crest necklace and VB already on, so he doesn't have to think about that at all). He hasn’t got a clue in the world how hot it is outside, but even though he does tend to run cold, it’s the middle of summer. How cold could it possibly get? Either way, he puts on a dark blue quarter-zip, just in case he's wrong and it's actually freezing outside (which it probably isn't, but he doesn't mind the extra warmth).

You’d already claimed the bathroom for yourself long before he could come back to his senses, so it takes no time at all for you to finish getting dressed. As he’s doing the button to his shorts, you give a quick knock to let him know you’re coming out, and he quickly straightens up and smooths the front of his frame.

“I’m decent, I’m decent!”

You come out of the bathroom once he's given the okay, the clothes you just changed out of draped over your forearm, and you start to put them away as Gojo moves to do the same.

He tries not to stare, but the pale blue of the sundress you're wearing calls to him from the corner of his eye, even only if it's because the color compliments your skin so well. There's two small braids behind your ears that you've pinned back with some clips Shoko gifted you after you'd helped her with an assignment (and he remembers because she'd asked him to deliver it to you on her behalf and you looked so happy when he helped them on for you to try). The straps of your sandals are beaded with bright colors in vague aquatic shapes—he thinks he can see a fish, maybe a squid, too—and the pink of your crest necklace compliments the dark purple you'd painted your nails yesterday in the living room while he was in the bathroom steaming his cosplay parts. You've got a tote bag hanging on your shoulder with pins you've collected over the years and a Digivice clipped onto it—one he also has clipped onto the coin pocket of his shorts.

And, really, it's not that he's surprised or anything—he's not blind, even if his prescription lenses are about as thick as his thermal physics textbook would be if he'd actually gotten a physical copy instead of just pirating it online like he always does—, but you look... nice. He hardly ever sees you dressed up like this, but on the rare occasions you do dress up a bit, it's usually for the stray hangout you join in for with Gojo's larger friend group or one of your friend's birthday parties that he gets an extended invite to as your plus-one.

Point is, he hasn't ever seen you in much else aside from the hoodies and sweats you wear when it's just the two of you and he can't hide behind Nanami so you can't catch him staring with bright eyes.

Which he definitely doesn't do! I mean, what kind of loser has to pretend to care about accounting audits or whatever just to avoid that situation? Definitely not this loser.

And, like, he's not really avoiding that completely hypothetical and totally-didn't-happen-every-time scenario. You do meet eyes at some point when these get-togethers happen, and once you spot him, it's not like he skitters away like a cat. He stays where he is, and because he looks so busy listening to Nanami talk about statement analyses, you tug on your necklace to pull it on top of your clothes, and even from the distance he's always standing away, he can see the crest shine and your Vital Bracelet fit snugly around your wrist. It's almost like you're trying to tell him that even if you've dressed up and gotten more put-together, you're making it obvious you're still you.

Yeah, yeah!

That definitely has never happened.

Nope, never.

. . .

Oh, who is he kidding?

But, come on.

Can really you blame a guy for crushing on a nerd, especially one that’s so cute?

Gojo's sure he's going to get caught with his eyes stuck on you, but, thankfully, he catches you also peeking at him from your side of the room, and his bashfulness is replaced with a fake cockiness he steals from you.

"You know," he teases, turning towards you and fully posing, "you're welcome to take a picture, Princess."

You scrunch your nose at him before averting your eyes. "In your dreams."

Gojo laughs from his belly, both at your equally fake distain and the quiet smile you give back to him, and he quickly zips up his suitcase before standing up to offer you a hand up. He makes a show of not looking into your luggage by putting his glasses on his head and covering his eyes with his other hand, and once he feels your hand slip into his, he's careful not to pull you up too fast so you don't trip over your shoes. You mutter a quick thanks, but Gojo can hardly hear it over the quiet burn he feels at the tips of his ears.

He puts his glasses back on and grabs his wallet from his backpack before he goes over to put on his shoes as you look at yourself in the mirror. In the reflection, he can see you fiddling with your necklace, something he's noticed you do a lot when you're overthinking. "Hey, everything okay?"

"Huh?" You turn over to question him, fingers still pulling your crest side-to-side. "Why wouldn't they be?"

He finishes lacing up his shoes, and he stands awkwardly with his hands in his pockets now. "I mean, I don't know, you look kinda..."

You avoid his gaze by turning back to the mirror, and when he catches you frowning, he immediately rushes to put his hands out and shake his head frantically.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean like that! You look good, promise!"

"...You think so?"

"Are you kidding? You look cute! Super cute, even! I really like your outfit, especially the shoes, and, I mean, you're always pretty!" He scrambles to make himself try to sound like he's not being weird about it, but he can feel himself failing so he changes his approach. "It's just that you seem anxious about something, and I wanted to ask if something was wrong!"

You seem to bite your cheek, still not looking back over at him, but after a slight pause, you make your way over to the door, brushing past him to open the door. "Nothing's wrong, you always worry too much."

"Are you sure?" Gojo frowns, following you out and making sure the door is locked.

"Yes, I'm sure," you roll your eyes, and you lead the way back to the car. Your voice seems nervous, but it doesn't really sound like you're upset. Maybe it's the change in scenery?

He follows you silently, the awkward shuffle of his sneakers loud on the carpet flooring, and when you get to the hotel parking lot, he tries not to annoy you too much when he opens your car door, only unlocking it, holding it open for you to get in, and closing it wordlessly before slipping in next to you. He's never really been all that great at opening that door anyway, no matter how many times he's done it, so it still makes him nervous sometimes to think you'll figure out he's a fraud.

When you've both gotten your seatbelts on, he sits in the silence until you sigh and lean back in your seat, turning to face him in the barely-there sunset light. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to bring the mood down or anything," you say. "Just thinking."

Gojo takes it that you're just too in your head right now, and all he really knows how to do to help is distract you, so he forces a grin and leans over to boop your nose. "Boop."

It seems to startle you enough that your eyes widen, and it annoys you enough that you flush pink and swat his hand away. "What're you doing?"

He laughs and tips his head back, quick to pull his hand back and rest it on the wheel. "Come on, let's just go have some fun!"

You frown, disingenuously this time, and put your elbow on the arm rest to lean your head on your hand. "On second thought, I'll head back to the room."

Gojo smiles, genuinely this time, and he starts the engine, his hand already just behind your shoulder to start reversing out of the spot. "Nope, you're stuck with me tonight, Princess."

He makes it a point to not stare as he's reversing, but he can see you grinning behind your hand.

And, you know, for all the times he's forced himself out of the moment to avoid having to confront his feelings, he's content to stay in this one, where you try so hard to look all unbothered even though he can see your smile turn your eyes into crescents and you steal glances at him to make sure he doesn't notice.

It's cute.

☆

It doesn't take long for the two of you to find somewhere to have dinner.

Not that he'd ever admit it to you, but Gojo'd spent the last couple months looking into the area to look for places nearby that'd be good to take you to, and the restaurant he ends up pulling into is one from that relatively long mental list. Thankfully, they're open late and time is of no issue, but Gojo still can't help but still feel a bit upset that he was out for so much of the day, no matter how many times you reassure him you're just glad he got to rest after such a long drive. To repay your grace, he makes mental note to get the two of you back to the hotel and in bed at a reasonable hour (so, like, before midnight) so you can be equally well-rested for the convention tomorrow.

It also doesn't take long to order and get food delivered to your table, half because neither of you have worked up that big an appetite to have to order much more than an entrée for each of you, half because the city has started to go to sleep and not too many people are out and about.

Honestly, Gojo's just glad he's managed to keep his cool for long enough to get through the first half of dinner without breaking too much of a sweat, but he doesn't really get much chance to pay attention to that anyway, enamored in the way your eyes light up as you tell him the small stories you collected from your exploration of the hotel while he asleep.

Sounds like a real adventure, filling up the ice bucket and stealing an apple from the lobby refreshments area. You even brought a carton of strawberry milk you'd gotten from the vending machine back to the room for him, the thought behind the gesture forcing him to hide behind the lie of his face being red because of how spicy his food is (which it definitely is not).

It also doesn't take long for Gojo to excuse himself and retreat to the restroom to call Suguru in a panic to tell him how nervous he's been all night, unable to keep up with the racing pace of his heart when he's with you. He knows his best friend is used to this (and, unfortunately, will laugh in his face about it whenever he has the chance to), but Gojo can't help it! The man offers virtually no advice, only teasing him over the line about how helpless he is, but he's with Shoko, so Gojo demands that the phone gets handed over to her so she can actually help him.

Turns out she's too busy on her own phone to get a word in, but whatever. Gojo has to get back to the table anyway so you don't think he's avoiding you on purpose (which he isn't! At least not for unsavory reasons).

But what does take long is the actual conversation him and you have over the now-empty plates between you. He couldn't say for certain how long it's been since you've finished eating (...actually, he can: it's been an hour and forty-three minutes), but he feels right at home with you going over the convention schedule for the millionth time to make sure you're well-prepared for tomorrow, so he's in no rush to stop talking. You'd gone over the schedule yesterday, too, but there's more finality in the way it's discussed now with an excitement that's everything all at once.

And Gojo's not a total asshole, so he orders as many desserts as his heart desires (so, uh, all of them) to make sure the two of you aren't hogging the table for that long without paying. You're still nursing the slice of cake you'd gotten at the start of sweets hour, but Gojo makes sure to invite you to try all the treats he gets for himself, too, and he doesn't bother hiding his shy smile when you occasionally dip into his small dishes with your dessert fork.

The conversation reaches its natural end when, after paying the bill (... and after much protest from you), Gojo takes the last bit of his dessert in his spoon and holds it out to you, a lazy grin on his face. "Want the last bite?"

You raise a brow. "You don't?"

And, well, admittedly, yes, Gojo would love to have this last bite for himself—it has a bit of cream, a bit of cake, a bit of strawberry, a bit of jam—but you hadn't gotten the chance to steal from his parfait because you were so occupied while you were talking about the panelists you were excited to see, and he figures you deserve it more than he does.

He shakes his head with a half-smile, holding his spoon closer to you. "Nah, go ahead."

You pause for a second before shrugging. "Sure."

He expects you to take the spoon from him, but instead, you lean forward and take the bite, both your hands tucking the front strands of your hair behind your ears. It throws Gojo off-guard, both the act and the fact you come off as so nonchalant about it while he's forced to grip onto the handle of his spoon with all the strength in his body so you don't realize his hands are shaking.

He could just about pass out when the realization hits him that you've just indirectly kissed him, but he manages to hold it together because you pull back just as quickly as you came forward to chew the sweet.

. . .

Honestly, the rest of that exchange is a blur. He awkwardly laughed to try and distract from all the thoughts fogging up his brain, you looked at him like he grew a Dark Flower from his head, and he whisked you back to the car to escape the stuffy room he could no longer breathe in.

You weren't exactly ready to head back so soon, suggesting a drive around to relax for a bit longer and seeing if there was anything to do around the city, so that brings Gojo to right now, with you laid back in the passenger seat with your eyes wandering in all directions while he aimlessly drives around. It starts feeling a bit hopeless when, after a few kilometers, all the buildings have got their lights off, only streetlights to guide him through the summer night, but there's a silent agreement hanging in the air that even if it ends here, the day was never wasted. Gojo's a bit disappointed he didn't get to surprise you how he wanted because he got up so late, though, but driving past wouldn't hurt—

Wait, it closes at midnight?

Okay, nevermind! Change of plans! Uh, well, more like changing back of plans to what he originally wanted to do, but change of plans!

Gojo's aware he's already not the greatest driver. Safe, yes, but anxious, scared, passive? Also, yes, so he's entirely practiced in the art of holding out his arm so his passenger doesn't fly forward and he has to pay them out in DTCG SRs to keep them from reporting him to the police.

He holds out his arm in front of you as he accelerates and makes a sharper turn, and, even though it's not a rough change, it still startles you enough when you jolt slightly forward that you hold onto him to steady yourself again.

"Gojo! What're you doing!?"

"Surprise!"

"What?!" By this point, you let go of his arm and just hold onto the grab handle instead (probably because you notice that he's only got one hand on the wheel and he'd fare much better with, you know, both of them on there), but Gojo just giggles through your empty anger as he follows the signs in the dark. "If you fucking kill us, I'm taking your EX-7 Textured Cendrillmon for myself!"

He's not even going that fast, though, it just feels like he's speeding enough relative to how slow he'd been cruising just a second ago!

"Yes, I'm going to kill us by driving the speed limit," he deadpans. "And I love you, but you are not going anywhere near my EX-7 Cendrillmons, Textured or otherwise."

He can hear you readjusting your grip on the handle looser before eventually letting go, and after you shift around in your seat a bit, moving the seat straighter-up than the recline it was just in, you clear your throat. "Where are we even going?"

"You'll see," he says, making another turn (carefully, this time) to follow the signage. "Close your eyes for me, Princess?"

"Oh, great," you wail, "you're really gonna drive us into a ditch. Whatever, end my misery, I'm sick of you."

"Aw, don't be like that," he brings his hand over to ruffle your hair to loosen you up. "You know you love me."

Gojo immediately pulls his hand back to hold onto the wheel to merge lanes, and he catches you grumbling and crossing your arms as he's checking his blind spot. Unfortunately, no cars around for him to call for a DNA Digivolve, but you've got your eyes closed now, so he'll take that as a win.

He happily hums to himself as he continues driving in the near-dark, eventually pulling up to the machines. He sticks his arm out the window to grab the parking ticket, and because it's so late out, it's not too difficult to find parking. Gojo puts the car into park, and before you can open your eyes again, he rushes to your door to open it and grab your hand to lead you up. "No peeking, got it? We're almost there."

"Ugh, you're so insufferable," you groan, and even though he's 100% sure you're rolling your eyes, you let him put his hand over them and hold his other hand to safely get to standing. Once you're up, Gojo locks the car, and he keeps hold of your hand to guide you to the entrance.

The two of you fall into a familiar walking pace, and Gojo can't fight off the grin on his face as he swings his hand in yours. He'll ignore the feeling of comfort he gets from his fingers laced with yours in exchange for the adventure ahead. You squeeze his hand every so often, probably nervous that he's dragging you without any caution thrown to the wind, but you seem to trust him enough to let him lead, so he's got to be doing something right.

Right?

Gojo spots where he needs to go to grab your tickets and rushes over as quickly as possible, though still careful not to walk too fast and accidentally trip you. He holds up a peace sign to the attendant to ask for two tickets, and after tapping his card and thanking the worker, he walk the both of you to the huge sign just above the ticket check, and he lets go of your hand to instead hover his over your eyes from behind you.

"Okay, okay, ready?"

"Gojo, if we're just at the hotel and you're pranking me right now, I'm gonna make sure you never see Agumon again.”

He chuckles heartily and gently tips your head up to face towards the sign. “Well, looks like you've caught me.” Gojo moves and puts his hands on your shoulders from behind, then leans forward so he can watch your reaction. “Okay, pretty girl, open your eyes!”

And, truly, he doesn't think he could be any happier than he is now.

Your eyes flutter open, and immediately, the exasperated look on your face is replaced with one of wonder. Your eyes glitter under the low lights, and you immediately turn to look at him in disbelief. Your hand immediately goes to play with your necklace, but he can tell it's only because you don't know what else to do.

“Gojo!”

The young man grins, and he tilts his head teasingly. “Yes?”

“I had no idea Ikebukuro Aquarium was even open this late! And there's an Ikebukuru event for Hacker's Memory, too! Oh my gosh, Gojo, thank you, thank you!” You gush, and you throw your arms around his neck to abruptly hug him.

Immediately, Gojo clenches his eyes closed to keep from screaming in excitement, but he tries his best to snicker back at you, careful not to let you see his face right now as he's fully red by now. “You're such a fake fan, how could you not know there was an Ikebukuru summer event this month?”

Well, not like he knew either until just a few minutes ago (he knew about the event, but he had no idea it meant the aquarium was open so much later than usual), but you didn't need to know that. Thank goodness for the banner he saw on the road earlier with the operating hours on it.

Ordinarily, he'd expect you to pull away and slap his arm for that accusation, but you seem too caught up in the moment to do that, only giggling in his ear. You let go of him quickly enough, though, his skin now cold with the loss of your touch, and you hold his hand in yours to pull him to get through the gates. Amidst his initial stumbles and the new warmth where your palm meets his, he hold out both your tickets to the attendant, and she scans them quickly before handing Gojo two paper maps and wishing you both a good evening.

Your eyes look every which way, but once you've settled down just enough for Gojo to get a word in, he swings his hand in yours to bring you back down to earth. “Okay, where do you wanna go first?”

He holds out his map to look at between the two of you, and you trace the outer ring with your finger. “Let's work our way into the middle.”

“Whatever you want, Princess,” he says, and he points to your bag to ask for permission to put the maps inside. You quickly pull it off your shoulders and hold it open for him. He swiftly slides in the papers, and he takes the tote from you and slings it on his own arm.

You look up at him curiously. “Uh, Gojo?”

“...Yes?”

“You don't have to carry my bag.”

“Nah, I want to,” he says as cooly as he can (which, uh, probably isn't all that cool anyway, but part of the act is looking off in another direction, so he thinks that saves him).

Besides, Gojo remembers one of your friends, Choso, telling him at a board game night once that you've always had trouble with the straps of your bags constantly slipping off your shoulders (...because your bag had just split out all the Jenga pieces on the floor a few seconds prior, and Gojo thought him and the rest of your friends were evil for laughing at you). He figures now is as good a time as any to actually use that information to make this night more enjoyable for you.

“Thank you,” you tell him genuinely, a smile on your face as you circle around to get right up next to him. “Let's go see some fish then, yeah?” You say it so softly, like you haven't got a care in the world right now and your eyes are only on him.

Gojo gulps and quickly blinks to make sure you're not an illusion.

Then he blinks again to make sure he's not dreaming.

Then he blinks again to take him back to the moment, and he shyly skitters after you as you lead the way down the aisles of sea creatures, the pink in your necklace lit up under the blue marine lights around you.

And, admittedly, Gojo didn't think walking around and looking at fish could be that fun. Sure, there's some Hacker's Memory motifs scattered around that he loves and a few other nods to the franchise in-between exhibits, but there's only so many ways to describe fish and cephalopods and pinnipeds and cetaceans and all the other types of marine life before they all start to blend together. You seem to also get a bit bored of reading all the information on the stands in front of the exhibits, too, but Gojo's lucky that you're both such dorks that you find your own little way to have fun apart from comparing the different fish you see to people you know.

It doesn't take long for you to realize that all the info stands have NFC readers on them; your Vital Bracelet keeps initiating battles when your hand is resting on them. Gojo notices the battle screens before you do because you're too responsible and always remember to turn off your volume when you're in places you should be quiet, so before you can figure out what's going on, he rushes to hold your wrist so he can battle on your behalf.

Of course, your Calmaramon wins without any real effort on his part, but you thank him like he's a hero anyway, eager to return the favor by grabbing his wrist, tapping it on the NFC, and triggering a battle with his Greymon.

And judge him all you want for just standing there like an idiot while you do it! God forbid a guy lets his crush hold his hand like he's actually someone important to her!

Gojo remembers what part of the Vital Bracelet manual talks about battles. It's indexed as item 10—he’s got the number burned into his brain because he couldn't figure out how to get the mechanic to start when he first got his VB. He didn't realize he needed to digivolve to rookie level first and felt pretty silly for missing that part of the manual, but hey! At least he remembers all the rules now.

Item 10.

10.

That's the number he counts to everytime you move onto the next exhibit and there's a new NFC to tap his bracelet again, and that’s the number of seconds he holds his breath when it's his turn to tap yours.

And, look.

It's not like all he cares about is Digimon (promise!), but it's the only thing he knows enough about all-around that he can think of to never run out of references to distract himself.

From life, from school, from his problems, from you.

Somehow, though, there still aren't enough ways for him to pull away from you and your spinning figure as you traverse through the aquarium, no matter how badly he wants to keep his heart steady for the sake of his friendship with you (and his VB stats).

He can't escape the way your lips part when you see a sea bunny that you say reminds you of a Yuramon (even if he thinks it looks more like a Pafumon) and a penguin that reminds you of Megumi, face sour and hair all spiky.

He can't escape the way your hands move as you explain to another person who asks about your VB how it works. You beckon Gojo to come closer so you can show them how well he's raised his stats, and even if he's too busy being worried that you'll click over to look at his heart rate monitor and catch him, his heart warms seeing you talk so animatedly.

He can't escape the way your eyebrows furrow as you watch the sea turtles float above you, trying to count the shapes on their shells with your finger pointing towards them. Gojo tries to follow along and also keep count, but they all seem to refuse to turn for him to get the count of hexagons on their other side, but that's fine with him.

And he certainly can't escape the way you smile at him. Suguru's gonna be so sick of him later when Gojo will inevitably hide underneath the covers to text him about his romantic dilemma, but he can't help it.

What's he even meant to say?

suguru her smile reminds me of all good things on earth and makes me want to be a better person and idk go run a triathalon with zero training i cant take it anymore please put me in a coma rn so i can remember it forever im so srs i cant ever forget this pls i can die happy now

Yeah, no, it's gonna look something more like:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

But, in-between all the other grander moments, Gojo's still able to relax. It's not like he's on the verge of bursting into melodramatic song every time you're near.

You'll call him closer to the tank, and he'll take off his glasses to marvel at the slow-travelling shark right in front of him.

In the summer heat, you chase his fingers to hold between your palms to cool down. It works out perfectly because your warmer hands keep him from freezing, and it's nice to be able to take a second away from all the other visitors who are hustling to get through everything.

No matter how excited you are, you do still start to get more drowsy as the moon rises. He feigns an ache at the back of his ankles to have an excuse for you both to sit down and just stare at the sky while you gather back your energy, and he's sure you know he's totally bullshitting when you roll your eyes at him before yawning behind your hand, but you still let him drag you back to a bench.

You get distracted by all the colorful marine life all too often, and Gojo takes to snapping candid photos of you on his phone while you wander around, head in the clouds as you wave hello to all the critters and coral. He's not all that great at taking pictures, his hands clumsy and unpracticed, but he thinks that hardly matters when you're in frame.

You catch him a few times and, instead of teasing him about it, you rope him in to stand right next to you to have a passerby take a picture of the two of you together in front of whatever it was you were enamored in, and once Gojo's phone gets handed back to you, you snap a more carefree selfie with the two of you and your crests glowing, cheeks flushed blue.

The two of you end the evening at the center of the aquarium, fully surrounded by an overhead dome of water, and you both look up, backs to one another and watching the moon through the waves. The silence is unpracticed and out of the ordinary for you, but it's comforting all the same as all the chatter and talk. All the colors of the sea swirl above Gojo, whose heart has accepted that it has no other owner than the young woman whose hands share the same calluses he does from all the studying you do.

The drive back to the hotel is equally as peaceful, your eyes closed and his glued straight to the road. He lets his GPS guide him back, and while neither of you really speak much, he's more than happy to unlock his phone for you to look at the pictures from the night and show him when he's at red lights. You send them all back to yourself, a few photos of you and Gojo to your friends, and all the embarrassing duo shots of you both posing like anime characters to his friends.

He lets you shower first so you don't fall asleep waiting, even after you insist that you're going to take forever. He practically has to force you to take the towel and gather your pajamas and toiletries, but whatever frustration he had over your stubbornness are gone when, through the door, he hears you yelp as the cold water from the showerhead hits you.

With a boisterous laugh, he walks over to the mini fridge to grab the strawberry milk you'd gotten him earlier in the afternoon, and he sips on that while he texts Suguru to tell him that he, in, fact, survived the evening without having to call for emergency services to resuscitate him. He takes his own shower soon after, grateful that you both warmed it up and are now in bed to catch up on your sleep, and he brushes his teeth with a quiet smile as he waits for his hair to dry off a bit.

When he comes back to the main area of the room, Gojo tries his best not to make too much noise as he's closing the door to the bathroom, but looking towards the bed, he sees that the lamp on the shared nightstand is still on and you're still awake. He quietly walks over and gets into bed, frown on his face as you shyly wave from under the covers, DemiVeemon bright blue and right next to you on the pillows. Once he's firmly settled in, he turns to face you across the space between your beds.

"Why are you still awake?" Gojo asks in a whisper.

"Wanted to say goodnight," you smile, snuggling in further into your blankets. "And, thank you. For taking me out today."

"Aw, you're so sweet. You're welcome," Gojo says in earnest, stretching happily and pulling another pillow underneath his head. "You have fun?"

"Of course I did! I had a great time," you tell him, rolling onto your side to look at him. "Did you?"

Gojo snorts, rolling his eyes playfully. "I'm offended you're even asking."

"Oh, bite me," you groan. "You're so annoying."

Gojo's gaze is steady on you as you fume, moving your hair out of your eyes and blowing away what strands keep getting caught in your mouth. When you notice he's staring, you freeze like a deer in headlights and your cheeks go pink.

"You know," Gojo bites back a laugh and shakes his head at you, reaching his arm across and miming the motion of petting your hair to calm you. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're falling for me."

There's a beat of silence as your eyes meet his again, hair all messy again and arms tangled, before you scoff, reaching behind yourself to throw one of your spare pillows at him with a huff.

Jokes on you, he's not giving it back now.

Gojo chuckles, letting the pillow hit him and fall on the floor between your beds, and he shakes his head good-naturedly, clicking his tongue. "Sorry, sorry, I jest."

"Yeah, suits you a lot better than 'Prince.'"

Gojo chuckles again, this time contagious enough to get you laughing at your own joke, which is all he can really ask for. He waits for you to get all your giggles out before he struggles against his drowsiness to reach out from under the covers to pick up the pillow, then he hovers his hand over the lamp's off switch.

As he watches you cozy yourself to sleep, your form still peacefully turned to him, for just a second, Gojo wonders if it could ever be anything but a joke: you falling for him.

To him, that's all it ever could be, but with your eyes now closed and your hair haphazardly spread out across your pillows, he supposes it wouldn't hurt to indulge in the thought. With a shaky breath, he takes off his glasses to stare up at the ceiling, pretending there's no space between your beds and the pillow beneath his arm is your sleeping form.

And, because he's so selfish, he'll give himself 10 seconds.

10 seconds to pretend you think of him whenever you see two cats snuggled up against each other in their sleep.

10 seconds to pretend your dreams are of him whisking you away on adventures to the Digital World.

10 seconds to pretend you look at him the same way he does.

It's too bad that his 10 seconds are already gone before he can come up with much else grander than those simple things, but before he feels himself slipping away into dreamland, he turns his head to look at you one last time before closing his eyes.

"Sleep well, and sweet dreams," he smiles one last time before finally turning off the light, hoping to himself that you might still be awake to hear him one last time tonight.

"Goodnight, Princess."

#nerd gojo #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #nerdjo

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taomyou · 1 month ago

Text

nerds do it better - chapter 2: DNA Digivolve!

tags: gojo satoru x reader, nerd!gojo, fem!nerd!reader, modern au, college/uni au, fluff, friends to lovers, pining, study date || wc: 5.6k

ao3 || tumblr masterlist

Gojo leans far enough back in his chair for its front legs to lift off the ground, and he takes off his glasses to whine into his hands. “I can’t take it anymore!”

You quickly shush him with wide eyes and a finger held over your lips. He quiets down when he sees that you’re annoyed at him, and the two of you look around you to see other people looking at you both (mostly him). You deadpan at the boy across from you as he nervously smiles and puts his head down.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s okay,” you sigh, shaking your head as you move to put away your deck. “You’re still a sore loser, though.”

“Am not,” he huffs quietly, cheeks puffed out as he puts his glasses back on.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” you snort. Your last match solidified his Eosmon’s loss to your Mirei Mastemon, so dinner’s on him tonight. You don’t know why he’s so butthurt about it—you’ve had to buy dinner just about as many times as he’s had to.

But, just like that, his usual bubbly self is back.

“I will, thank you.” He flashes you a smile before gathering up his own cards, checking the time on his obnoxiously loud Vital Bracelet. You recognize the beep from it—your own Bracelet on your wrist makes the same sound when you choose to have the volume on in places other than the library.

“How many times do I have to tell you to turn that down?” You scold him.

“As many times as you’ll see me with it on my wrist. Gotta make sure the little guy is doing okay,” he chirps, taking the memory marker and sliding it closer to you, He’s taken to giving you the trinkets, and while you protested in the beginning, he seems to have more than enough of them anyway that he’s eager to part with the ones you think are cute. “Ready to go?”

Taking the memory marker and carefully putting it in your jacket pocket—today, it’s a small clay YukimiBotamon—, you nod as both thanks and affirmation. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

“Forget anything?”

“Uh, I don’t think so.” You already packed your backpack a couple minutes ago, so you just feel yourself up to make sure all your things are in your pockets.

Ah!

You lean down quickly to grab your phone charger, having forgotten to unplug it, but when you don’t see it there, you hear Gojo snickering. From the corner of your eye, you see him reveal it from behind his back, already neatly tied and secured to keep it from tangling.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist.”

You deadpan, unamused, before shaking your head, turning around to prompt him to put the cable away in your backpack for you. As he’s unzipping and rezipping the front pocket, you glance at him over your shoulder and smile fondly at him.

It goes without saying that you and Gojo became fast friends.

That first day you met, you and him stayed back at the shop until the owner kicked the two of you out to close the store. Even then, you and Gojo were over the moon—you and him had played matches until you were both tired of losing to the other, took a quick break to meet all the other people gathered there, then went back to your table to talk about all things mon-related and un-mon-related—. so much so that you were more than happy to give him your phone number when he asked for it at the end of the night. Even if he hadn’t, you definitely would’ve told Nanami to ask for his contact on your behalf; it’s not everyday that you get to find someone so enamored in the same things you are, nevermind someone so... cute.

And maybe part of his charm is that he isn’t shy about his obsession in the slightest. Even when you didn’t know each other as well as you do now, by the time you’d get up in the morning, you’d have gotten a million texts about and screenshots of any mon-related news, and when he caught you around campus, he’d scurry to pull his blue crest necklace out from under his sweater to show you. Of course, you’re always wearing your own pink one too, so you flash yours if you’ve got the second to spare, and that’d always put a huge smile on his face.

Either way, at some point, neither of you could resist the temptation of abandoning your homework to play a few matches with the only other person in a 100-kilometer radius who knew the difference between MetalGreymon and SkullGreymon once the opportunity presented itself, so it’s no surprise you started spending time together.

Though, abandon is a bit of an exaggeration, you suppose. Both of you already studied most late afternoons at the main campus library on the 6th floor in the first place, so, now, you simply do that together and then spend the rest of your free time playing DTCG. You always did put so much attention and effort into your studies, so it’s a good change of pace to be able to take that break with Gojo and let your brain actually get a moment of rest. And nowadays, he drops you off at your apartment afterwards so you don’t have to keep running after the last bus of the evening, too, so the two of you have even more time to ramble about all your shared interests in his stupid Digi-Car.

Of course, you talk about yourselves and your own lives, too—it’s not like Digimon is the only thing on your minds, even if it does feel that way some days—so, naturally, you run out of time spent together to discuss everything you want to. Other times, you’ll be too tired to stay awake on the ride back to your place that you’ll doze off in the middle of him walking you through his thought process in choosing the option cards for his Seraphimon deck, but he’s a good sport about it, always happy to repeat what he said whenever you ask.

He’s not shy about that either—wanting to talk to you—so, naturally, it becomes somewhat routine for him to, instead of texting you every single thought he wants to share, he’ll call your number, and you’ll listen to him talk while you do your chores at home, and when it’s your turn to him about everything you want to, he does his physics homework with you on the other side of the line.

He’s always talking, always loud, but, for the most part, he’s much better at keeping quiet in the library.

Which brings you back to the present moment, turning back around to properly face him and shove him playfully for stealing your phone charger.

Wordlessly, the two of you head for the elevator to start heading down and out of the library, heads down as you both wake up the digimon in your Bracelets and check their vitals. It’s your turn to battle, so Gojo pulls his VS DiM from his wallet to load his Paildramon onto the small card as you enter the elevator, and after that he gets the prompt to remove it from his Bracelet, he grabs your wrist to bring it closer for him to see and carefully inserts the card into the DiM slot for you. He wants to watch the battle, so he keeps your hand in his while you push the buttons to move your Lilymon.

By the time the elevator’s back on the ground floor, your Lilymon’s defeated his Paildramon, and your Bracelet plays a short tune declaring your victory. Gojo gives a disappointed hum before carefully taking out his DiM card to return his digimon back to his Bracelet, and, just like that, the warmth of his touch is gone.

And it's good thing the other people around you are loud enough that there’s no way Gojo can hear the sound of your heart thumping against your ribcage over them.

Can really you blame a girl for crushing on a nerd, especially one that’s so cute?

After you exit the elevator and get through the front doors of the building, Gojo breathes in the summer air and stretches his arms up over his head. “So, where you thinking?”

You groan and press your hand on the small of your back, trying to play off the no-doubt obvious blush on your face. “All I’m thinking is that I’m gonna have to lay down soon, my back is fucking kill me.”

“No sit-down restaurant, then?”

You shrug. “I don’t mind either way. You can choose where we go.”

“But I always have to choose!” Gojo whines. “Come on, give me something to work with here!”

“You’re paying, you choose.”

“I chose the last time you paid!”

“Yeah, because you won!”

“Then why don’t you pick where we go this time?!”

“I won, why should I have to pick?!”

“Are you even hearing yourself?” Gojo groans, dragging his hands down his face. “There’s gotta be something you’re in the mood for.”

“I’m in the mood for you to choose where we eat.”

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

You laugh and lean slightly to bump your shoulder with his, lightly shoving him. “Seriously, you can pick. I’m not craving anything right now.”

“I don’t wanna choose somewhere you don’t wanna eat,” he huffs, crossing his arms.

“Ugh, I hate you,” you sigh and hike up your backpack straps, straightening your posture.

“Sure you do,” he sarcastically sing-songs, “which means you hate me enough to not let me choose where we go for dinner, right?”

“Gojo!”

He chuckles warmly, bringing his hand to your head to ruffle your hair and mess with you. “Alright, alright, I’ll pick.”

You whine as you swat at his hand. “Stop it!”

“Relax, I’ll fix it! Let me have my get-back.” He smiles apologetically to you, now gently patting your head to flatten the static he put into it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I know you’re just playing.” You’re not really all that concerned with your hair, you just don’t like how good it makes you feel to have his hands on you like this. “And I don’t hate you.”

“Well, duh, otherwise we wouldn’t be hanging out,” he rolls his eyes jokingly. “I do want you to pick, though. or at least let me know where you don’t wanna go.”

“Fine, then,” you sigh and avert your eyes while he moves your bangs out of your face, knees now bent to meet you eye-level. “Let’s go to that restaurant down the street from that ice cream shop you like. I like their food.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him tilt his head slightly. “Fushiguro’s, right?”

You nod meekly. “Yeah. If you wanna grab some after, I’ll pay for your ice cream after.”

“...Can I get mine in a cone?”

“With sprinkles, too, if you want.”

"...And a strawberry?"

You bite back a smile, turning away again so you can hide your face. "Sure. You can even have some of my scoop."

He grins and moves to give you a side hug, humming affectionately as he rubs his cheek against your shoulder. “You’re the best!”

You whine in discomfort, his long limbs heavy against you, but you just let him rock you back and forth. He eventually lets go when you have to actually, you know, get to where you’re going, but you almost wish he didn’t have to.

You say almost because you certainly need the little bit of distance between you to make sure you don’t catch even stronger feelings.

It’s a bit of a walk between the library and where his car is parked, so the two of you continue talking with each other, hands now to yourselves. He asks about all the classes you had for the day, how your studying went at the library, and you ask him the same in turn. You mention having a scheduled gaming session with some of your friends over the upcoming weekend, and he mentions having to do some of his leftover microbio homework before it’s due at midnight, but, otherwise, it’s a normal, par-for-the-course conversation.

When you reach his car, Gojo makes a show of opening your door, just as he always does. In the beginning, you thought he was just being chivalrous, maybe even trying to flirt, but you quickly learned that the unlock button on his key fob doesn’t work, so he’s literally doing it just because he has to manually unlock all his car doors. That information is much better for your heart, but it was a fun delusion to have for the week or so you thought he might’ve been interested in you.

You slip in, placing down your backpack at your feet, and you put on your seatbelt while he gets situated on the driver’s side. You recline your seat to lessen the strain on your back, and you close your eyes as he’s starting the car. “Wake me up when we get there, please?”

He puts his hand just behind your shoulder as he reverses out of the parking spot, obliviously slamming two stones together to start sparks inside you as his thumb brushes your cheek as he pulls his hand back to the steering wheel. “Taking a nap?”

You hum and sink further into the passenger seat, shaking your head. “No, just closing my eyes.” When he doesn’t say anything in return, you crack an eye open to see if there’s anything wrong. Though you can’t see as well in the sunset light, he doesn’t seem to be off or anything. “Aren’t you going to talk?”

Gojo breaks out of his focus on the road and his eyes shift to glance at you, his glasses falling slightly on his face. “Do you want me to?”

“I mean, you always have a lot to say,” you tease, poking his shoulder lazily. “I’m up, I’ll listen. Promise.”

He seems to think to himself for a second, his eyes forward again, and he shakes his head with a faint smile. “Nah, it’s fine, we’ll talk over dinner. I had something I wanted to ask you anyway.”

You don’t let it show on your face (not that he’d see anyway—Gojo’s a surprisingly nervous driver, so he wouldn’t ever look at anything other than the road), but you freeze in place.

What could he possibly want to ask you? Is there a new level 6 he wants help building around? Or, you guess, maybe he wants to know if you want to join him on his millionth rewatch of Digimon Tamers? Surely, it’s not that he needs your help on his homework; the formula sheet at the front of his school binder is enough to make you dizzy.

But, whatever it is, it seems serious enough that his mind is occupied with that over trying to fill the space of his car with noise.

You close your eyes to try and soothe yourself, and, thankfully, you just doze off like you sometimes do.

And, maybe, when you wake up again, this will have all been a dream.

☆

“...A convention?”

Gojo nods eagerly, picking up his phone quickly to pull up the flyer and then hand the device to you. “Yeah! It’s a bit far, but I’ve wanted to go to this one for a long time! I’ve never had anyone to go with before, and I thought it’d be perfect to ask now since they just finalized panelists!”

As you read the details, the young preteen whose parents own the restaurant (and who you remember as the one Gojo tutors in his spare time) comes over to your table to refill your drinks. You overhear your friend trap him in some small talk before asking him about how he’s doing in his physics class, but your mind is still stuck on his question.

He wants you to attend a convention with him?

You haven’t been to many before, just a few local ones here and there, and never anything as big as the one he’s extending an invite to you to. You’ve heard of it before—it’s huge in fandom space, nevermind just for Digimon, and it happens every year at the end of summer—but you never felt so inclined as to inconvenience yourself with figuring out transportation and lodging if you were to attend.

You’ve heard the horror stories every year, anyway: someone getting sued by a motel for ruining their bathrooms with cosplay makeup, another person fainting from dehydration in the lobby, someone else getting their cape stuck in an escalator. You’d never fare that alone, and, well, like he said himself, it’s not like you ever knew anyone who’d want to suffer through that either.

The reality is, too, that you’re just a broke college student. You can’t exactly afford this kind of trip without sacrificing hot water for the next three months. You suppose that you could make the argument to yourself that summer’s just started so it’s not like you need hot water to function, but, either way, you don’t have the money.

To yourself, you frown. Looking at all the information and zooming in to read the finer print, it does sound like it’d be a lot of fun. Lots of shows and things you’d love to go watch, and even a guest panel with your and Gojo’s favorite Digimon voice actors! You’ve cosplayed before at other conventions you’ve been to, too, so it would’ve been exciting to put something new together.

The thought of spending a weekend away with Gojo is really nice, too, but regardless! You’ll have to fight off the mental image of Gojo in, like, an inflatable Agumon costume or something as he pulls you along to go see booths in artist alley, because you’ll have to decline his invitation.

You must’ve been looking at the flyer for a long time because, by the time you’re done and ready to hand Gojo’s phone back to him, one of the owners of Fushiguro’s, a youthful woman with short, spiky hair that’s kept under a pink bandana, comes over with your orders. You lean back slightly to give her room to set everything down, and once her hands are free, she straightens up and smiles at you and Gojo.

“Anything else I can get for you two?”

“No, thank you so much,” you smile back at her.

Gojo smiles at her too and politely nods his head. “We’ll let you know if we need anything.”

“Of course! And, Gojo,” she looks at him directly, “thank you so much for helping Megumi with his schoolwork. His father and I appreciate you very much.”

Gojo flushes pink and puts his hand up slightly, waving her off. “No need, Mrs. Fushiguro. I’m glad to help.”

The two of them have this sort of exchange seemingly often—it happened the last time you came here, too—but it’s a really sweet scene, that of a blushing Gojo and the doting mother.

Summoned by an enthusiastic wave from the woman, the other owner, the more rugged, muscular man who usually stays in the back doing the cooking, comes out to the table, wrapping his arm around his wife’s shoulders. The two make a bit of an unconventional pair, her so gentle and him so tough-looking, but they’re clearly in love—that much is undeniable.

“Come on, Dear, say thank you,” she elbows his side, smiling up at him.

He begrudgingly exhales through his nose and rolls his eyes. “Okay.”

Gojo’s mentioned before that the man, Toji, isn’t all that warm with him, but he’s slipped the tutor a few tips here and there as his own thanks, so he knows he isn’t at least unwelcome in their arrangement.

His wife clicks her tongue with an annoyed look and reaches up to pinch his cheek, tugging at it. He scoffs, telling her not to embarrass him in front of customers—granted, it's just you and Gojo at the late hour—, but he makes no move to pull away from her touch.

There’s a brief pause where nothing’s said, and you and Gojo look at each other with awkward smiles. He’s probably not going to tell Gojo anything at all, so you give your friend a quiet thumbs-up to give him some encouragement to speak up and end the uncomfortable interaction.

“Um, it’s,” Gojo awkwards cuts through the silence. “It’s alright, really,” he says shyly.

The two owners stop their halfhearted silent squabble, and Toji nods repeatedly after another pause, “Right, right.”

His wife nervously laughs and puts her hands together for a single clap, her apron moving as she does. “We’ll leave you two to enjoy your meal, then! Sorry for interrupting you, enjoy!” She pulls herself and Toji away and back towards the kitchen, and you laugh at the playful smack she gives him on the arm. “Why are you always so mean to that boy!?”

“He’s always bringing so much damn sugar around the house. Megumi didn’t have any cavities before that brat started tutoring him, and now he’s got them at every fuckin’ checkup,” you hear the man grumble.

Gojo laughs, reaching across the table to grab himself a spoon and to pull his drink closer to him. “Well, I guess he’s not wrong about that. At least he didn’t say I was a bad teacher.”

You roll your eyes and pick up your own utensil. “Yeah, you’re such a nerd that even someone who hates you as much as he does can’t fault you for that.”

“Why, thank you, fellow nerd,” he grins.

You both dig into your food, neither of you having eaten since lunch at noon, and once the two of you have gotten comfortable in your seats, Gojo clears his throat and takes another sip of his obnoxiously sweet drink (that he’s offered to you twice now, and both times you take a sip of it, it seems like he’s totally oblivious to the fact you’re indirectly kissing him; unfortunately, you are not oblivious to that fact).

“So, what do you think?”

“Of the convention?” He nods, placing down his spoon to lace his fingers underneath his chin. “I mean, I’ve heard of this one before, how could I not? But I’ve never really been to any event that big before, so…”

“Me neither, that’s why I think it’d be fun! Did you see that the VAs from Adventure-01 will be there?”

You move around your food in its bowl as you figure out how to let him down easy. “Yeah, I saw that.”

“There’s some rumors online, too, that there’s gonna be an announcement for a new game! They’re saying that it’d be something like Cyber Sleuth, but since you brought up wanting a game with the Frontier spirit mechanics, that’s all I can think about wanting-”

He gets the hint pretty quickly that you don’t seem all that excited, and he frowns across from you.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

You lean into your hand, sighing sadly. “Nothing, nothing.”

“If you don’t want to go, that’s okay!” He reassures you, his hands going to his crest necklace to fiddle with the tag. You’ve picked up on that being something he does a lot when he’s anxious. “I just thought, you know, it’d be something you’d want to go to…” The rest of his sentence trails off, almost like he has more to say, but he’s quiet after that, not that you give much room for silence right now.

“What? Why wouldn't I want to go?! Of course I do!” You immediately exclaim, quick to wave your hands in front of you to tell him he’s wrong. “And you should still go, even if I can’t! It’s just, you know, uh,” you purse your lips, “it’s just a lot to plan, and I don’t really have the money for it right now. If I were to go, I’d want to do everything right.”

. . .

“Oh,” he blinks. “You don’t have to worry about that. I was going to pay for everything, was that not obvious?” He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world when it obviously isn't!

Your mouth falls open, and you flush in embarrassment. “What?! How was that obvious?!”

“I mean, I’m the one inviting you.”

“Sure, but you can’t just pay for me to go!”

He chuckles and pulls his hand away from his necklace, instead now placing it at the back of his neck. “I don’t mind, it’d be worth it!”

“Even if I did let you pay, which I wouldn’t, it’s still too expensive!” You can’t think of all the expenses right off the top of your head, but with transportation, a hotel, food, and the convention badges themselves, that’s already too much! Not to mention how much you’d inevitably spend at the actual event!

“It’s not like I have anything else to spend my money on,” he says shyly under his breath. Which, admittedly, would be true—he only really spends money on merch and the occasional day out with you and his other friends—but still! The anniversary digivices are expensive enough, and he's got practically all of them!

“But-”

“Come on,” he takes his glasses off and says your name softly. "It's okay if you don't want to go, or if it's weird to stay with me in wherever we'd have to sleep and stuff, or, like, literally anything else. I'm not gonna force you, but if it's the cost that's holding you back, then don't worry about it."

"Listen," you huff, "I appreciate you offering, and I do want to go, but I'm not taking advantage of your money like that."

"We're literally having dinner on my dime right now," he scoffs, picking up his spoon again to get back to eating. "But don't worry about that! Besides, I want you to come. Hello! I need someone to go with, too!"

You roll your eyes. "Oh, so you're just inviting me so you have someone to enable all your purchases in the artist alley?"

He nods happily, pointing at you with his spoon. "Correct!" He looks down at your food, and he taps the side of your bowl with his utensil with an angry frown. "And get back to your food, it's gonna get cold!"

"Yeah, yeah," you blush. You two of your eat the rest of your food in silence, your eyes off to the side. Eventually, after you're both finished and Gojo senses you're avoiding the conversation, so he kicks your foot playfully to get your attention back. Unfortunately, it works. "What?"

"So, now that you've got a second to think about it," he puts his head down. "Will you go with me?" He asks, his eyes shining. His glasses are still perched atop his head—probably because he doesn't want the heat from his food to fog them up, but they work to only intensify the pleading look he gives you under the restaurant lamplight. "I'm not gonna be upset or anything if you say no, I just want to know what you're thinkin.'"

Fuck, how are you supposed to say no to him like that?

You peek up at him, your heart starting to race. "...Are you sure I can go?"

He bolts up in his seat, his glasses shifting in his hair. "Does that mean you'll say yes?" Gojo asks, hands immediately going up to his glasses to make sure they don't fall.

Yeah, you couldn't say no to him like this.

"Only if you're sure."

"I am, I am!"

You nod slowly. "Okay, then."

"Really!?"

"Yes, really. I'll go with you."

Gojo's face breaks out into a full grin, teeth flashing and eyes closed, and he pumps both his fists in the air. "Yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"Please, Gojo," you bite your cheek, trying your darndest to let out the happy yelp welling in your chest. "I should be the one thanking you," you mutter under your breath. "And be careful! Your glasses!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he puts them back on, blinking a few times to get readjusted to them. "But, really? You'll go with me?!"

You smile nervously, taking a quick pause while you force yourself to swallow your heart and clear your throat. "Well, where else are you going to find someone who can tolerate you?"

He haughtily rolls his eyes. "Please, you're just as bad as I am."

"You take that back," you deadpan.

"What?!" He cackles. "You're the one who stayed up late all last week waiting for the booster pack card list to be posted! Not even for an actual presale announcement, just to see the list of tamer cards!"

"Yeah, well," you retort, "you begged me to place the order for the 25th anniversary D-Ark presale during your astrophysics III midterm for you last month! You could've waited, like, an hour, and done it yourself!"

"Don't shame me! You know they sell out, like, the second they're up for sale!"

"No, they don't! You just have trauma from when you tried getting the limited edition D-Scanner and you forgot to set your alarm for release! You're lucky I just got one for you when you didn't pick up your phone!"

"Hey! I-"

"Can you two nerds shut up?!" Toji shouts from the kitchen. "Washing dishes is already the worst part of my fucking day! I don't need to hear you screaming about your fucking digi-phones or whatever at this hour!"

You and Gojo immediately shut your mouths, heads turning to face the direction of the sound. Gojo's taken you here enough times for you to know Toji's not really that mean, just really blunt and jagged, but you're still kinda scared of him.

Gojo laughs and pulls out his wallet to leave enough to pay for your meals and a sizeable tip (for Toji's troubles, you're sure). "Still wanna go for ice cream?" He asks in a quiet whisper.

You nod quickly, and he offers you his hand for you to get out of your seat even faster than you would on your own.

"We're on our way out, cash is on the table! Keep the change!" Gojo says back to the kitchen, pulling you up. You yell a quick thanks for the meal as Gojo steadies you on your feet, and Toji just grunts loudly enough for you to know he's heard you both (and is very, very, very glad that you're leaving).

The two of you both race outside and into the dark, hands still together so you don't lose each other in your frenzy to leave. You let go when you're under the streetlamp, and Gojo jogs a few paces so he can open the passenger car door for you, again, making a huge show out of it, outstretched arm and slight bow and all.

"Thank you, Prince Gojo," you tease, getting in and moving so he can close the door for you.

"Sure thing, Princess," he winks and quickly rushes around the car to crawl into the driver's seat next to you, no doubt excited to get his, again, obnoxiously sweet double scoop of whatever ice cream he's in the mood for today.

He starts the car, hand on your seat and just behind your shoulder again so he can back out of the spot, and he sings the Data Squad opening to you both as he makes the short drive between Fushiguro's and his favorite ice cream shop just several streets down. You join in (...even though you think Yoshino deserved better), and just as the second verse is starting, Gojo stops singing, now more focused on the road as he's turned on his blinker and trying to merge into the lane to the right.

You glance over your shoulder to check for cars with him, just in case he's having a hard time seeing when it's safe to go, and there's a car approaching in the right lane that Gojo slows down next to, waiting to get in behind it. Instead, the car also slows down and signals that it wants to go into your current lane, so Gojo puts his foot back on the gas to get back to speed.

And, really, you thought that he'd find it corny when you did it the first time it happened and you were in his car. Come to find out, he says the exact same thing when he's driving and another car from the lane he's trying to enter tries to enter his.

You were both very, very wrong at dinner to accuse the other of being the bigger Digi-fan—you're evenly matched in that regard, that's for sure.

The two of you turn to look at each other, new smiles on your faces.

As Gojo turns the steering wheel towards the right and you watch the car behind you merge to the left, you and him both burst out into excited laughter, and you have to put your hands on your cheeks just to make sure you haven't broken your face from smiling too hard.

And, maybe, in your own deluded, fantasyland, this is your sign from the Digital World that you and Gojo are meant to be together. Maybe not in any kind of romantic or relationship sense, but as two people who are just meant to be... together. That's kinda what you're yelling for, anyway—two digimon to join into one unit.

But you can worry about that later, because, right now, you and him both have to steady your breath to scream at the top of your lungs once both cares have safely made the merge into their respective lanes.

"DNA Digivolve!"

chapter 3

#nerd gojo #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #nerdjo

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taomyou · 1 month ago

Text

nerds do it better - chapter 1: Digital Gate, Open!

tags: gojo satoru x reader, nerd!gojo, fem!nerd!reader, modern au, college/uni au, meet cute, fluff || wc: 5.2k

ao3 || tumblr masterlist

You chew on your bottom lip as you look at yourself in the mirror of your car’s sun visor. You hadn’t bothered to put on any makeup or dress nicely, but now you’re beginning to feel self-conscious of that decision. Should you have gotten pretty for tonight? You wanted to look approachable—friendly, even—but maybe something other than your faded college orientation shirt, an old pair of basketball shorts, and your beloved pink crest of sincerity necklace would’ve been better for that.

You can feel yourself start to sweat, your left hand clammy as you grip onto the steering wheel even though the AC is still running. Your right hand is still on the gear shift, ready to put your car back in drive and leave, but you can’t bring yourself to move it.

Your eyes flicker between your reflection and your rearview mirror to see the near-empty parking lot around you, and you wonder whether or not you’ve made the right decision coming tonight. You count 6 cars, all of them parked right next to each other right at the entrance. Apart from those few, there’s absolutely no one else around.

You groan, moving both your hands to the top of your steering wheel so you can thrash your head back and forth in despair. As you move around, the small black box in your pocket falls out, and once you feel the weight gone, you stop immediately and pat around in your chair to pick it back up. You panic when you can’t immediately find it, but eventually you see that it’s caught between your seat and the door, so you quickly turn off your car’s engine and open the door so you can pick it back up.

Your legs now swung out, you sigh to yourself as you put the box back in your pocket. You awkwardly lean down to make sure that nothing had fallen out, but you don’t see that familiar plastic sheen anywhere, so you figure it’s all safe. You look around to make sure that nobody’s seen you haphazardly shuffle about in your car, but, as you’d expected, there’s no one there.

It really is so empty, much more than you’d thought it’d be. The advertising for the event looked so well-put together and planned, but there really isn’t anyone around. Who could even say all those 6 other cars were here for the same reason you were? They could just be there to shop around.

Your feet to the asphalt, you put your elbows on your knees and groan again into your hands.

Seriously, why the fuck are you even here right now?

You run through it again in your head to delay having to move, but, honestly, you’re about a minute away from just turning the engine back on and driving out of this sketchy parking lot at the edge of town.

You’ve been playing Digimon TCG since it’d launched a couple years ago. You suppose a more accurate statement is that you collected the cards back then and learned the actual rules of the game a few years later in the summer between high school and university, but no one around you really cares enough to hear the difference, so you just say you’ve been playing since launch.

Makes you sound cooler, anyway. Like, “look at me, a grown adult woman, I’m so up-to-date on a children’s game franchise that I’ve been playing their card game since it released!”

But, anyway.

You don’t have much company that’s all that interested in playing with you, at least not anymore. You fared just fine with finding other players in online servers in the past, but with your third-year university schedule, you’ve had to stop queuing for duels that pretty much always end up being hours-long, even on weekdays past midnight.

And, full offense to them, but the only people available to even play by the time you’re finished with your responsibilities for the day aren’t all that great, always lecturing you mid-game on the current game meta and pressuring you for extra rounds when they lose to your deck. And, quite frankly, you didn’t clear your deskspace and set up your overhead camera at your PC to listen to a bunch of basement dwellers whine about how your “weak” deck should’ve lost to theirs (which you call out as blatant misogyny—God forbid a girl plays with cards that’re girly, cute, and viable for comp).

You don’t know anyone personally who plays either, much to your dismay. Admittedly, you hadn’t tried very hard to look—only asking someone if they played if you saw a Agumon keychain on someone’s backpack around campus or if you’d overheard any sort of tabletop game conversation—but the answer was always a resounding no, I didn’t even know there was a card game. You’ve tried getting your friends interested, even lending them decks you’ve played in the past, and while they do put in an honest effort to pick it up, you know they’re not having as much fun as you’d want them to.

. . .

And that’s how you find yourself here now, in the near-empty Jujutsu Comic Shop parking lot on a Friday night, your Beelstarmon deck heavy in your flimsy shorts pocket, supposedly ready to play a few tables with other local players who probably don’t even exist. You saw a small flyer for a DTCG game night put up on one of the bulletin boards on your uni campus last week, went home and triple-checked your deck to make sure none of your cards had suddenly become illegal for play since the last time you got them out of their case, and made the relatively long drive to get to the comic book store.

All that only to find that the whole thing is a complete bust. Seriously, 6 cars?! And it starts in, like, 10 minutes! The flyer said free food—that’s usually enough on its own to get everyone and their mother to these things!

God, and the likelihood that everyone waiting in there is an arrogant asshole that’s going to insult your deck is high enough that you’re better off just building a new one with whatever booster packs are in the store…

There’s at least one of those fuckers waiting in there. One of the 6 cars in the lot is littered with Digimon stickers, enough of them that you’re going to assume that they’re crazier about it than you are, which is saying quite a lot considering you’ve been in love with it since you were a young girl. At the very least, there’s none of those excessively lewd stickers plastered on it—just a bunch of Rookie and Champion levels—, but you can barely even spot the license plate with how overstimulated your eyes are. You’d probably find the car cute in any other context, but, right now, you’re just annoyed at yourself for thinking that coming all the way out here was a good idea.

You lift your head to do one last scan of the parking lot, feeling dejected.

You really do want to play, but would it really be worth it to stick around if you weren’t going to have any good games? It’s starting to get late, the sun starting to dip past the horizon, and it really doesn’t look like any more people will show up. You suppose that the other cars could’ve been full with friends carpooling and there’s actually a bunch of tables being prepared as you’re loitering in the parking lot, but are there even enough people in this college town who know a Digimon card game even exists?

You’re probably part of the problem yourself, unwilling to face the other thing holding you back from just going in and making yourself present. It’s… scary to be somewhere like this, all on your own and to play something you feel strongly enough to spend the last 30 minutes driving to. And you hesitate to say it’d be embarrassing—cringe isn’t real, people should do whatever they want—, but it would be sufficiently embarrassing to walk in, see nobody there except for the organizer (who’s probably the owner of that obnoxious Digi-Car), and have to sit through some painstakingly boring games with someone who probably won’t respect your build choices.

You close your eyes and lean further into your elbows, deciding that you’ll leave in a second. As disappointed as you are, it does feel nice outside today, even with how clammy your hands still are, but that’s to be expected in the tail-end of winter. Your only opportunities to be outside like this nowadays are when you’re walking between classes and when you’re chasing after the evening bus home from campus, so it’s refreshing to actually enjoy the breeze for once instead of being upset that it ruins your hair.

You don’t realize you’ve spaced out until you hear the sound of someone clearing their throat, and you’re shaken fully awake by it. You straighten up, hands now in fists in your lap, and you look around frantically and towards where the sound came from.

And, standing over the parking bumper in front of your car, is…

“Nanami?”

What’s he doing here?

When the two of you make eye contact, his eyes widen in mild surprise. The two of you were in a few general education courses together a year or so back, and while you wave at each other if you see him around, you don’t really interact beyond that. At most, a one-in-a-blue moon text 15 minutes before a deadline if either of you needed an emergency set of eyes to review a paper, but you don’t know anything about him beyond what you’ve seen in class.

“Oh, hello. It’s nice to see you,” he greets politely.

“Yeah, you too," you say cautiously. “What’re you doing here?”

“Ah, well,” he purses his lips, “my friend sent me out to see if anyone was out here, he put together the event.”

“Oh.”

There’s an awkward pause, and you nod along to the silence.

“Is that what you’re here for?” He asks just as awkwardly.

“Yeah, I guess so.” You put your hand over where your deck is. You figure that you’re comfortable enough with Nanami to tell him your reservations. “Just… don’t really see anyone else. I wouldn’t want to be the only person there, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that.”

There’s another pause.

“I didn’t know you played,” you comment awkwardly. He’s just about the last person you’d expect to see at something like this, and you imagine he thinks the same about you. Apart from a small D-3 digivice keychain on your backpack that constantly gets mistaken as a Pokédex for whatever reason—it’s ridiculous, they look nothing alike—, you don’t really parade around your obsession enough for people to assume you’re a raging geek for it.

Can’t exactly afford all the anniversary merchandise anyway.

“I don’t, but my friend is,” he pauses to sigh, “to put it plainly, obsessed with it and everything else Digimon-related,” he says. “He always begs our friends and me to get into it, but none of us have the time.”

You chuckle dryly at that. “Sounds about right, I've tried with my friends too.”

“I can’t understand how he finds the time for it himself, he goes to school with us.”

You gesture vaguely towards the direction of the other parked vehicles. “Is he the one with the car?”

“Yes, don’t remind me,” he groans. “You do, though, I presume? Play the card game?”

You nod, leaning into your hand and sighing. “Yeah.”

“If you don’t want to go in, I’m not gonna snitch on you for leaving, but you are the only person that’s come to actually play.”

“Seriously?”

He nods with a slight frown. “He’s dragged all our friends here for company, but it’s just him who plays.”

“Did he plan the whole thing by himself?”

“Some of our other friends and I helped decorate and set up, but for the most part, yeah.” Nanami sighs again, but this time, it’s more sad, less exasperated. “We tried telling him not to get his hopes up, but he never listens.”

You frown, looking over at the entrance to the small shop just a few meters away.

Ok, well now you just feel bad for the guy. You… kinda feel like you have to go in now, your good conscience wouldn’t let you sleep if you didn’t step inside for a second, take a look around. The least you could do is compliment his car—glancing over at it again, it really is super cute.

Besides, this dude seems… enthusiastic to find someone to play with, so much so that he’s planned an event for it and invited all his friends to stick around and fill space. It’d upset you if you were in his position and nobody showed after all that effort spent.

And, surely, this guy can’t be that bad if Nanami’s friends with him, right? The tall blonde is polite and a good peer review partner, and even if that isn’t much to go off, it’s better than having no knowledge of who’s in there. It’s no longer a faceless middle-aged man beyond the door—now, it’s just a faceless friend of Nanami’s.

And, in all honesty, you’ve seen a few of them walking with him around campus. You’d be lying if you said they weren’t incredibly easy on the eyes, especially that tall one with white hair and glasses.

You just hope you’re not making the wrong assumption here.

You sigh again, this time less strained, and you shake your head as you get up from the driver’s seat. “No, it’s okay, I think I’ll come take a look. Wouldn’t hurt to, right? At least there’s free food.”

“Right,” Nanami nods along. “Are you sure?”

You lean back down to grab your keys before closing and locking the doors, eyebrows furrowed at his comment. “Why, you don’t think I should come in?”

“I’m glad you are, and he’s not a bad guy or anything, he’s just… really into it.”

“I think I’ll take my chances.”

You nervously smile up at Nanami, straightening up and following him as he leads you back to the store. He opens the door for you, and you thank him quickly as you slip under the roof and he’s now the one behind you. He tips his head towards one of the game rooms towards the back of the store, and you cautiously walk towards that direction, your eyes darting all around you. There’s a huge poster on the wall in front of you with a charmingly messy drawing of the Wargreymon digivolution line with an arrow pointing to the entrance.

Your nerves buzz. Whether it’s because you’re afraid this guy’s going to quiz you on your knowledge or excited to finally meet someone in the real world that you could actually hold a conversation about the franchise with, you don’t know, though.

You could also just be hungry. You can smell the food through the door.

Before you can grab the door handle to turn it, though, someone on the other side pulls it open, and you hear an audible gasp from them when the two of you meet eyes.

Oh, shit.

It’s that guy you see with Nanami around campus—the tall one with white hair and glasses. He's dressed similar to you in an old band shirt with the logo so faded you can barely read it and a pair of grey sweatpants.

You see him look at Nanami, then back at you, then back at Nanami, then back at you again.

“Hi,” you greet shyly, now suddenly aware of how close the two of you are, barely a meter separating you.

“Hi,” he awkwardly lets the word fall from his mouth, seemingly in some sort of disbelief. His eyes fall to your necklace, just barely peeking out from behind the neck of your tee shirt. “Are you here for the game night…?”

You nod, lips pulled in a nervous smile. “Yeah.”

“Like, to play?”

“Um, yes…?” You take out the box from your pocket. “Here’s my deck.”

And once the words sink in, he just about lights up, a grin now on his face as he throws up his arms in celebration.

“Woo! We got one person!”

There’s a chorus of cheers (and a few groans) from behind him, and he moves out of the way promptly to usher you into the space. “Please, please, come in!”

You look back at Nanami who simply rolls his eyes with a small smile, and you step into the room, careful not to trip over your feet in front of all these people. There’s a desk towards the front with a sign-in sheet and a pen, so you quickly fill in your name and deck color before taking a quick look around the room.

It looks like any other ordinary club party, save for some playmats stacked at the front table and small motifs around the room. All eyes are on you now, but people have their own food, drinks, and seem to have been talking casually amongst themselves at different tables and at the edges of the room. You thankfully don’t look out of place at all because no one is wearing anything fancier than a shirt with a collar (that person being Nanami). Trays of food that’re probably going to end up being leftovers for the next week are lined on a table to the side, and there’s a cute Gerbemon drawn on another poster by the trashcan to show where to throw things away.

The guy who opened the door is still brimming with energy, kinda like his crest’s just gotten activated, and he turns back around to face you. Funnily enough, he does have the necklace on: a blue tag with the crest of light engraved into it. It must’ve been hidden by his shirt earlier and shaken forward when he greeted you.

Guess this is him.

“Thank you for coming! My name’s Gojo!” He smiles, his hands pressed flat against each other at the side of his face. You give your name and a wave to greet him, and he leans in closer to you, having to bend his knees to meet you eye-level. You blush slightly, but you’re too frozen to move away. “Say, you look familiar. Have I met you before?”

“No shit, she’s wearing our college orientation shirt!” Someone shouts from behind him.

They’re promptly shushed, and you awkwardly laugh and scratch your cheek with your pointer finger. “I know Nanami, so maybe you’ve seen me talking to him around campus. I think I’ve seen you around before, too.”

The realization dawns on him, and he nods to himself. “Right! That, and I think I recognize you from the library. You study on the 6th floor?”

You nod. Honestly, you’re too occupied with your schoolwork when you’re at the library to pay attention to anyone else around you, so you aren’t surprised you don’t remember seeing him around there.

Promptly, Gojo shoos Nanami away and orients himself to be facing the same direction as you again, his arms spread out wide. “Well, grab something to snack on, and take a seat! Actually, let me know where you wanna sit, I’ll set up the table.”

“Sure! Uh,” you start, and you point at a table towards the opposite corner of the room, “is over there okay?"

“Whatever you want!” He chirps happily, and he practically skips over to grab a playmat and a handful of memory markers. He yanks on the back of one of his friends’ shirts to get his help setting up, and the long-haired ravenette gently knocks at Gojo’s head before coming along.

After you’re done grabbing your food (seriously, what’s with this spread?), you walk over to the table you’d pointed toward earlier, and you carefully put down your plate at the free space towards the end. Gojo’s friend is off standing somewhere else now, talking with Nanami and some other people you vaguely recognize, so it’s just you and the man of the hour where you are. There’s a cute Adventure-01 playmat between the two of you and a clay Koromon as the memory marker, which makes you smile to yourself.

You carefully twirl your fork to gather some noodles onto it, and Gojo leans down to grab something from a backpack. As he’s digging through it, he tuts the digivolution animation sound to himself, and you hum along yourself while you eat. As you take a bite, you faintly hear what sounds like a deck box opening and closing, so you figure now’s as good a time as any to ask.

“So, Gojo, who do you play?”

“You’ll see in just a second, let me count my cards real quick. I usually play blue, though,” he hums, moving back up into his chair.

Blue? You suppose you’d peg someone like him as a Magnamon player. Sucks for you, though, your deck isn’t strong enough as-is to have any chance against him. Even if he isn't playing Magnamon, blue is an awful matchup for purple.

“Who do you play?” He asks obliviously.

“I have a few other decks, but I brought Beelstarmon today,” you answer halfheartedly.

“Oh, I haven’t played against purple in a while, it’ll be fun!”

“Huh?” You say that more to yourself than to him. Does he take pleasure in knowing he’s about to mop the floor with you? He seems oblivious to your concerns, though, happily humming to himself again.

“Do you play any other colors?” He asks.

“Oh! Uh,” you gulp nervously, “I main yellow, but I like playing purple, too. I tried building green a while ago, though, just not really for me.”

He nods along, hands steady as he continues to count to himself. “That’s me and red. I really wanted to build an AncientGreymon deck, but I get too anxious playing without def. Sucks because I love the evo line, but I figure they’ll eventually have better blue-red hybrid decks that I’ll enjoy playing later. I have some white decks, I guess, but they’re so boring to play, especially D-Reaper, like, I can’t even play aggressive until the set is almost over! I really ought to branch out into black, I think…”

As he drones on, you peek up at him through your eyelashes. The more he talks, the more you realize that he’s just blissfully unaware of how anxious you are, and the more his carefree energy rubs off on you.

For the most part, everyone else in the room doesn’t pay either of you any mind. Your table is practically its own island, everyone else floating around and just making their own fun amongst themselves. It doesn’t seem like Gojo minds that they’re all doing their own Digimon-unrelated things, so you choose to ignore it too.

Getting a better look at him now, even at table height, he looks so tall, kinda like the chair he’s sitting in is too small for him. You see him smiling while he talks, occasionally swiping away something on his card sleeves as he counts them, and he seems to still be shaking with quiet excitement. His glasses hide his eyes a bit from this angle, but they sit nicely at the bridge of his nose. When they fall slightly, he throws his head back so he doesn’t lose count of his deck by moving his hands elsewhere.

He still gets distracted, though, getting so caught up in what he’s saying that he loses count anyway and curses at himself for needing to start over and make sure he’s not missing anything. Everytime that happens, his friends within earshot snicker at him and he barks back at them with some corny line from the anime, then immediately looks to you to make sure you catch the reference.

You didn’t think someone being so… dorky could be so cute.

You continue eating while he talks, nodding and giving answers when he asks for them. He seems to never pause, but it doesn’t feel like he’s talking at you—more like he’s trying to say as much as he can now while he’s got your attention. Not that he’d lose it this way, you latch onto every word because it’s not often that you get to listen to someone who actually enjoys this interest of yours in the same way you do, but also because you want to stay in your dreamland for a little bit longer before he places down his broken Magnamon combo and destroys you.

If nothing else, you suppose that even if you end up losing every game tonight, you’ll have at least had a good conversation with another fan.

By the time he’s finally ready to start the match, you’ve already finished most of what you picked up for dinner, and the two of you swap decks to shuffle. You aren’t supposed to look when you shuffle, but he hands his deck to you face-up, and you catch a glimpse of the top card.

Your hands also brush slightly in the exchange, but you hardly acknowledge it in your surprise.

You raise a brow and bring the deck closer to look at. “You’re playing Cendrillmon?”

“Yep!” Gojo grins, already starting to mix up your cards.

“...Didn't you just say you play blue?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he clicks his tongue teasingly, “I said I usually play blue. But Cendrillmon’s my favorite digimon, so I figured I’d play her tonight.”

You light up. “That’s so cute! I love when people build their decks with digimon they actually like,” you gush.

“Right!? I wish it was more common,” he sighs wistfully. “Is Beelstarmon your favorite, too?”

You shake your head, turning over his deck so you can shuffle blind. “I like her a lot, but not my favorite. I just felt like playing purple today.”

You give the name of your favorite digimon when he asks, and he gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up to you as you both continue to shuffle.

“Well, I’m glad you brought purple, it would’ve been kinda boring if we were both yellow.”

“Probably, yeah. Did you only bring one deck?”

He shrugs, looking over to the door to the room. “Yeah, I honestly didn’t really think anyone was gonna come, so I just have the one.”

“Oh,” you say quietly. Right, like Nanami mentioned earlier.

“How’d you hear about tonight, by the way?”

“I saw a flyer at North Campus, most of my classes are around there.”

“Oh, sweet! I think I sent Suguru to put them up around there, I’ll have to be extra nice to him later,” he jokes.

“Sure.” After a pause, you blurt out what’s stewing in your mouth. “I’m sorry.”

"Why, what's wrong? You didn't do anything."

"I mean, I'm sorry there's not more people here. It must be disappointing."

When he hears your concern, he chuckles and waves you off with an honest grin. “Don’t be sorry! You’re here now, so it’s already much better turnout than I expected! Either way, it’s good to have an excuse for the crew to get together, and it still would’ve been a party even if it didn’t work out. I’ll introduce you to everyone after we play a few matches.”

“You’re more positive than I’d be, I’d probably be crying in the bathroom if nobody showed up to an event I planned.”

“Maybe, but, like I said, there is someone here, and she’s having a great time!” He exclaims, holding your deck out for you to take. “Right?”

You look up at his face, a nervous smile on his features as he waits for your answer. His eyes avoid yours, but you still bring up his cards to hide behind them as you smile.

“Yeah, I’d say so.”

His lips lose their nervous twitch as he sighs in relief. “Okay, thank goodness. I wouldn’t want to let down such a pretty girl."

You lower his cards to the table and laugh dryly. “Ha ha, very funny, Gojo.”

His careful smile suddenly drops and his eyebrows furrow behind his glasses. “Uh, I wasn’t joking.”

You look down at yourself, then back at him, and before you can retort with some other kind of comeback, his friend from earlier—the one with long black hair—passes by your table and puts a hand on Gojo's shoulder.

“Satoru, play nice.” Then he looks at you and slyly smiles. “Sorry about him, he’s a huge nerd.”

He groans, and he looks up at his friend frantically. "You say that like it’s a bad thing! Shoo! Leave us alone, quit embarrassing me!”

As the two of them continue to bicker, you bite back a smile at Gojo’s expense. He occasionally looks to you while him and his friend throw other empty insults at each other, his smile telling you he’s sorry you’re having to see the exchange (and maybe that you thought he was joking when he called you pretty). When the other guy leaves and tells you, once again, that he’s sorry you have to deal with the white-haired boy, you let out a small laugh that brings Gojo's attention fully back to you.

Gojo clears his throat and straightens up in his chair again, stretching out his hands in front of him with a forced smile. “Well, don’t mind him.”

His (very bad) attempt at nonchalance makes you laugh again.

"What's so funny?"

You chuckle to yourself and shake your head. "Nothing."

Once your smile has passed enough for you to be able to get back to shuffling, you hear him whine from across the table, now holding your deck even closer to you now for you to take. “Why are you taking so long to shuffle?! I wanna start playing!”

You roll your eyes at him, playfully hitting his hand with his own cards. “Well, excuse me for wanting a fair matchup.”

“You’re excused!” He laughs loudly at his own joke, but he waits patiently for you to finish, his head down on the table as he watches you.

After another couple seconds, you pass off your cards back to each other, your hands touching again. Neither of you acknowledge it, now occupied with setting up your cards on the mat, but you steal glances at him as you do to make sure he isn’t uncomfortable with the contact. It is your first time meeting him, even if you have seen him around a few odd times before.

It seems he has the same thought, and your eyes catch each other awkwardly. He chuckles to himself, a hand now on the back of his neck, and he tips his cards towards you in some kind of gesture that asks if you’re fine. You nod, and he shyly tips his head down again, a slight flush under his eyes.

Once everything else is set up, the two of you place down five cards from the top of your deck at the top of your playerspace, and you quickly pull out a coin from your wallet to wordlessly decide who goes first. He tells you “heads,” and he cheers when you flip it and you lift your palm to reveal heads.

“Okay, you ready?”

“Yep.”

You both hover your right hands over the playmat, then nod to each other before pulling them across the board to grab your cards.

“Digital Gate, open!”

chapter 2

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x reader #fluff #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #nerdjo #nerd gojo #gojo x you #gojo satoru x you

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taomyou · 5 months ago

Text

a sip of sunshine - interlude (after chapter one::before chapter two)

!! minors dni !! pairing: levi ackerman/reader word count: 7.5k sypnosis: Life is not easy, and Levi’s made peace with the fact that it never will be. And, yet, as the days pass and he comes to enjoy the company of the baker across town, he learns that the sun will always continue to shine, no matter how unworthy he feels to bask in its warmth. - or, Levi learns to be okay with drinking shitty tea. tags: postcanon, canon universe, birthday, angst, fluff, friends to lovers, slow burn, found family, survivor guilt, eventual romance, eventual smut, character study, grumpy/sunshine, hurt/comfort, bakery, tea, meet-cute, no y/n, pov levi ackerman, not beta read chapter one (A) chapter one (B)

a/n: ... well, i'm back. good news, i have a lot written to conclude this story. bad news, i'm splitting it up into two parts because it's getting too long, and this part flows better as a shorter interlude rather than a beginning to the final chapter. thank you so much for being patient, and i will get back to finish this out. this is relatively short at 7k words, but, again, it's just an in-between section of the story accompanying playlist || ao3

astilbe (interlude)

waiting, wishing | strength, stubbornness

For the first time in what feels like lifetimes, Levi opens his eyes.

Though there is an ache in his eyes that bothers him to no end, he knows not to touch his face. Firstly because he knows the skin around his eyes will rub dry and mean, secondarily because, even in half-consciousness, he knows his fingers cannot bear the burn of the scars across the right side of his face, for they have disappeared and do not know the touch of gentle flesh anymore.

Not that they ever did, but that’s beside the point.

There’s a gentle breeze caressing the curtains at a half-closed window, and the birds don’t sing and make mockery of him as they usually do, instead dotting the faraway sky as they fly south.

Crystalline water drips from the tail end of the roof’s gutter, catching light in the small darkspace underneath the roof’s edge, and the stray rainfall is sure to leave a murky spot on the wooden foundation the house sits on.

The sun is barely out, just barely peeking from over the horizon to greet him.

It’s… quite peaceful. If he didn’t know any better, it’d be a perfect day.

Too bad his body burns too scorchingly to know the calmness of the wind here, and the air coming through the glass only kindles the fire he doesn’t know how to put out.

Restless, he scrunches his nose as he stretches his arms upwards, desperate to feel the chill of the plain wall behind his armchair. There’s a small divot that’s cast with the faint imprint of his knuckles, and he expects to feel such remnants of his nightmares as he tries to gather control of his body and get started with his day.

Instead, he feels ash, and, all of a sudden, he’s awake.

He knows that dent in the wall like it’s a blade. He’s only lived in this house for three, nearly four, years, but that spot above his chair is as familiar to him as the lick of metal. He may’ve only felt it a few times, as his body seldom ever lashes out quickly enough for him to even carve it, but he knows it.

It’s not quite comforting, not quite right, but he’s always within reach of it, whether or not he wants to be. He doesn’t live in this chair, but whatever life he’s lost to memories keeps him seated there and immortalizes the sinking plush underneath him.

But his hands are not touching drywall.

Instead, they’re pressed gently against a wooden headboard made with ashwood cut from a tree in a nearby forest. The brush used to apply its shine is in a box beneath the kitchen sink, and the can of varnish is in a shed outside amongst the vegetable garden. The polish is thin enough that he’d be able to feel the grain if he ran his knuckles against it, but his hands feel strange meeting lacquer instead of redried clay. His mind confuses the slight raise of a wood knot for the heartbeat of a tree, but apart from that, there isn’t much he can place.

His body forces itself upright, his hands leaving the headboard to place themselves against unfamiliar linen sheets to steady himself as he gets to a sitting position. He looks around the space incredulously, his head spinning as he tries desperately to figure out what’s happening to him.

Why does his head hurt so much?

Right now, there’s nothing for him to ground himself, but he knows he’s in his room. The walls look different from this height and he can’t quite see the dent in the space above his armchair and the windows look brighter than they usually do, but this is his room.

His boring, plain, uninteresting, lifeless room.

He’d go as far as saying that this is hardly even his room—it’s just one of the many rooms in this house he can hardly call his own, of which was also given to him as some attempt at reparation for his service.

But, this is his room. At the very least, he’s found his way back to his house from wherever he’d been the evening before.

It takes him a second, but he soon realizes that he’s in \\a his bed. He knows that now, the palms of his hands pressing down hard into the mattress as they try to find something familiar to ease the dull headache knocking at his skull. He fails, but his fingers, the further extension of himself, know the touch of linen and thread by way of doing the laundry so often. He washes and replaces his sheets as often as he would as if he’s actually using them (truthfully, maybe even more than that), so the pads of his fingers know well enough how the fibers weave into one another.

His nerves awaken in a ripple towards his core as his hands finally have something to hold onto, and now, looking down, he sees that his clothes are damp, and the sheets around his form are darkened with water. His clothes cling to him, wet with rain and sweat and everything else disgusting he can’t quite remember.

He cringes, but he can’t move away.

Almost like he’s supposed to be here right now.

It’d been embarrassing enough that it’d taken him so long to realize he’s on a bed, and equally so when he suddenly becomes aware that his legs are as heavy as lead, as he cannot swing them to the side of the bed to sit up on the edge of it. He tries once, twice, thrice, until his headache becomes too much to bear and he’s forced to bite down hard on his teeth, but he’s stuck where he is.

He continues to sit in the feeling—the one where he feels like he’s in the right place, covered in filth and murky rainwater, and still wrong, on a mattress so unused that its springs are still strong enough to hold up his weight entirely. There is no dent made, no impression of his body in the foam. It serves as proof that he has no place in this bed.

He reminds himself, per the affirmations given to him by the doctors and the rest of his old soldiers, that this is his house and his room and his bed. He knows they’re wrong, but their voices are all he hears as the room’s stillness curses him with stone, so he may as well find comfort in their lies.

And as he waits for his mind to catch up to his body and the new sensations that flood his senses, he wonders how he even fell asleep, but even more-so, why he’s in a his bed. He could count on his right hand how many times he’s slept on it in his years living here, and he’d still have three fingers left to spare.

How’d he end up here?

Last he remembers, he was wiping down the condensation on the inside glass of a display case, the lingering scent of icing sugar in the air as people packed their things to start heading home for the evening, and there’d been a sun that refused to set until you’d closed up shop. The memory as it comes back to him makes him want to smile, but, again, he can’t bring himself to move at all.

What is this force that keeps him still?

He sits as he waits for it to lift, breathing softly to not exhaust his body. He’d panic otherwise, but he’s felt this way before. In the dirty cot he had as a child, in the bed he had as a young criminal in the Underground, in the bed he was given in the Corps—on all the surfaces he’s laid horizontal before, he’s felt such deep weight on his conscience; this is the exact same.

It’ll pass, even if he isn’t entirely sure why this is happening this time.

His senses, now as awake as he is, are selfish and soak in the feeling of being in a bed. He’s not able to make the conscious decision to move, but his fingers mechanically trace the uniform lines that the thread of his sheets are woven into, and even if it’s not worn at all and it’s wet and disgusting and starting to consume him, the bed is still soft. He’s drenched in sweat, and his body is hot from what seems like the start of a fever (or maybe that’s just a dream, too), but he still feels comfortable here, even if his mind betrays him and tells him again that this bed isn’t truly his.

He’ll ignore the other questions that present themselves as he compares the needled string of the sheets to the yellow thread sewn through his gardening glove, the varnished ash of this bedframe to the lacquered walnut of the tables downstairs, the wet nap of his mattress to the rags you give him to help wash the countertops of butter and flour, the-

Another pang from his headache combined with the overwhelming heat of his body interrupts his thoughts, and he winces as he goes to bring his left hand to his face. He couldn’t bring himself to move before, but his body moves on its own to cradle himself however it can.

Fuck the better part of himself that warns him of the danger of reaching for his scars—this headache is killing him, and the urge to try and stave it is stronger than the karmic force keeping him still.

He groans as he rubs his palm against his temples, his elbow digging at his knee as his weight falls further forward. His bangs, only slightly less wet than the blankets, prick his eyelids and force him to use his fingers to push them up and out of his face. The grown-out strands fall and prick his eyelids again, and, this time, he brushes them to the side by moving his hand to the right part of his face to move them behind his ear.

And when his hand grazes over the side of his face, it all comes back to him.

. . .

This is where your hand was. On the side of his face, gently cradling him, your fingers tracing fire on his cheeks, this is where your hand was.

His hand freezes where it is, suddenly as cold as he’d been the evening prior, and all sense drains from him. His body turns to icy marble, suddenly forgetting the fever it’d harbored. This time, the chill fills his veins as if it’s been injected into his heart, outwards from his core and towards the further extensions of his body, and his fingers start to uncontrollably shake.

At the same time, though, the cold doesn’t reach his head to numb the ache, only working to amplify his growing migraine as the contrast between fire and ice becomes more apparent to himself. His jaw clenches as he tries to breathe through it because he \\thinks knows the feeling will pass (because it always does), but he doesn’t know what else to do.

Is he supposed to cry out?

Bite his cheek to stop himself from screaming?

Rip his hand from the frostbite that keeps it in place?

But, unfortunately, he isn’t given much opportunity to do any of that because the memory of the night before comes in waves—unrelenting and out of his control. They violently ripple against the shore underneath a moon that isn’t there, and when it reaches him, it starts as a splash on his skin, forming goosebumps he can’t see in the dark.

Then, it soaks his body to the bone, it forces him off his feet, it makes him look at his reflection in the sullied water. He only has a few seconds to stare at himself here—cold, empty, and alone—before he feels himself fall through the seafloor, and he’s forced to breathe harder to make up the difference in fear. He looks up as he sinks, trying to find the sun, but how can the sun be out in the night?

So he sinks deeper, because he has no choice but to wait for something he knows won’t come.

As strong as the memory comes back to him, though, it’s still gentle.

Like the smell of cinnamon and citrus and cream next to the display case from his spot at the register.

Like the screech of the chairs as people made way for their loved ones to sit for a cup of tea and a fresh pastry.

Like the ding of the elevator bell as it told him he’d gotten to your floor safely.

Like the snip of the scissors you’d used to cut the ribbon ‘round the cellophane basket.

Like the plush of your couch as he sat on it, facing you with his side flush to it as he watched you laugh and spill poetry about the love you have for the world and everything else beautiful in it.

Like the blue you describe in a house you’ve only lived in through him.

Like the touch of your hand on the right side of his face.

It’d felt like a dream—even better than that, because he’d never be able to dream up such comforting memory with what horror he knows.

His hands do not know the touch of gentle flesh, but, in this memory, they do. It’s his hand on his face right now, but his heart convinces him for a brief second that it’s yours, and that somehow makes it right. His hand, calloused by quill pens that signed off on obituaries in a language he’d only learned to write in once he reached skylight, he pretends, is instead calloused by the ring steel of a pair of scissors kept underneath the register and kept to cut ribbon, not gauze. His fingers, forever stained with blood that can’t be scrubbed clean, are now red with the remnants of cinnamon and pomegranate and saffron.

But he knows it wasn’t a dream, and the softness he’s convinced himself is within him isn’t real. He can pretend that it’s your hand, but there’s burn marks etched into the back of his eyelids that, when he closes them, even if just to blink, make him want to cry.

. . .

How… could he do that to you?

But before his mind can carry itself adrift and let him forget, his heart forces him to remember.

He knows he can’t offer you the same softness in return.

He knows he can’t be someone worth caring for.

He knows he can’t compare to the beauty you find in him.

These and even more truths are penned in the same onyx as his soul, written into the walls of his dark heart and your sunshine-soaked one, and there’s nothing he can do to erase them. He knows that, and there’s no denying the truth that he’s not deserving of you, even in the ways he’d tried to convince himself it would be okay to have you.

And there’s no way you believe he’s any more loveable than he knows himself to be. If anything, you know better than he does precisely why he can’t be loved.

Even more than that, you know that he’s hard to love.

He knows that people care for him, but he’s sure it must be exhausting. Having to care for a man like him, burdened soul and broken legs and flaws and all, is a job he’d rather not subject anyone he loves to. There’s exceptions in the way he allows his former subordinates to take care of him now—he knows the obligation they feel to repay him for his leadership and guidance is strong enough to force their hand beyond what Levi would ordinarily allow—but this is different.

You’re not a child he’s saving from war, whether that be one from the Island or the Continent.

You’re not from the same hell he is, a Devil masquerading amongst the masses, unused to the sun and the feeling of the wind.

You’re not a face that blends into the crowds of people in his memory that taunt him with praises of strength that he knows he doesn’t have.

You’re not a ghost that begs for his attention in dreams of what life could’ve been.

No, you’re none of those things.

You’re a woman.

One that’s ordinary in all the best ways and flawed in the most beautiful; one that’s redefined beauty itself yet embraces all of what changes; one that loves so purposefully that he can’t bring himself to even consider himself an object of her affection; one that’s so effortlessly human.

And, despite his infinite inexperience in matters of the heart, he knows you couldn’t ever love him, no matter how human you are. You’d told him he was wrong, but Levi knows better than to believe that.

You can read him like one of the million recipe sheets in that leather-bound notebook you keep in the cabinet above the stovetop upstairs. And he knows you know; that he’s set in his ways like an etched date on a grave, so different from you and the way you live. With you, he pushes back against any and all attempts to be something, anything more than just a stranger who comes around to play house with you, and you know.

You know he’s unloveable.

And, still, you’d looked so gentle reaching for him as he left—as if you do love him.

The tears welling in your eyes only made them look like jewels softly cut by rain, and even though your hands had been such open reflection of the way you wanted to show love to him, they’d let go so easily when you realized you couldn’t keep him with you. Not because you wanted to let go, but because you cared too much to force his hand.

Always too kind, always to a fault.

He knows he hurt you—even he, in his indefinite emotional ineptitude, knows that. It moves him nearly to tears that you’re having to spend your morning now in the kitchen downstairs, where, if you peer over the passing, you’ll have to look at the washcloth he’d bought on his own dime as the only gift he could sneak past you, hanging on a green pushpin he’d stolen from under the register.

But you’re better off without him.

He tried so hard to deny it—to prove to himself and everyone else that’s watching him live out his unearned life that he is capable of affection in its most fiery forms. But it’s just the truth that his destiny is tragedy, and yours is anything but.

There’s no poetic turnarounds. No denying his ill-fated destiny. There are no ways he can justify his presence in your life because he really is a stranger playing house, pretending he’s not the person he is. There’s a plainness in that truth that forces him to grit his teeth, trying to taste the comfort of bitterness or the sugar of a kiss, but he finds nothing, and he should’ve already known better than to try looking for it.

His soul is blue like the sea now, wet with the shame of what he’s done to the only woman who tried loving him for more than he was worth, but he can’t go back to you. His heart sinks like a shell in the sand—slowly and unable to pull itself up with the tide, but it isn’t fair for him to even try to breathe underwater.

He wishes he could be selfish.

To be in your arms.

To fumble his words when you look at him from behind a tall bin of vanilla sugar.

To sit at the table while you muse to yourself about nothing and doodle on napkins stained with stale tea he refuses to drink in front of you.

To roam the streets both alongside and slightly behind you to playfully tap his cane against the ankles of your feet.

To watch the world from the balcony of an upstairs apartment, the white ribbon in your hair flying in the wind.

To tell you why he’s so broken.

To see the sun in your smile.

But he cares about you far more than he does himself, so he can’t let you.

So, even if you do love him (and he doubts as much; after all, a man like him isn’t worth much more than what he came from), he won’t let you.

You’re better off without him, no matter how much he wants to be wrong.

And he wants to be wrong, so, so badly.

Now, as for how he ended up here—in this bed, soaked to the bone, hot to the touch, frozen to the core—that, he can’t remember.

He forgot to tie his shoes—he remembers that much. He only hurriedly slid his feet into them while his eyes fixated on the neatly placed next to the daintier, velvet-soled flats you wear for special occasions, newly worn for the bakery’s reopening. He’d nearly tripped over them in his barely drunken, fully flighty stumble out of your life, and he probably would’ve if you hadn’t yelled for him to mind them, but you did.

His cane was at the dinner table, and a basket of spices meant for his hands was at the coffee table. He remembers making it to the elevator before the ache in his legs caught up to him, but it’d already been too late to try and run back for his aid and for the one thing that’d be able to overpower the stain of blood on his hands. Even though it’d been the wrong decision to make—to leave them both behind—, he’s grateful his heart hurts so much that he can barely feel the tears in the muscles of his legs, and that, while he knows he’s too weak to try and reclaim what’d belonged to him, he’ll know they’re safe with you.

It was raining. He can remember that, your voice cutting through his guilty conscience to warn him as much. Maybe in his fit of blind sadness, he’d forgotten the fact that he can barely stomach the downpour. It’s a miracle he hadn’t been hit by a car in the night or stabbed in an alleyway, running with legs that can hardly hold the weight of the wind. He’d deserve it anyway, hurting a soul as gentle as yours because he couldn’t stay away from you like the better half of himself had warned him to do.

Not that much else to it, he supposes.

He just… ran until he got here. Even then, he's not so sure that's what happened.

As uncomfortable as he is in this bed, though, sopping wet and hot beneath sheets that shouldn’t be over him in the first place, he’s slow to leave. His soul burns with shame and his legs are especially angry and aching, but that’s not enough reason for him to leave. His body is fully awake by now—he can flex his calves underneath the heavy blankets, and he’s unconsciously dug his nails into the palms of his hands—but he doesn’t want to leave.

It’s all already too real.

He feels too much already.

Can he really bear to go about his day as if nothing’s wrong?

Nobody’s due to come to the house today, so he doesn’t have to pretend it’s that way, but could he stand to pass by the reflective surfaces of his kitchen and see himself? He’s bound to catch a glimpse of his face after he’s done rinsing off whatever grime’s seeped through his soul and onto his skin—would he be able to stomach the pathetic look of humiliation he can’t imagine being able to wash away?

He exhales and a sigh passes through his lips, and only now has he realized he hasn’t been breathing. It feels wrong to take in oxygen—like he’s not allowed to and his instincts made that clear enough already.

He might as well enjoy the first and last time he’s going to lay here because there can’t possibly be any way to redeem himself to be able to later. Maybe when he’s older and frailer than he already is, he’ll have no other choice than to lay here and die, but, by then, he’ll hopefully have forgotten all the horrors of the world and those of his own making.

His body falls back onto the mattress, decidedly too exhausted to try and do anything to change. He turns onto his side, making a more insignificant dent in the mattress that he knows isn’t going to remember the shape of him anyway, and he stares out the window. It’s not long before he forces his eyes closed to avoid facing the glaring sun, too afraid he’ll be forced out of this bed and into a world he can’t stand being in right now.

He'll get to it when he has to, but, for right now, he’ll stay here, ruminating in what can only be described as a total eclipse of the heart.

Even if his body’s run raw, his palms bleeding from crescent-shaped cuts and his heart wrung dry, he’s made his bed, and now he has to lie in it.

The moment he opens his eyes for the second time, he frowns.

It must be far past noon by now. He’d woken up early enough before to catch the sun while it was rising, but, now, it’s starting its descent back down.

He feels guilty for having wasted the morning sunshine, even if it would’ve gone on with or without him.

Regardless, there is no other way to tell what time it is, as the clock in his room is just barely out of sight from his sinking spot on this bed, but his best guess means nothing when accompanied by the fact that it really doesn’t matter what time it is.

Maybe if he could change it, he’d care enough to move the damn thing. He can stare at it all day, all night, and it’s not going to change where its hands are.

Whatever, it’s not like the placement of the clock is going to matter much beyond this singular point in time; he’s not going to come back to this bed for it to be of any use to struggle and move the clock from its practiced, primed position.

But, in spite of the unwavering hands he cannot see and the desire to turn them backwards, he forces himself to get up and do something other than stew in rainwater and regret. He pushes himself up with his palms and sits upright, just as he did earlier; only, this time, his headache has subsided enough for him to be even more conscious of what’s happening.

The thoughts plague him once more, in quick succession so as to force him to remember far too much that hurts him, but, this time, he’s conscious enough to know this will pass.

He knows it will. He just has to wait long enough, just like he has with everything else in his life that’s hurt him.

Looking out the window to see that, once again, the sun is starting to set, he thinks to himself that ordinarily, at this time of day, he’d find something meaningless to do—like read some random book on the shelf and pretend the words mean something, or swat away pests in the garden when he knows they’ll just come back again later. But he has to move with purpose because, right now, he doesn’t think he could bring himself out of his bedroom if naught for that.

What can he do that will force him to occupy his mind with something meaningful?

After his memory tricks him into sitting lifelessly to subject itself to the torture of what life could’ve been like if he’d only been a better man, Levi becomes acutely aware of the red of the dried blood on his palms, and he pulls away the covers to turn his body so that his legs hang over the edge of the bed. Almost mechanically, he gets himself standing. His knees lock as he straightens up, and he drags his feet as he walks, his hand grazing the wall in case his pride isn’t enough to keep him upright anymore.

It isn’t, his body decides for him what to do with his time when his hamstrings spark fire behind his knees and force him to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming out. His hands, previously holding onto the barely-there dust of the walls, grip onto nothing as his body falls forward and becomes matted with the dirt and soot he’d dragged in the evening before.

Alright, then, first order of business: make use of the shower bench that’s presently stood beneath the bathroom window, drying from last time’s use, and get all this dried rain off him.

Not the most stimulating thing he could be doing, but this takes precedence over anything else right now.

He feels dirty, anyway. At least, now, he has an excuse to wash off his conscience.

His mind fully occupies itself, then, with the methodical process of gathering new clothes to put on, grabbing a fresh towel from the clothesline, undressing without dirtying the bathroom tile, turning on the water faucet, pulling up the diverter valve, moving the chair beneath the water running above him, wetting the washcloth, lathering it with soap, scrubbing himself clean (however many times it takes), letting water run over him again, running his fingers along his scalp to shampoo his hair, letting water run over him again, pushing down the diverter valve, turning off the water faucet, waiting for himself to dry, pulling the towel over his shoulders to catch the drips from his wet hair, cleaning the wounds on his palms, putting on new clothes, tossing the rest into the bin at the corner to wash later.

It’s a long list of things to do, but it isn’t a surprise, really that it all seems to happen in a second. His mind spends mere seconds roaming its own labyrinth, but it’s several hours of running water and sitting at the edge of the tub later that he realizes the sunlight has turned golden over the edge of the windowsill, and the day is over. He peers out at the glowing rays from underneath his bangs, stuck to his forehead (with clean water, this time), and he frowns.

How has the day really passed him by so quickly?

Looking back out the window, he thinks to himself that this time in the evening is about when he’d be finished with dinner and having it at the table. Whether that be here, alone, with any number of people from his past, or there, alone, with you, he’d always been good about making sure the bare luxury of a full belly was maintained despite everything.

Today feels different, though.

There is no hunger, and he is not hungry. The only urge that exists within him, presently, is the need to gnaw at his own flesh, to rid himself of the guilt that eats at him with more reason than he has to fight it.

So, instead of trying to further withstand time and the flint behind his knees, he grits his teeth and, on legs that still ache despite having been unused for the last couple hours, walks out of the bathroom to find his wheelchair in the living room by the door, and he drops down onto it before taking a second to breathe through his nose while holding tightly onto the armrests of his chair so he’s not ruining the gauze wrapped against his palms.

There’s a million things he could be doing right now, but Levi can’t bring himself to do anything but wheel himself to the window facing the west and watch as the world passes him by. Whether or not that’s because his hands can’t stop shaking because his guilt is manifesting itself into something other than immediate pain or because he can’t fathom the thought of acting like nothing’s changed, he won’t admit to himself, but at the end of the day, when the sun has gone back to sleep and enough time has passed for his hair to dry and his fingers to unprune, Levi feels… not at all any different than he had this morning.

Well, no use in just sitting around now that there’s no light out. Might as well just turn in for the night, Levi thinks to himself.

Wordlessly, he grabs onto the handles and pushes himself towards the bathroom to go brush his teeth. He keeps his eyes down the entire time, and once he’s finished and spits out the grime, he’s more surprised than not that it’s not bright red, but he moves on along anyway to go back to his bedroom, not sparing a single glance at the mirror above the sink.

And for reasons unbeknownst to him, instead of moving over to transfer seats onto the armchair at the corner of the room, his hands bring him to the edge of his bed. He’s hunched over so he can ground himself with his feet against the floor and his elbows on his knees, his body still as he stares at the indent of himself that’s still left in the sheets.

It’ll be gone soon enough.

He’ll wake up early tomorrow to wash the sheets and leave them out on the clothesline outside so they can dry in the sun before bringing them back in and remaking the bed he won’t ever sleep in again, and there will be no memory of the night he lost what was never his.

He never ran away. After all, there was nothing to run from at all. There’s no bakery, no restaurant facing the town square’s fountain, no balcony facing the sun. The dip in the bed will be gone because he’ll be the one to get rid of it, and it will be like all of this never happened.

But that’s fine.

This feeling—the one that’s keeping his head down and his eyes watery—will pass. He knows it will.

It has to.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

A day has passed, and nothing has changed.

There is nothing else new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

Another day has passed, and nothing has changed.

There is nothing new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

Another day has passed, and, still, nothing has changed.

If nothing else at all, he supposes the feeling of fire behind his knees and ghosting his left calf has subsided, but he still uses his wheelchair to get around the house.

It is no moral failing that he’s having to use his wheelchair—the doctors that Arlert forces him to visit tell him as much, and he’s never been prideful just for the sake of it; he knows there is nothing wrong with having to use the mobility aid, as inconvenient it is—but he could do without the reminder that he’s the one who’d ran through the town square and ended up with only half-broken bones to show for his inability to let love in.

At the end of the night after he’s moved between his wheelchair and his bedroom’s armchair, he sees a small white ribbon wrapped around the rod connecting to the brake. You probably looped it on when he wasn’t looking, or maybe it’s part of a longer strip that you used to tie a box onto the back handles that caught on the wheel and never fell thereafter.

It must’ve looked so in-place that he never noticed until now.

In his fit of sadness, he thinks about getting rid of the one thing that has him tied to you, but because his hands are too weak and his fingernails are too short to pick at the knot, he leaves it alone.

He hopes the feeling will pass soon so he isn’t tempted to dig at it with a knife later, and he can keep this one thing.

There is nothing new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

A week has passed, and nothing has changed.

There really isn’t anything to make note of, even that just sounds like a cop out at this point: he wakes up, pities himself for a couple hours, gets to up to absolutely fucking nothing at all, and ends the day by closing his eyes and wishing for sleep to take him.

Not something to write home about, not that he could regardless.

Though, Levi has, at the very least, managed to make himself dinner the last couple of nights, and he eats whatever’s left over the morning after. He sits at his dining table for hours at a time because he’s too exhausted to do anything but cook, clean, and burn holes through the sheets on his bed that’re back to smelling like linen and lavender, and he does it all again in the days following.

Doesn’t change the fact that he’s still staring at the ceiling late at night and early in the morning, trying to trick himself into forgetting the smell of fresh-cut mint sprigs and saffron. That should be enough sentiment to say that nothing has changed.

(Selflessly, he hopes that, if you're also awake right now, you're awake in the quiet of your bedroom tying your apron on.

Selfishly, he wonders if you're also thinking of him.

The thought sickens him as it passes him by.)

There is nothing new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

Another week has passed, and not much has changed.

He gets up, lazes around, does the absolute fucking bare minimum to keep things running in the house, prays that nobody comes by the house—they do anyway, and Levi shoos them away as best he can; they don’t leave—and Levi keeps his mouth shut to keep himself from speaking too truthfully. When the sun goes down, he retreats to his bedroom to admit to only himself that he wishes he could lay in this bed again, even if only to pretend that the tempered warmth that was once in it will let him feel you again.

So, yeah.

Not much has changed.

At least people come through the unlocked door and force him to actually step outside and into the sun. They have no idea how cold Levi’s been.

There is nothing new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

A day has passed, and nothing has changed.

There is nothing new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

Levi isn't sure how many days have passed, but because Gabi insists on counting down the days until Levi’s birthday so they can celebrate it again this year, there is now a sloppily put-together calendar taped onto the wall near the front door. The rows and columns are drawn with ink that’s smudged where her hands have accidentally swiped over it, and the sun is sure to bleach the paper for as long as it hangs there. Levi doesn’t move it.

(Later that afternoon, he overhears her ask Falco what cake they should get him this year since he liked the one they’d gotten him last time. He hears the boy promptly shush her, but it’s obvious to even Levi that it’s not because he wants to keep it a secret.)

There is nothing new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

A day has passed, and nothing has changed.

Onyankopon has brought him a new cane, likely under the impression that Levi would be too prideful to admit it’s missing. It’s identical in make and model to his old one, save for a rubber tip that’s not worn down yet, but that’s to be expected.

Levi accepts the gesture because it’s not like he’s going to be getting his original cane back (and, fuck, these things cost a literal arm and a leg), but he wonders if it’s still there, laid across your dining table. Maybe you’ve grown bored and wrapped it in ribbon, or perhaps even danced with it between dusk and dawn to the sounds of the seagulls that you know he hates.

More likely, you’ve thrown it into a fire to ward off the ghost of him. At least, that’s what he thinks he’d do if he were you.

But, more likely than that, you’ve kept it as clean and pristine as he had. Maybe a ribbon wound around the bottom so it doesn’t get any more scratched up than it already is, but you wouldn’t do anything to change it otherwise., He doesn’t want to think about it, and he won’t, but it’s eating at him anyway to think that you’re too kind to hate him, no matter how badly he wants you to.

There is nothing new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

A day has passed, and nothing has changed.

Nobody comes to the house today, but when he retreats into his bedroom for the evening, it seems that exhaustion finally catches up to him after all these nights. He dreams of nothing, and it shakes him to the core that his mind will not let him punish himself for all he has done.

The next morning, he has his tea, and even after having the whole pot, he still feels he needs more to make sure he can’t sleep again tonight. He makes another pot, and only now realizing how light his canister's gotten, shakes it and holds it underneath the window to see how much is left. Though there’s enough to last him for the next month or so, this is usually his sign to head off to the market to grab a new tin. He’ll hold off on going to the market for as long as he can to avoid having to run into you, though.

There is nothing new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

There is nothing new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

Time passes, and nothing has changed.

It’s been getting colder, but the sun is bright enough today that he puts on one of his thicker summer coats to go with Onyankopon to the refugee camps to help distribute supplies to hold up against the winter. As he’s putting it on, he finds a folded-up, torn-out page of a furniture catalogue in the pocket.

In the center, circled in black ink, are the walnut tables you ended up ordering for the bakery. In the bottom left corner on the other side of the page, there’s another circle scribbled around a picture of an outdoor dining set with two chairs. The stained glass of the small table forms a moon and a sun, fused together with copper solder, and there’s faces drawn onto where the celestial beings meet. A scowl on the moon, a smile on the sun.

He folds the page back up and puts it back where he found it after he sees—in your handwriting and right next to the picture— Maybe next summer…

You must’ve slipped it into his pocket after laundering the coat at your apartment and before returning it because he doesn’t remember seeing this sheet outside of the magazine it belonged to. Or maybe it just fell in like a feather as you were handing it to him on his way out the door.

Either way, it finds its way into the trash bin just as easily.

There is nothing new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

Time doesn’t pass, and Levi rushes to take the clipping out of the bin as soon as he’s back home through the front door.

He holds it between his stubbornly frostbitten fingers, stares at it underneath the moonlight, now brighter earlier than it’d been before, and he forces himself to pay attention to his breathing because he isn’t sure that he can count on his body to remember how to do only that.

He sets the tiny piece of paper underneath an empty vase in the kitchen to hide it somewhere he'll probably forget, and he goes to sleep as if everything is back to normal again.

It will pass. He knows it will. It has to.

There is nothing new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

Time passes, and nothing has changed.

Levi is only really aware of the days passing by because Gabi will scold him for not marking off the days until his birthday, and she has to run a red marker over days and days to catch the calendar up to the present. Her and Falco talk to him about nothing at all, and he’ll usually just watch from the front porch as they pull out weeds from the garden and bring back whatever crops are ready to use.

Honestly, he’s just glad they don’t bring back “pet” worms like they used to. Levi’s grown out of having the patience to explain to them why they can’t haul bugs back to the house. Still, maybe it’d do him some good to find something to scold them for. It’d at least prove to someone—anyone—that he’s still got some kind of fire left in him.

But, honestly, he just… doesn’t, really.

There is nothing new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

There is nothing new to write.

｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ

There is nothing new to write.

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There is nothing new to write.

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Time passes, and nothing has changed.

There is nothing new to write.

#levi x reader #tao.levi #levi ackerman x reader #attack on titan #levi aot #fanfiction #levi ackerman #a sip of sunshine #aot fanfiction #attack on titan fanfiction

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taomyou · 8 months ago

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The problem is that America has beaten down its people for decades and gotten them weak and desperate and now promises a way out, a way to transcend and rise above, through selling out their fellow man. They encourage contempt and hatred as one way ticket to not being included with the masses being death marched to poverty or imprisonment or whatever other bitter end surely awaits the people they’re told are beneath them. An embarrassingly large chunk of white men are just straight up nazis these days as a way to dissociate from the rest of the carnage around them, even if they’re broke and uneducated and from an impoverished background themselves. They’ll vote for and align themselves with anything for a taste of power and control that makes them feel a little less helpless. The same goes for minorities. They’ll punch down if they think it’ll get them somewhere, even if in reality they’re punching sideways. I don’t know what else to say, really. Everybody is so incredibly hateful. We are a loveless, disrespectful nation. We are so spread thin by our government that we would sell each other out in a heartbeat for an ounce of relief. This is what we’ve come to.

It’s not even about Trump at this point. He’s gonna get in office and do whatever he does and it’s gonna be a mess but whatever. This is indicative of deeper problem. This is just the ugly consequence of the already present reality in this country that we all just despise each other. There is no solidarity and there is no love. Trump being in office or not doesn’t change the fact that America is a breeding ground for violent hatred. Trump has given people a shining example of how to give in to the worst parts of your human nature and make it the problem of everyone around them. I don’t even know what we’re supposed to do about that. I don’t know if that’s something we can come back from. And if anything COULD be done about it, Trump certainly wouldn’t do it. Honestly, Kamala probably wouldn’t have either. We are so deeply fucked.

However, I must say, if you voted for Trump, I hope that peace never finds you. Instead, I hope clarity strikes you someday like a clap of lightning and you have to live the rest of your life with the knowledge and guilt of what you’ve done and who you are as a person.

Love yall. Shit is so bleak but the world keeps spinning until it doesn’t, I guess. We can’t count on the government for literally even a shred of progress or hope so just keep up the good fight in your own personal lives. That’s literally the only thing to be done at this point. Stay safe out there. Maybe buy a gun.

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taomyou · 9 months ago

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chapter two of the nanami fic will be a bit late, i got a large oil burn yesterday on my arms and it's messing with my ability to type/concentrate

#taomeow

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taomyou · 10 months ago

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the art of watching the wind - chapter 1

Pairing: Nanami Kento/Reader

Status: ONGOING, updates every other saturday, 1/7 chapters

Summary: As it turns out, swapping out his corporate cubicle for a florist’s counter doesn’t mean he’s learned how to live life to the fullest.

But, as Nanami Kento comes to find out for himself, it does mean he has all the time in the world to spend it on the beach with the woman who’ll show him how to.

or, Nanami learning how to be happy.

Word Count: 9.0k

Tags: slow burn, modern au - no curses, reader-insert, character study, fluff, hurt/comfort, light angst, nanami pov

(A/N: this fic is available on ao3 here if you would like to read it there instead! chapter one is mostly setting/exposition)

“That’ll be it for today's shipment, my friend!” Gojo beams, one hand on his hip while the other slaps against the side of a crate of roses. When his friend doesn’t say anything in response, he frowns, shoving his hands into the pockets of his rugged work pants. “Hey, what’s with the long face?”

Nanami blinks, his hands gripping onto the handlebar of the platform cart. “What?”

“You good?”

“Oh, yes, I'm fine,” Nanami answers, loosening his grip on the handles. “Just a bit tired.”

"Last one in the shop today?"

"Yeah. Yaga's coming by later to drop off some papers, but I should be gone by then."

"Sounds good." Gojo smiles at his friend sympathetically before putting a hand on his shoulder as he begins to pass him on the walk back to the delivery truck. “Take it easy, yeah? No need to stress yourself out.”

The blonde sighs before halfheartedly nodding, gently removing the gloved hand from his arm. “I’m not, but I appreciate your concern.”

“If you say so,” Gojo teases, “See you around, Nanami. Would love to chat, but I've gotta finish up my route ASAP and beat that loser."

"You're still on about that? I thought you already won."

"That was last month! I need to prove I can keep up with the spring rush this month!" Gojo laughs. "Besides, he's the one that gets all butthurt about it, I wouldn't care if he didn't."

Nanami supposes it's true. The older man—whose name is Fushiguro, if he's remembering correctly—seems to have it out for the white-haired delivery driver; Nanami remembers him grumbling under his breath about Gojo "fucking up the schedule" and "making him look cheap," whatever that's supposed to mean, but though their rivalry seems fairly one-sided, Gojo indulges him for the fun of it.

Nanami doesn't quite get it, but he supposes this is just what happens when you need to make up your own fun on the job.

"Well, good luck then."

"Won't need it, but thanks! Let’s grab drinks sometime, my treat if you pay for dessert after!”

The blonde kisses his teeth, but he smiles in spite of it. “Sure. I’ll let you know when I’m available.” He probably won’t, but he’s sure that his friend will find a way to drag him out for a night in the town sometime soon, one way or another (and that, one way or another, he'll find a way to get out of it).

Nanami raises a hand from the handle as a gesture of his goodbyes as Gojo leaves, as does Gojo himself on his way back to his truck. He watches as his friend hops up onto the high seat of the vehicle, picks up a clipboard from the passenger-side seat, and writes down something with a pen he'd kept tucked behind his ear. With his gloves still on, Gojo pulls out his phone from his pocket and nestles it between his shoulder and his ear, still marking down items on the clipboard whilst checking over his shoulder occasionally to look for things in the backseat.

It sure is jarring to see the boisterous snow-haired man hard at work at... anything, really. He'd always been so carefree and limitless, and though those traits still exist in the man whilst on the clock, he seems just a tad bit more responsible than Nanami remembered him to be.

Has it really been so long that he'd been able to change so much without Nanami noticing?

The blonde is completely silent as he turns and wheels back the last of this week’s delivery into the back of the shop. It's not an entirely far walk, but the shop isn't immediately near any delivery zone, so Nanami has to push the cart a fair bit away before he can really call it a day. He's had to walk the same path everyday, multiple times each time, but he still somehow forgets the crack in the pavement that, if he rolls the cart over it, knocks back the whole thing and nearly tips all the crates' contents out. Instead of cursing himself (or whatever else he can think to blame, really), he bitterly smiles as he tugs on the cart and lets go of the handle with one hand so that he can hold up the crates for the remainder of the trip back to the shop.

At least this is the last time he has to make the journey today. He'll just have to remember to avoid that sidewalk hazard next time. He's reminded himself of this every shift, actually, but he somehow always seems to forget.

When he gets back to the shop, the back entrance is held open with a spare footstool he'd placed there at the beginning of the day. Helps keep the place well-circulated while the air conditioning is being repaired, for one, and it's nice not having to awkwardly open it and hold it out with his arm fully outstretched every time he passes through. Still, Nanami has to readjust his grip on the handlebar of the cart because one of the front wheels gets caught on the doorframe, and after tugging on it thrice, it gives way, he's able to get through smoothly. He pushes through and is now inside the back room of the shop, and he makes sure that his apron is securely tied behind his back before he moves to take the crates off of the cart.

The backroom is quiet, save for the gentle creaking of the boxes as he moves them into the walk-in cooler, and once everything’s offloaded, he moves the cart to its designated spot in the corner of the room. His back aches slightly from the slow, weighted movements, as the crates are decently heavy and require more strength to lift than he has at this late hour of the day, but he bears with it long enough for him to finish without breaking too much of a sweat.

“That should be it,” Nanami whispers to himself, looking around the room. He makes sure that everything’s in its proper place—the cart, the gloves, the stool, the rows of crates filled with flowers that’ll need to be sorted first thing tomorrow morning—and he lets out a sigh of relief when he's triple-checked that it is.

Good. Everything’s where it should be. All that's left is to close the back door, and he'll get to be cozy at the counter doing what he does best. It's a bit cold today, winter only just now turning to spring, so he'll change his apron and pull his sleeves back to full-length.

As he steps out to retrieve the chair that's holding it open, his eyes are downturned and his hands are busy putting the stool back in its proper place; but, as he waits for the door to close behind him, he looks over his shoulder to be momentarily met with the sight of the sunset. The sky at this time of day is a sight Nanami hardly ever got to see before working here, and he feels it'd be a waste to not at least try to catch sight of it before the day is over, so he takes it in during the brief seconds it takes for the door to close.

Some of the late-night spots in the nearby shopping center are beginning to turn on their lights to let people know that they're open for business, and that casts more light upwards in bursts of technicolor. Molten gold and pear-cut sapphire melt into one another in front of a barely-there haze, and birds sparsely dot the horizon like sesame seeds on a red bean bun. Brushstrokes of red, violet, and pink chase each other against a pale canvas of blues and silver, and rays of sunlight burst through to form a halo over the earth. The underside of the clouds are burnt umber and golden brown, flaky and crisp like a pastry sitting neatly in a display case, and they frame the sky like its a painting.

It doesn't take a genius to know that the sight is beautiful—a snapshot of the world from a corner of it that only he knows in this very moment. The faint spring breeze certainly does help in painting the picture, pushing his outgrown bangs out of his face and kissing him with the gentleness of the zephyr.

It's too bad, then, that it's a sight that Nanami still ultimately doesn't care much for, because instead of basking in the light, he winces at it with worn, tired eyes. He puts his free hand over his eyes to rub the weariness from them, and he keeps them closed as he turns back in towards the shop.

Must the sun always be so bright, so "in-your-face?"

Checking his watch, he sees that if he finishes a bit earlier than usual with the bookkeeping today, he should have enough time to make it to the bakery right off the freeway on his way home before they close. He'd been meaning to try the quaint little bakery for so long now, having been recommended it by an older woman in his building he'd helped carry in her groceries when he first moved to the city three long years ago, but between his job, leaving said previous job, and getting adjusted to his current... arrangements, there hasn't really been a good time to go.

Truthfully, he's memorized their menu, front-to-back, and he thinks about making the drive over often, but he just... doesn't. There's always something in the way: work that needs to be done before the end of the day, personal errands he needs to run, a bad mood that won't let him go. Instead, their hours of operation are taped onto the walls of his heart and left to peel with the paint, but they've still always functioned as a loose guide as to whether or not Nanami's doing a good job keeping track of his time at work.

Clearly, he hasn't ever done that.

But, if he gets out on time today, it'd be a nice milestone gift, he tells himself.

Besides, today marks the third month of him working here—it wouldn't hurt to treat himself to a little trip over to the storefront.

There's not much else in his life that he has to celebrate anyway, so he'll just make it up as it goes. He didn't even realize three months had passed, just taking things day-by-day to keep the dread of the future at bay for as long as he could, but a younger high school-aged boy, Itadori, had started at the shop on the same day as him, and Nanami'd overheard him telling a customer that he hit the quarter-year mark at the job (a miracle, apparently, because his grades demand much more attention than work should; still, Nanami helps him and one of the other coworkers, Kugisaki, with their maths homework when it's not too busy at the shop).

Yeah. Today can be the day.

He can play it by ear. He's made peace with the fact that this is about as good as it gets, and there's no better time than the present when he's so sorely reminded of the fact now that he's left behind nearly everything he'd ever known in his professional career for... whatever he's made of his life thus far.

He'll make it special.

He's said that a million times before, but, today, he really means it.

After blinking a few times to get the sun out of his eyes, Nanami puts the stool in its usual spot right next to the door. With his hands now free, he unties the back of his apron, walks over to hang it up at the hook right at the curtain between the two areas of the shop. He pushes through the half-height fabric curtains as he tugs his sleeves back to his wrists, and he buttons his cuffs back up as he's making himself comfortable at the florist's counter.

With his cabinet key, Nanami opens up the side drawer where the accounting materials are, and he pulls them out to lay next to the shop's computer. It's a bit outdated, clunky beige keyboard and all, but he doesn't mind it. He types in the passcode for the admin account with his right hand on the number pad whilst putting on his reading glasses, kept in his shirt's breast pocket at all times, and he gets to work. Having had so much practice in the trade, he gets through all the bookkeeping tasks quickly enough. There's a few hiccups because the shop is still in the process of changing their payroll system and Nanami's in charge of getting that all sorted out, but that's nothing out of the ordinary for any business going through the same procedures.

It's a bore to remember what it is that he's even doing, lost in the flurry as tabs are closed and new ones are opened, but at least he's only doing this for a couple hours every week as opposed to his entire working day. His face is completely stoic as he types, clicks, and flips through the logbook for delivery dates and other miscellaneous information. Nanami keeps track of what he's finished with and what data he'll need for his next bookkeeping session for Yaga to pick up whilst he's dropping off papers later, and the older man will know to then drop those notes off with his parents—the owners of the store.

They're nice people. He knew them as clients when they outsourced their accounting to his firm (and, thusly, him), and they'd been generous enough to offer him a full-time position in the shop, especially considering he had absolutely no experience in any sort of floristry. Nanami wished they'd come around more often as it's a bit hard to express his gratitude to them through emails and in the in-between of the margins of the papers they have him sign, but he's glad to know they're able to spend most of their time doing things more typical for a couple their age.

He doesn't mind it, though—the work. Inputting numbers, cleaning buckets, double-checking financial records, dethorning roses, calculating the budget, putting together bouquets and other arrangements—all of it. Really, he doesn't. He's obviously more... adept at some things more than others, but he's learned to enjoy what he's learned in his time working here. But, while his hands move methodically and his eyes trace the screen from left to right, he can't help but be reminded of how he'd used to do this for a living. He supposes that he still does, but being a general florist who helps out with the bookkeeping for a small family-owned flower shop is quite a far step away from being the top financial analyst at the region's most prestigious accounting firm.

He really shouldn't be thinking about it. He's already spent enough time contemplating whether or not the pay cut was worth whatever sanity he'd scraped away for himself when he left, and he should be happy he's content where he is.

He's not happy here. It's as simple as that.

After he locks up the cabinet and clocks out for the day, he exhales deeply, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter and rubbing at his temples with his hands. His head doesn't hurt like how it used to, but it's still not exactly raring for more to do. Sitting here, he has a clear enough view of the sidewalk in front of the shop, if only blocked by towers of flowers and gift displays.

He sees that the sun has set, and he won't have to worry about it blinding him from the horizon as he's driving home. That's nice.

After taking another few deep breaths, he gets up from the seat, and he grabs his coat and other personal belongings before locking up shop, getting into his car, and starting the drive home. Glancing at the clock now, there's still about an hour or so before the bakery closes, so he decides he'll make the quick detour over there. As he maneuvers through the highway, sure-as-steel that he's obeying all traffic laws despite the ache in his feet and the dreariness of his morale, his mind drifts slightly to the long-awaited sweets he's been fantasizing about for years.

Has it really been so long since he's moved to this city?

Regardless, whatever'd been keeping him from going over to the little bakery for so long, he'll conquer it today. There's still enough time to make it comfortably before closing; he checks and there's forty-five minutes for him to make it there comfortably, and he's nearing his exit anyway.

He wonders what he'll get. It'd always been a faraway thought—that he'd ever make the time to go to the bakery on the off-road—so he always just figured he'd order whatever gets recommended to him. He's done his fair share of looking at their menu, though. He remembers, in the very beginnings of his time at that... horrendous job, back before he'd been overworked and overloaded with the tasks of more than a hundred men, he'd look up pictures and reviews and transcripts of their offerings online when the workday got slow enough for him to take his phone out of his bag and steal time. Back then, he truthfully did have the time to go and try it out, maybe even reach out to a friend and invite him to come along, but he supposes he'd figured he'd have time for it in the future.

"Save it for another time," he remembers telling himself. "It'll taste better if you wait for it—if you have something to celebrate."

Next thing he knows, three years and three months have passed, and he's never so much as driven past the place.

But, amidst the blooming angst, his mind conjures up those fond memories of himself using his old work computer to look at online reviews for the place. Thinking of them again now after so long, he

All those pastries, all those sweets, all those breads. It'd been so easy for him to forget that such a simple thing brought him joy; that anything at all brought him any kind of peace. He feels it in the pit of his stomach right now—the quiet little spark of excitement he hasn't felt in ages. If he'd known he'd be so worked up over the mere prospect of enjoying something sweet there, or maybe even something savory, he'd have quit his corporate job so, so long ago.

A new match lit in his chest, he smiles to himself slightly as he's driving through the wind. He rests his elbow just beneath the side window and props his head on that hand, and he moves his other hand to the top of the wheel to steer with a bit more panache. There's not much light out anymore and he still has to be careful he's driving safely in the dark, but he gets cozy against his seat cushion and lets himself sink deeply into the plush. His window's rolled up because he's not sure his senses can take much more overload after a day spent near wet flowers and loud, crinkling cellophane, but he'd like to think there's another version of himself out there whose able to feel the breeze through his hair.

Then, just as suddenly, the fire's put out by an inevitable wind, because just as he's beginning to merge into the exit lane he's meant to take to get to the bakery, a car cuts in front of him, forcing Nanami to slam his brakes and grip the steering wheel harder to avoid hitting the vehicle in front of him. Just barely able to check his mirrors, he swerves back into the faster, continuing lane and pushes on the gas to keep the car behind him from driving into him. Nanami's seatbelt saves him from launching forward, but, now looking over at the center console as he's checking for the time, the same can't be said for the cup of coffee he'd forgotten in his car's cupholder from yesterday morning.

Great. Coffee all over the center console and even more of it starting to soak into his passenger seat.

He's forced to just sigh and look ahead, now only ready to go home and get started on cleaning his car. He raises his hand for the driver behind him to know that he's sorry he had to swerve in front of them, his heart still beating out of his chest, and he blows anger out through his nose as he's forced to think about whether or not he's going to reroute to still get to the bakery or just resign for the day and go home. Looking at the clock again, there's only about thirty minutes left for until closing, and, even then, it'd be cutting it so close if he were to get there in the twenty-something minutes it'd take to figure out how to get there, park, and find something to order or choose from the display case.

If working at the flower shop has taught him nothing else thus far, it's that coming in that close to closing is enough to ruin everyone's evening, and Nanami'd rather not put any of the closers through more than they already have to deal with.

Quite unfortunate, all things considered, but there's nothing he can do about it now. Most he can do is frown about it while he's brushing his teeth later, maybe even curse the universe after he's gone through the apartment and made sure all the lights are off.

Maybe another time, then. There's more important things to do than try out some bread that's probably not as great as he's made it out to be in his head.

🔅

With a heavy heart (and a trash bag filled with coffee-soaked napkins and a now-barely damp washcloth), Nanami pulls his keys from out of his pocket, finds the one he needs to open his apartment door, and steps through. He hangs his keys up on a red push pin that's stuck into the drywall immediately to his right, courtesy of an old friend who'd helped him move into the place way back when, and he holds himself upright using the doorframe.

"I'm home," he says to the walls, taking off his shoes and leaving them near the welcome mat by the entrance. He's lived alone for a long time now, but he supposes he never really grew out of the habit of greeting the house when he's home. He leaves the trash bag by the door to take out with the rest of the trash later, dreading the eventual long walk he has to take to get to the dumpster, but, other than that, everything else about his routine tonight is the same.

There's nothing important about today, so there's nothing new for him to do.

After changing into something comfortable enough to lounge around in, Nanami drags his feet as he walks back out to the kitchen to see what he can make himself for dinner. His socks create enough static that he's shocked when he grazes the metal of his bedroom's doorframe, but he can't be much more bothered than he already is, so he just ignores it.

His fridge is exactly how he'd left it that same morning, with more than enough ingredients to put together a decent meal for himself, and he moves around aimlessly to do so. Today, it's a quick short rib stew with rice, and he lets a shuffled mix of songs he doesn't quite enjoy play from his phone to keep himself awake enough to not burn himself as he's cooking.

He eats at the dining table with a book propped up on an empty vase and held open with the pinky and thumb of his left hand, chewing while mindlessly reading about the development of various computer types, and he lets the dishes soak in the sink while he sits across the television and watches today's rerun of the Great British Bake-Off. He still hates watching the technical bake, but he's just being a hypocrite; not like he can do any of that either.

Once he's tired of watching yet another person underwhip their soufflé batter, he runs his hands down his face lethargically and gets up to do the dishes, very much aware of the ache in his feet after hours standing up on the shop. The hurt's caught up with him by now and he has to hold onto the counter to keep his legs from shaking, but maybe he's just being dramatic for the sake of it because he's able to bear it just fine when he has scalding hot water burning his hands as he scrubs away stubborn stains.

After that's done and dealt with, he takes out the trash, cleans up around the apartment, makes sure to pay for the water bill that's finally reached him from the previous month. He makes sure to appreciate how low it is right now because he knows it's only going to get higher with the rising temperature.

He takes a shower to wash all the loose petals and leaves that've snuck between his work clothes and his body, brushes his teeth (fully remembering to fume to himself about having to miss going to that bakery), and after making sure that all his lights are off and no appliances are left running, he lays in his bed, staring up at the ceiling with his hands laced over his sternum.

Well, that's it.

That's his day, full and complete.

Get up, go to work, work, go home, go to sleep. There's some other steps along the way, and, sure, there's other things he could be doing, but it is what it is

It isn't quite the life he'd dreamed of when he left his hometown—that was what he had before his quit his corporate job—so, if he ignores the pay cut, the loss of prestige, and the shame of being somewhere he'd never planned for himself, then this is the next best thing.

And sleep comes to him quickly, he's grateful for that.

Still, in the very brief and very quiet minutes it takes for the dull ache in his muscles and the even more faint one in his heart to settle enough for him to drift off into dreamless sleep, he wonders if this is really all life has to offer.

It has to be.

...

Right?

🔅

Nanami wakes up before his alarm has the chance to ring.

His body rises with the sun, its rays bleeding in through the fabric curtains at the window in his bedroom, and he rolls over onto his side to feel around for his cell phone, unplugs it, and checks for the time. He doesn't trust himself to be able to wake up a second time with only a few minutes until he's meant to actually get up, so with a yawn, he slips out of bed, puts on his house slippers, and drags himself to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth.

As he's brushing, he lets his mind drift until a swipe of toothpaste slips out of his mouth and falls onto the floor. He frowns, toothbrush still between his lips, and he reaches down with a paper towel to clean it. He's not allowed to move around lethargically anymore, acutely aware of the need to keep things clean so he doesn't have to come home to a mess at the end of the day, so instead of dreaming about the perfect breads he'd pair with the most perfect jams and the most perfect butters, he plans out his day.

What day of the week is it, again?

Maybe today's Monday? Tuesday, even?

Probably Monday. The weekend rush was noticeable enough yesterday.

He supposes it's hardly relevant, though, so he'll just figure it out later. It'd only matter if it were a Wednesday or a Thursday because those are his days off, but he knows it's not either of those days because he usually has to do laundry by then, and, right now, the bin's only three-fourths of the way full with clothes stained by cell sap.

No matter, he has to get to work soon, then get home after work, then make himself dinner, tidy up again, go to sleep again.

After gathering his bearings, he stands over the sink and spits out the pale blue mix of toothpaste suds and morning mouth grime. He runs his hands underneath the running water quickly, flicks his wrists to help dry them, and he runs his cold hands over his face to help keep himself awake as he gets ready. After he's made sure everything's been locked up properly and just as he likes it in the morning, he puts on a dress shirt, dress pants, dress socks, his watch, the non-slip deck shoes Yaga practically shoved Nanami's feet into when he found out he had been wearing oxfords to the shop up until that point, and he's on his way out the door with a cup of peach yogurt in one hand and his keys in the other. In his bag is a tupperware container with last night's leftovers and his wallet, and that's about all he needs for his day.

The route from his apartment to work is one that's fully planned and practiced by now: get on the highway, get on the ramp to the eastward route, exit, drive extra slow to not startle the elderly woman who owns the laundromat right next to the shop, and park directly underneath a tree that keeps his car cool for the duration of its stay there. By now, he's gotten pretty good at remembering which stoplights give him enough time to spoon himself some yogurt without spilling any of it, so once he's parked and collected all the things he needs for the day, he gets out of the car, unlocks the door because he's almost always the first person to arrive, and rushes to clock in and rinse the container to use as a seedling pot for the many greens they need growing in the back room.

Well, that's it.

That's his morning.

He'll spend the rest of it restocking the arrangement area because nobody else that works mornings here is tall enough to safely reach the cellophane rolls that they keep on top of the cabinets. He's the newest person at the shop so he's left with the grunt work most of the time, but he doesn't mind it—it's easy enough, and he knows he's not artistic enough to really be trusted with arrangements (on his own, at least; some of the younger associates will ask him for his help when making bouquets with "old people" in mind, and he doesn't have the heart to, one, turn them down, and, two, tell them that twenty-seven really isn't old at all).

He checks the schedule as he passes by to get his apron, seeing that it's Monday, and that Yaga's posted up a checklist of the things they need done for the week. There's also a longer list naming all the people who'll come and go throughout the week (which isn't really what Nanami expected when he first started working here, but he's picked up fairly quickly that it takes a village and more to keep a flower shop running, so doesn't really give it much thought anymore). There's a few names he recognizes, others that he doesn't, but he should know everyone that's coming in today, at least.

While Nanami's filling up a smaller bucket at the sink to have a well to draw from and water the greens, someone comes in through the back door, and Nanami looks over his shoulder to see Ino, arms full with coffee for himself, his laptop, and a few other miscellaneous gadgets. He's probably the person Nanami's worked the most with here (at least, if he excludes the time he spends trying to explain derivatives to Itadori; the boy is hopeless, but Nanami admires his determination regardless).

"Ah, good morning, Nanami!" Ino exclaims, rushing to put his things down anywhere he can.

Nanami lifts his hand to greet the younger man back. "Morning."

"Closing go okay yesterday?"

He nods, leaning over to turn off the faucet. "It was fine."

Ino doesn’t ask any other questions and just puts on his own apron, comes over to the sink, and offers to help take out the bucket so Nanami doesn’t spill it while it’s full. The blonde gives him a tight-lipped smile as he grabs onto the opposite end so Ino can hold onto the other side, and the two near effortlessly lift it out of the tub. After that and another smile, Ino leaves him to himself to go check for any orders that might've been placed during last night's non-working hours. Nanami isn't anywhere near the level of floristry where he can accurately fulfill an order like that anyway, so he's just glad that Ino's there and can handle them while Nanami does the grunt work and waits for more people to come in.

Regardless, there’s no real rush to get a move-on, seeing as nobody’s exactly rushing to get flowers on a Monday at seven in the morning, so the two men work in silence while more people cycle in through the door and get clocked in. Ordered arrangements ranging from personal bouquets to larger fulfillments of wedding orders and funeral flowers are put together at the designing stations while Nanami works in the background, picking up phone calls, updating order statuses, making sure customers are tended to.

Even though it's hardly peak times, there's still far too much to do, though, and Nanami finds himself running around earlier than he'd expected himself to be. It's really a blur of things that happen once the initial line gets built up at the front of the store: foam needs to be presoaked practically every other minute, people keep needing help at the register, someone needs to sign off on a delivery, and it's usually the blonde sent off to do those things.

And, just like that, the morning has eclipsed.

Like clockwork (because, well, it is clocked work), the morning workers swap out with those who come later in the day, and this is usually when Nanami takes his lunch because there's not really any other time that's going to work. Any earlier, and there's going to be so many people coming in and out of the break room that the ambiance he needs to enjoy his meal is ruined, and any later, he'll be too full for dinner in the evening and his whole routine will be pushed back.

After grabbing his lunch from the minifridge in the break room and heating it up in the barely-working microwave, Nanami sits by himself and soaks in the quiet that's barely given to him with the thin walls and the loud chatter between some of the younger, high school-aged employees that've just clocked in after coming out of class. He almost always takes his lunch alone because everyone else orders out and Nanami doesn't quite have the budget to get takeout five days a week, but, occasionally, Ino will invite him out, and even though Nanami will only come along if there's the promise of a comfy booth to sit in and ease the pain in his feet, he usually has it in him to do that every once in a while.

Ino has class on Mondays, though, so Nanami's taking it alone today.

Again.

But that's par for the course.

He'd eat lunch alone in his old cubicle, too, and he supposes not much has changed about him in the three months since he's swapped work environments.

As he pokes at the broth-soaked rice, he leans against his palm. He hasn't got much of an appetite, what with the smell of fertilizer and sap in just the next room over, but he eats anyway because he hasn't got much of a choice in the matter. He'll get off work a bit earlier today than he did yesterday because he doesn't need to handle the bookkeeping every single day, but he knows he'll be just as tired and that he'll have to at least stay energized enough to survive the early-evening rush of less-than-respectable men who want to buy the cheapest flowers they can for their wives at home—he'd envy them if he didn't find them so deplorable.

Just as he's putting the tupperware lid over his now-emptied container, someone comes through the fabric curtain after knocking on the doorframe.

"Hey, stopping by to ask if you'd like us to bring anything back for you," Kugisaki chimes in. "We're getting dumplings from the place down the street!"

Nanami looks up at the girl from his seat and raises his hand in gentle refusal. "It's alright, thank you for offering."

"You sure? We don't mind paying, you help us with our homework all the time."

"'Us,' as in, 'you and Itadori,' don't include me in this," the younger Fushiguro scolds, passing through the break room to refill his water bottle. "Good afternoon, Nanami."

Nanami waves at him with a gentle smile. "Afternoon to you too, Fushiguro."

"Yeah, yeah, nerd, me and Itadori've got it covered," Kugisaki rolls her eyes at her friend, then turning back to address Nanami. "C'mon, you really don't want anything? They have great gyoza!"

"I'm fine, I already ate. You kids go ahead and-"

"Are we ready to go yet? I'm starving-" the pink-haired boy pauses, eyes landing on Nanami as he gets up to put his lunch container away. "Oh, hi Nanamin! Sorry I didn't greet you when I clocked in, I had to help out someone in the front."

"No worries, good afternoon."

"Hey, what'd you get on the bio test earlier?"

"Better than you, that's for sure."

"Hey! How's that possible, we used the same study guide!"

"I got help from Maki during lunch."

"No fair! I had a club meeting!"

Itadori and Kugisaki bicker between themselves as Nanami joins Fushiguro at the sink to wash his dishes, and the younger ravenette passes him the bottle of dish soap. "Here."

"Oh, thank you."

Fushiguro grabs a paper towel from the dispenser to wipe the run-off from his water bottle, frowning slightly with what looks like embarrassment. "Sorry, we'll be on our way out soon."

Nanami hums as he scrubs at the tupperware. "No rush." Not that he minds their presence in the first place, they're good kids, even if two of the three are a bit... scatterbrained.

After he gets all the leftover suds off, Nanami flicks his wrist to get off the excess water and leave it on the drying rack, and his eyes follow Fushiguro as he joins his friends at the door.

"Well, see you in a bit!"

The young man smiles gently while waving goodbye to the trio, then turning back to the sink to wash his hands. Their voices, loud and chipper as they talk amongst themselves, fade out as they leave through the back door, which closes loudly behind them.

It must be nice to be so... carefree.

Nanami dries his hands with the last bit of clean fabric of his apron, and he gets back to work.

Now that it's later in the afternoon, his tasks shift from prep and phone calls to helping out more at the front. Famously, he's never been a man of many words, but that hardly matters when customers seem to flock to him anyway for help picking out bouquets and other miscellaneous gifts to buy and bring home. He still does his fair share of running around, trying to make himself useful, but, nevertheless, to keep the rest of his colleagues from having to direct their attention to the more run-of-the-mill business when they have other, more pressing projects to take care of, Nanami keeps a smile on his face as he directs people to what he can only guess they're looking for. The younger trio come back from their meal somewhere in-between all that, and the day passes by both quickly and slowly with how much has to be done to keep the place running. He has more than enough breaks throughout the day to decompress in the freezing cold quarters, but somehow his legs are still screaming at him and he's hardly got a second to breathe meaningfully.

But, thankfully, he's not closing today, so as soon as the clock strikes a modest six in the evening, Nanami's hanging up his apron and reaching for his keys in his pocket. He waves goodbye to anyone awake enough to realize he's even leaving (which, truthfully, isn't that many people because closing really is draining enough on its own, even if it isn't so late that nobody ever really ends up staying past eight or so), and he sits in his car until he's sure he's confident enough he can drive safely and with enough feeling in his feet that he'll be able to feel the pedals.

As he's driving home, his hands drift to the twelve and seven, too lazy to keep themselves at the disciplined two and ten. His mind drifts off to think about the routine he's grown into over the past three years, more-so because there's not much else to think about, less-so because it's too daunting to think of much else while he's behind the wheel, until, just as the sun's hitting his pupils, he wonders if it'd be worth the effort to try again today—to make the quick, quiet drive over to the bakery, step out of the car, and pick out something sweet to bring home and eat with what's going to inevitably be a boring, tasteless meal.

Would it really be worth the effort?

...

Would it?

It's hard to tell. Between all the other decisions he'll have to make today, choosing from the mundane and the even more meaningless, this one thing seems to hang over him, taunting him with the promise of something too good for him and something equally not good enough for him.

He'd already been let down yesterday. His car still faintly smells of the coffee that marred his chance at something that'd make him a tiny bit happier, and he doesn't know how much more dull heartbreak he can endure. His body aches enough with the burden of work and the surreal, sinking feeling that he's doing nothing worthwhile with his life, even after putting everything on the line to change that.

At the same time, he's taken a lot; a moment more of it isn't going to hurt him anymore than not doing anything at all. He's a third of a decade into desire, and he's survived keeping the one thing he can depend on actually making him happy away at arm's length for this long.

...

Sure, then.

It'd be worth the effort.

And, just like that, as soon as he's made the decision to make the tiny detour on the way home to stop by a bakery that has no more promise than what his own imagination has given itself, that feeling is back.

He feels like he's breathing in cinnamon as he follows the curve of the road, cautious to not take such deep breaths but unable to keep in the quiet excitement. The sun glares at him through his windshield, but he can hardly feel bothered by it—he'll rue it later as he's biting into a bread bun in about a half-hour's time. The moon, present in the sky in time to kiss the sun across the clouds, looks like an almond wedding cookie, dusted and deepened with craters marked like dimples. His mouth is starting to water, and as he kisses his teeth, he can feel himself smiling.

It's almost maddening, how... easy it seems to feel happy.

Is that the right way to describe this feeling? Happiness?

It's such a fickle feeling, so easy to pull out of thin air. Practically a figment of his imagination as it stitches itself into a quilt quietly in his passenger seat.

And, like the universe wants to teach him a lesson, it's taken away from him just as suddenly.

His phone starts ringing, and, already connected to the car's sound system, Nanami sees no reason not to answer as he pulls into the adjacent parking lot for the bakery. The call's coming from his landlord, but he

"Hello?"

The voice on the other line belongs to someone he doesn't know. "Good evening, is this Nanami?"

No reason to expect that his landlord has his contact saved when there's dozens of other tenants. "Yes, any particular reason you're calling?"

"Yes, just phoning you to let you know that your unit won't have water in about two hours or so. There's an issue with the plumbing on your floor and we have people coming to fix that soon, but it shouldn't take too long to get it resolved."

Great. That's exactly what Nanami wants to hear right now. "How long do you think it'll be out?"

"A couple hours, at most. Maybe three or four? We're really sorry, but we'll be covering the repair fee and as much of the floor's utility bill as we can for the month, so we hope it isn't too much of an inconvenience."

Well, if anything at all, at least his landlord's reasonable enough to provide adequate compensation.

He sighs as he weighs out the options he has in his head.

He can either stay here, spend the next half-hour or so getting a few pastries and breads to take home and eat in an otherwise soulless apartment, twiddling his thumbs until the water comes back on so he can shower and get the infinite layers of dirt and plantwater off his skin while he fights off sleep and exhaustion long enough to make it back to a clean bed, or, he can rush home, make dinner quickly enough to be able to have running water to even wash the dishes with before the food dries onto them, shower, and go to bed earlier than he usually does.

It's not a hard decision to make. He knows he has to choose the latter; he's too tired to wait out the repair time, and he'll just end up spread out on the floor to keep the furniture from sullying anyway and tomorrow will be made that much worse with the knowledge that he's choosing a chance at happiness over the convenience of what he knows will always work.

Still, it doesn't make it any easier.

"Hello?"

Nanami blinks himself out of his thoughts, and he clears his throat while looking around his car to make sure it's safe to back out. "Yes, I'm still here. Thank you for letting me know."

"Again, so sorry for the inconvenience, but it should be resolved soon. Let us know if you need any further assistance."

"Sure. Thank you, have a good evening."

"Thank you, you-"

Nanami hangs up before the other line can finish, and he frowns as he turns the engine back on again and puts his hand on the gear shift.

Maybe another day, then.

Maybe, then, he can forget this faint pinch at his heart that's begging to be taken care of.

🔅

Third time's the charm, people say. That, on the third go-around at something, it'll work out all fine and dandy.

Well, they're just plain wrong.

Nanami groans into the palm of his hand, head downturned and elbow digging into his chest.

"What do you mean 'closed for repairs?'" He whispers to himself.

He'd waited. He'd been patient. He'd been easy on himself. It's been three years, three months, and three days of trying to get something from this small, out-of-the-way bakery.

And, still, somehow, all that waiting has amounted to nothing.

He can feel the stares of people passing by, slowing their paces to watch him wallow in the small self-afforded agony he's ended up in. People walk around him, but he's very self-aware of the fact that he's so tall that he'll attract attention no matter what situation he's in, so he just stands firm where he is and accepts that his shame is palpable enough to be seen by strangers who've caught him in such an unfortunate state. He can't really bring himself to move out of the way, feet already at the foot of the ramp leading up to the door, so he just breathes slowly as disappoint seeps from his veins.

The sticky note hung up on the walls of his heart falls with the realization that it's about as useful as a whisk for water. It's a simple affair, one that starts and ends immediately with the event unfolding at his feet, but one that still pains him all the same.

He supposes that he can't really even be mad at anyone but himself for making it all the way out here without checking if it was even open. He'd made the decision to come out here on his day off, all other errands accounted for and completed, on a complete whim, so it's really his fault that he wasn't careful enough in planning the one thing he's actually been trying to do for the last

He's not even sure why he's so fixated on making this happen right soon. It seems like, for so long, it'd escaped his mind—the desire to explore the bare remnants of what he remembers making him happy—and, now, he can't find himself to commit to anything else.

Is he such a failure that he can't even do this one thing right?

He knows he'll have to move out of the way and go home at some point. There's nothing he can do other than admit defeat.

There's no fanfare. No parade to tell him that he's at least tried. Not like he even really wants there to be one, but what's there to even accompany the effort he's put into the very simple, asinine. meaningless desire to get something from this bakery?

...

Can he really even call it effort?

All he has to show for this desire is a spilled coffee stain on his car console, a new stitch on his shirt, and uncomfortably pitiful looks from what feels like the entire population of this wretched city.

...

Well, that's alright.

He hasn't got much to show for anything else, anyway. This can't shake him; he won't let it.

If nothing else, he has enough hope that things will sort themselves out, and he'll get what he wants one day. That's what he's banking on with every other aspect of his life, anyway.

That, maybe, one day, he'll get to try something from here.

His feet move on their own, dragging him back to his car and through a sea of bodies he know are judging him. But he'll find himself here again, under better circumstances, someday later. Even if it isn't true, he has to tell himself that to keep at least something in his life worth moving on for.

That, maybe, one day, he'll change enough to be okay with disruptions to his routine.

He clicks on the ignition in his car after gingerly putting on his seatbelt, and he hooks his arm over onto the backside of his passenger side headrest to back out the parking space. His foot hovers over the brake pedal until he's fully matched up with the mirrors of the cars next to him, and he just about runs off when he's shifted into drive. He isn't sure how to get to the next place he needs to go to avoid traffic and construction work on the road, and it's working up enough of a sweat to think that this is yet another thing that's off about his day, as if it isn't already enough as it is. But, someday later, he'll be better at not feeling this way. Even if isn't true, he has to tell himself that to not let the feeling regress into a scarier apathy towards change.

That, maybe, one day, he'll be able to face himself at the end of the day with the thought that what he's doing with his life is worth not being able to enjoy a piece of bread he can't be sure is even good until then.

He makes it back to the apartment, cleans up around the place, makes a tasteless dinner for one, takes a shower that's too long. He's worked all day today, so it's fine that he stands under the running, steaming water for a near-hour, wishing he could be anyone else, anywhere else. He slips into bed, hair still wet because he doesn't care enough to wait for it to dry, and he stares up at the ceiling to pray that sleep will come fast enough to give him an out in having to think about what he's really doing with his life. But, someday later, this won't be the case, and he knows he can finally watch the stars without shame on his balcony. Even if it isn't true, he has to tell himself that to not feel so ashamed about not being able to have the one thing in life he thinks could complete him.

That, maybe, one day, he'll be happy.

He'll come home at the end of the day to a home, well-loved and filled with pastries afforded by the wealth of a career he knows he's allowed to be proud of. His feet will not ache, he won't wish for something he doesn't know he wants, and he can sleep at night knowing that there's more to life than the mundane and the meaningless. Even if it isn't true, he has to tell himself this so he has something to hold onto. What else is there to drive him? He's already trialed the life he dreamt of, and that wasn't enough, so this lie has to be.

Yeah, one day he'll have the world, and he'll be content.

One day.

🔅

(next update will be sep 14! thank you for reading :D)

#fanfiction #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu nanami #jjk nanami #nanami kento #nanami pov

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taomyou · 10 months ago

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one-shot apparently isnt a part of a my vocabulary and its evolved into a multichap mid-length fic. ao3 is down rn but chapter 1 will be posted asap

nanami one-shot coming soon nyall

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taomyou · 10 months ago

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nanami one-shot coming soon nyall

#taomeow

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taomyou · 11 months ago

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The Affections of an Architect - Chapter 5

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Reader Status: ONGOING, inconsistent updates Summary: There’s a woman Levi sees every Friday on bus 143, and he thinks she’s really cute. It wouldn’t hurt to keep a paper star from her, would it? or, you and Levi take the same bus home from work every Friday, and he falls in love slowly, clumsily, and with all the time in the world to design the architecture of his dreams. Word Count: 6.9k Tags: slow burn, friends to lovers, modern au, office au, fluff, romance, meet-cute, matchmaking, levi pov (A/N: this fic is available on ao3 here if you would like to read it there instead! The Affections of an Architect is a spin-off of The Romance of Reimbursements, but can be read as a standalone if preferred. They are the same story, but The Affections of an Architect is written entirely in Levi's POV. The Romance of Reimbursements is already completed, and The Affections of an Architect is currently a side-project that will be updated infrequently.) Chapter Navigation Accompanying Playlist

our bus

“I’m driving, what do you want?”

“What?” Hange singsongs. “Can’t I just call my favorite architect friend?”

“I’m your only architect friend. I’d say Shadis barely counts, seeing as you-”

“Don’t you bring that up with me! I don’t know who started that joke that I had a crush on him,” it was Isabel, but, to be fair, she was, like, 15 at the time, “but I just thought Keith was cool! And that was way back in college!”

Levi knows that, but he rolls his eyes anyway.

“Okay, so what do you want?”

”Oh, I just wanted to call you for no reason.”

“Really?” His sarcasm bleeds through the line.

”Nope! No reason at all!”

Levi sighs. “I’m hanging up,” he takes a hand off the wheel to end the call from his car’s monitor, “text if you want to annoy me, I’ll look at it when I’m home.”

Hange’s voice passes through again. “Wait!”

“Fucking what?”

“I’m actually calling to ask if you’re gonna be free this weekend?”

Well, he knows where this is going.

“We’ve gone out every weekend for the last month, Four Eyes.”

“And?”

Which excuse is he going to give this time? “I have work.”

“Do you really?”

"Yes." This time, he's not lying—he has a work meeting tomorrow—but he'd still say yes regardless.

“Ok, well, we’ll only be out for a couple hours! Do it when you get home! You aren’t being paid extra to work overtime, anyway, so just come with! I was thinking that we could get dinner with, you know, the whole crew, plus my super cool neighbor-slash-best friend!”

He pauses for a second before putting his hand back on the wheel, sighing.

“Yeah, I’ll pass.”

“Oh, come on! Who else are you gonna socialize with? That bald dude that regifted you his grandma’s tea set?”

“He’d be better company than you, holy shit.”

“Then he can come too!” Hange laughs, and they sigh happily. “You’re coming with us, capeesh?”

Levi flicks his signal on as he waits to turn into the open parking lot in front of Magnolia Floral. “I wasn't lying, I do have work. Go without me, what’s the big deal?”

“Aw, really? That sucks! Okay, next week, then!”

Levi groans, letting himself fall forward enough to tap his forehead against the top of his steering wheel. “I’m so sick of you.”

“So what I’m hearing is ‘yes, Hange, I would love to grab dinner with you and the others next weekend! Thank you so much for inviting me, and I’ll happily wait for more details?’”

“No.”

“Well, that’s what I heard. This all works out anyway, since I just remembered Astraea is staying in this weekend. I'll text you later! Buh-bye!” They hang up, and Levi lifts his head to sigh and put his focus back on the road.

Why him? Why does it have to be him?

He’s not an idiot. He knows Hange is trying to set him up with you, and so is everybody else.

He supposes that you probably can’t pick up on Erwin and Miche’s scheming because you only knew Erwin as your work superior and you’d only met Miche for the first time a few weeks ago, but it’s not lost on him at all that the two aren’t subtle at all in their unnecessary teasing and excessive play on his “positive qualities.” Erwin drops a line or two about how Levi lead the pack of them professionally, Miche casually mentions his master’s degree, and the cycle repeats while the two of them are high-fiving each other underneath the table.

(Moblit is excluded from all this because Levi knows the guy couldn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone’s dating life (save for Hange’s—it’s painfully obvious he’s liked them since that one time they kissed at some college party Levi was forced to hear the details of from Furlan) (Isabel asked for them, not him). Moblit minds his own business otherwise).

But at least those two are at least attempting the art of subtly. With Hange, they burn the canvas with a million matches and chooses to start a bigger fire elsewhere.

”Hey, did you know Levi is set to be tenured in a few years?”

”Say, doesn’t his hair look so good today?”

”Levi, why don’t you tell her what kind of car you drive?”

”Oh, didn’t you mention making, like, seven figures a year? Really, no? Is it eight now?”

It’s so juvenile, the way they try to make him out to be such an eligible bachelor, and, quite frankly, it’s embarrassing. It’s humiliating enough that he has to be out in public with them when they act like this, but also in front of you?

Yeah, no thanks.

Ugh, and, best worst of all, “oh, Levi, you go sit next to her!”

“…Why?” You’d ask. Levi's too mortified to ask himself.

“I wanna sit with Moblit, and Miche and Erwin need to be on the ends because their legs are so long!”

Levi swears Hange makes sure to choose restaurants and eateries with only booths to accommodate their party.

He doesn’t say anything about it to them right there because doesn’t want to be rude and suggest the notion that he’d rather drive off a cliff than be squished into a booth between a giant (Erwin) and someone he’s already way too nervous to be around (you), but he hopes it’s still obvious enough to you that he’s not the one orchestrating this contact, regardless of how harmless it actually is. You probably do know all of the above is Hange’s doing, since he assumes you know well enough by now that that’s just how they are, but if you’re bothered by it, you don’t mention it yourself, and it’s not obvious enough to him for it to be any outstanding issue.

Quite frankly, that’s also probably why he’s gone this far without wanting to actually drive off a cliff—the fact that you’re also being forced in the spotlight, and that he’s not entirely alone in this weird high school-esque matchmaking plot.

It certainly doesn’t matter to Hange whether or not the two of you are receptive to their teasing, but it’s good enough that Levi can share his misery with someone else. Gives him something to think about to stave off any embarrassment that’s beyond what’s normal for Hange to bring upon him, and the forced proximity is great practice for him to steel his expression during more intimate interactions. He’s gotten pretty good at it, not that you’d notice anyway since you’re in your own world sometimes, just folding paper stars while he watches and everyone else at the table complains about the drive over.

It's probably just because he’s the closest one to you, but when you’re finished with folding a few, maybe four or five, you drop them into his hand. He rolls them around, one by one, in-between his fingers, and he just nods when you smile over at him.

Totally not because he has no other idea how he’s meant to react when that happens, but yeah.

This is all fine.

He’d rather you be uninvolved entirely, but this is the next best thing.

And, well…

He supposes it’s a nice change of pace that he now has someone to talk to on the bus, even if just once a week. He did use to wonder what your company would’ve been like (….even if that was just a month ago), and while the circumstances of his formal introduction to you were less than ideal, it’s… nice to at least know your name now. There isn’t really much that you and him talk about besides what’s considered office small talk. Maybe you'll imply you've been sleeping worse or that work's been especially hard, and he'll do the same, but that's all in-between much more lighthearted dialogue about how the weather is or what your weekend plans are.

It’s very casual, but it’s cordial, and that’s more than he can say for pretty much any other conversation he has throughout the week, so that’s good enough for him.

Plus, you have pretty good decent taste in tea, so at the tip of his tongue is a question about what you’d suggest. He’s never actually asked, but maybe he’ll venture past what’s already been established as the boundaries of this routine when the two of you aren't being constantly hounded by Hange. It's just the two of you on the bus on Fridays, but there's still the ghost of awkwardness that lingers from all the embarrassment Hange brings upon them on the weekends. It'd probably be there even if Hange wasn't like that, but, for now, he's just going to blame his nerves on that.

The driver behind him honks their horn at him, and Levi sighs again as he raises his hand in apology and puts his foot back on the pedal.

Fucking, whatever. At least there’s something for him to be looking forward to for next week, even if it is just another handful of paper stars he drops into his glovebox. Not that that really beats out seeing you on the bus, but he'll deal with that thought later.

✰

Ok, so maybe it isn't the worst thing in the world that he's being forced to go out soon. He really could use something to keep him away from his laptop because it's probably going to explode from all the angry typing he'd bound to do soon, all things considered.

Ugh, winter semester has barely even started, and there's already so many things irritating him. It's not even like it's his fault.

He spent all of winter break prepping for the new term, making sure to correct all his mistakes from fall semester, but there's a whole new plethora of problems that arise now that he's actually trying to settle into the groove of things. He was beating himself up already with the pacing of his class (which he still does, but he'd spent the last month trying to get back everyone back on track to pass, so he feels better about that now), but as the semester's progressed, he's come to realize that these problems aren't even his doing.

Annie, one of his teaching assistants, had emailed him earlier in the week to meet today before class, and she told him that, apparently, the department decided that it was a great idea to schedule all the core architectural classes at the same exact same times on the exact same days, and that's why so many students don't show up half the time and why the rest can barely keep up, even if Levi was moving slight above pace for the first couple of sessions.

He doesn't even smoke, but as the words pass through her lips and she expresses her frustration and thinly-veiled contempt, he wants to bolt to the nearest smoke shop and get a pack of cigarettes to burn through. Annie leaves after Levi reassures her that he'd figure this all out and to relay that message amongst the other TAs, but now, as he walks back from yet another lecture with half the seats empty, he can't stop himself from sighing as he keeps his arms crossed on his walk over to the bus stop.

Seriously, what kind of fucking idiot thought that would be a good idea? He wouldn't have bothered blaming his students for double-booking courses since it's not exactly easy to get a schedule put together in the first place, but, now, he can't even if he wanted to.

How he's meant to remedy this problem, he's got no idea right now. None of his asshat colleagues even bother replying to his emails under any circumstances (especially Pixis), so he doubts they'll be any help even if they did ask. Not to mention the fact he has close-to-no pull with the department considering it's his first year teaching and he's technically still on professional probation, and he'd probably have a better shot at getting struck by lightning than being able to get different times made available for his classes.

His feet somehow guide the way to the bus stop without him really putting much thought into it, and as he goes to tap his fare against the scanner, he thinks to himself that maybe today's meant to be the day that he actually talks about something other than the weather with you. Work's never really been something Levi's found much enjoyment in talking about with others, since he's always considered his work and his private life to be very separate, and, well, private, but, all things considered, he think you'd listen without judging him.

Besides, you're a part of the bridge's journey between work and his private life, and no doubt that you have your own complaints about your day. Maybe it'd be a nice offer of comradery for his fellow subject of entertainment.

He finds his usual seat on the right, facing the sidewalk, and he slings off his backpack to put onto the spot next to him. He'd thought it was a bit much for him to him have done it last week, considering that he really doesn't need to (that one day in January was an exception), but there's no ulterior motive to it; it's just a gesture meant for himself since he moves the backpack onto his lap when the bus approaches your stop.

He'll just call it a force of habit, or something like that. He doesn't know the exact phrase he'd use, but that's hardly relevant when he'd never admit to doing something like this to literally anyone.

The bus starts back up again, and Levi tips his head back against to top of the seat to stare at the overhead lights and the route map sticker pasted above the windows. His eyes follow the red line connecting all the stops, back and forth, because it's a hell of a lot easier than accidentally letting his thoughts linger on the shitfest that is his teaching career right now, and the gentle hum of the engine combined with the rock of his seat keep his other senses occupied. He looks out at the street view in his peripherals to see if the bus has miraculously moved fast enough to get to your stop before all the other ones that come before it, but that's more of him just trying to waste enough time for you to get on.

His fifteenth time following the red string, the bus where it's meant to catch you, and Levi scrambles to move his backpack off of your seat. He holds it up by its lifting handle and gently holds its side to shake off any dust that's caught on the bottom of it, then placing it on his lap before cautiously looking out towards the front of the bus where the scanning machine is. His hands have learned to not show his nervousness anymore after having to hold them out to you so often, but he tries his best to not let it show on his face. He leans forward slightly to see because there's a few stanchions blocking his vision of the front, and he rests his chin atop his bag.

The first person that comes on isn't you, but Levi thought it could've been because the light reflecting off their watch is like the one that comes from the the clasp of your briefcase. The second person that comes on isn't you, but Levi swears it might be because the tap of their shoes on the upwards stairs are like the clicks of your flats. And the third person. And the fourth person. And the fifth person. After eight people get on the bus and are squared away in their seats or standing and holding the railing, the doors close, and the engine starts back up again, the seat to his right still unoccupied.

Levi has to blink to really make sure he hadn't missed seeing you sit down next to him. He can hear the jingle of his bird keychain as the bus starts and stops, so his ears work; he hadn't missed your greetings to the driver. He looks back up at the red line chart and through the window to make sure it'd stopped exactly where it's meant to catch you, and it did.

Huh.

It's probably just the break in routine that's getting to him, but his face falls slightly. He slumps back in his seat, moving his bangs out of his face, and he sighs as he lets the weight of his backpack settle further back onto him.

Like a rolodex, his mind riffles through all the possible explanations as to why you aren't here, cards flipping mechanically and without rest.

Are you stuck in the office? Did you get off early? Did you decide to try out a new line to get home? Is he the one that's on the wrong bus? Did you take your car to work today? Did you decide you were getting sick of having to see him so often?

The actual answer could be more important to him if he had any semblance of entitlement for your thoughts, but he doesn't, so the reason why you're not here isn't important either. The two of you hardly know each other beyond formalities and half-truths that're probably more fiction than not, and while, yes, he isn't repulsed by your existence like he is most other people, that's not enough reason for him to really have that be any of his business.

Still, he thinks he cares is curious enough for it to not be that weird if he were to text you and ask if you weren't going to be on the bus at all today.

Maybe something happened to you? There's no harm in looking out for someone who's, at the very least, a frequent acquaintance, right?

Looking over at the empty seat next to him, he concludes that he is right; it really would be okay. He wouldn't mind if you'd done the same if you were in his position, or more since he'd think you're more forthcoming with your friendship than he is. You've already exchanged numbers anyway, even if neither of you use it, so it's not like he's really having to go out of his way to contact you.

Think of it as a premature gesture to reassure you that his opinion of you hasn't been tainted by Hange's ramblings about your (definitely inflated) salary and whatever else they want to lie about.

He moves his backpack back onto your seat so he can stand briefly to get his phone from his back pocket, and he rests his right elbow on the plush of his bag as he pulls up your contact on his phone. He drums his nails against its side as he ponders what to text, but it's not all that hard when it's straightforward enough.

Not taking the bus today?

That's casual enough. Not demanding of any further answers, not too small-talk-esque that it suggests he's only asking to get your attention for something else.

Very casual. Very simple. Very face-value.

Yeah, that's good.

He sends it as-is, and he sees the Read receipt almost immediately. No reply comes in, though, even after he waits for a minute or so, and he pockets his phone again to ignore the email notification he just got from his work account.

That's kinda embarrassing, but whatever.

It's probably better, then, that you're not on the bus today. He can't imagine how boring he would've been to you, talking about his work, and how inconsiderate it probably would've been if he just sprung that on you. He imagines the most likely reason you're not here is that you're caught up in the office, and that combined with the bags underneath your eyes that he's noticed over the past couple of weeks means you probably have your own share of hardship at work too. He wouldn't ever comment on it, but it's best left unsaid anyway.

He sighs as he crosses his arms and tips his head down to wait out the rest of the ride. He'd go to sleep if he could, but a thirty-minute nap hardly sounds appealing anyway with all the bumps and breaks of the ride. His mind just focuses on the abrupt starts and stops, and because there's so many and they're so inconsistent, he's very easily able to just force time to pass that way and, sooner rather than later, he's at his stop, and he boards off after raising his hand in thanks to the driver through the rear mirror.

On her way out the house this morning, Isabel mentioned that her evening class was cancelled for the day (basically asking if Levi could take her home after her afternoon shift), so after he slings his backpack onto both shoulders, he heads over to the floral shop to go fetch her. She should be wrapping up by the end of the hour, but Levi's fine just waiting in his car 'til she's done. As he approaches it, he rolls his eyes at the display that's been put up in the storefront window.

Gaudy, obnoxious red roses in (quite frankly, kinda ugly) vases line the bottom, and hearts are drawn over the glass in all the cheesy romantic colors. Heart balloons with corny pick-up lines and red animals are floating at the sides of the display, and Levi can see more of them lingering at the back of the shop. There's a holiday banner hung at the top of the window and there's lights strung beneath it, and Levi cringes to himself as he takes it all in. He'd already been acutely aware that Valentine's Day was coming up because several students have asked for extensions on their projects that're due by then, but, now, it's like he's being forced to remember.

No doubt that this is all Isabel's handiwork because none of this was up when he parked his car here in the morning. The elder Magnolias have no trouble with subtly and they already had a Valentine's Day display set up with some teddy bears and their usual assortment of roses at the front, but their daughter probably just wanted to make a bigger deal out of it and redid it herself. Probably told them that it'd be better for business if lonely businessmen were to be reminded of the upcoming romantic holiday (even though any respectable husband would've remembered regardless, and the less-than-respectable ones would just go to the grocery store just a few feet away for shittier flowers instead).

Levi looks over his shoulders to check that there's nobody around (because the last thing he wants people to think is that he buys into this romantic bullshit), and he opens the door to the shop to go check on Isabel. The bell rings as he steps inside, and he scans the store quickly to look for her, and he spots her at the counter where she usually is, her back turned.

"Isabel, do you need a ride back toda-"

And, mid-sentence, he makes eye contact with a very familiar face.

You sheepishly wave from where you are, right at the counter. "Hey, Levi."

He pauses, blinking.

What're you doing here?

He makes his way closer to where you and Isabel are, his eyes looking anywhere but you. They land on the countertop, where, now that he's closer, he can see that Isabel's assembling a bouquet.

Isabel turns around, and she waves at him in greeting. "Nah, I'm good. I was gonna go to the movies after my shift's over." Levi nods, and his eyes drift back awkwardly to you. "Oh, yeah!" Isabel continues, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "You bastard, she told me you guys made the tarts! Why didn't you just tell me that? Me and Furlan have been looking all over Yelp to try and find them, and you just let us struggle!"

Levi rolls his eyes. Seriously, that's what she's mad about? "Because, if I told you, you'd force me to make them for you."

"Damn straight I would!" Isabel whines while grabbing some more floral accessories. "You don't even know how to bake! Is that why some of them were so ugly?"

To his right, you laugh, looking away from the pair to hide your smile. Levi holds his breath for a second to steel his face because he already can feel blood rushing to his face.

"Yeah, Levi, why were they so ugly?" You tease.

"Good one!" Isabel laughs, the sound just a bit louder than the crinkle of the floral wrapping paper that she's assembled around the bouquet. She tilts it up to show it to you, and she waits as you get closer to look at it. "How do you like it?"

Is it yours?

"It's perfect! Thank you so much!"

Levi stands where he is as you and Isabel drift over to the register, but your eyes float back to his once you're there.

Again, he steels his face. He can't be too sure he doesn't turn red if he doesn't do that.

"Why didn't you tell them where they came from?" You ask.

He shrugs, leaning back onto the counter. "Didn't want to bother you for the recipe if they asked for more." That, and he doesn't want to give off the impression that he only values your company because you can give him something tangible.

Oh, god, he's trying so hard to look nonchalant, but he's already having trouble not stealing glances over at the bouquet now sitting on the register table while Isabel punches in something into the machine there.

Red and white are the colors he spots in the assortment. No roses, but it seems Valentine-esque, doesn't it? He's not so old-fashioned to believe that any and all flowers are just for lovers, but it's the most natural assumption when Valentine's Day is less than a week away. He doesn't think Hange would encourage homewrecking, so he'll rule out the possibility that you've got a lover already, but maybe you're interested in someone else already and just waiting for Hange to get off your back so you can pursue them?

He sees you wave your hand half-heartedly, and he pulls his attention away from the flowers.

"It wouldn't be a bother," you tell him, smiling slightly.

"I don't think I could make them anyway. It was mostly you."

You roll your eyes at him, probably teasing him. "Don't sell yourself short. I could make them again for Isabel and your other friend too, you know? I don't mind."

Before he can tell you he wouldn't want to inconvenience you and pull you away from whatever free time you have outside of work and hanging out with Hange (which he assumes isn't that much time to begin with), you excuse yourself to go over to the register and pay for the flowers.

You smile at Isabel, and you bring up the bouquet to smell them before tucking them underneath your arm. "I should be leaving now, but thank you so much, Isabel! I'll be sure to get some more tarts to you, and I'll text you," and you look over at Levi now, that smile still on your face as you speak to him, "the recipe when I'm home, okay? Bye"

When you're out the door, Levi turns to glare at Isabel.

She looks back at him, eyebrow raised. "What're you looking at me like that for?" Looking between him and the door, she smirks, crossing her arms across her chest. "You want me to tell you who those flowers are for, don't you?"

Levi frowns, scrunching his nose. "What the fuck? No, I don't."

"You totally do!" Isabel laughs, uncrossing her hands to put her elbows on the register. "What, you like her? I don't blame you, she's really pretty! I have been wanting to go to a wedding lately, think you'll be having one anytime soon?"

"I don't like anyone, much less her," he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And since when do you care about my dating life?"

"You don't have one for me to care about!"

He walks over to her, flicking her forehead once he's close enough. "Exactly, and that's how it's going to stay." Isabel knows by now that Levi's just messing around, so she doesn't move her hands, instead letting Levi rub at the spot with his thumb so that it doesn't hurt.

Still, that doesn't stop her from whining. "Oh, come on, Levi! I'm just teasing you!"

Levi pulls away and rolls his eyes. "You must think you're so funny."

"I do, actually," she huffs, smiling. "Okay, but, really, do you wanna know?"

Yes.

"It's none of my business."

She raises a brow. "That's not a 'no.'"

"It is."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Romeo," Isabel taunts. "Say, do you think you could give me her number? She seems really nice, and it'd be good for me to be acquainted with a lawyer, y'know? In case I get into legal trouble or something."

"You're insufferable. I'm going home," Levi groans. "And she's a family lawyer. Unless you need a divorce or custody of your kids, she's not gonna be much help." On top of giving out your personal information being a real invasive breach of privacy, he's a bit humiliated to be left on read. He's not just gonna go back and look at your contact just to be reminded of how pathetic he is.

"Still! I think she's cool, I'd wanna be friends with her! Do you think you could at least pass my number off onto her?"

"Ask Four Eyes for her number if you want it so fucking bad, I'm not doing that either."

"You're no fun," Isabel sighs. "Well, go on home. I'll be back at, like, 11 or something."

"Call me if you need a ride later, Furlan's out for drinks with his coworkers so don't get in a car with him. Or make one of your annoying ass friends drop you off, I don't care as long as you come back in one piece."

"Yes, dad, I'll make sure to wear my seatbelt too," she replies, waving him off in the direction of the door. "Now, shoo!"

"Don't need to tell me twice," he says under his breath, turning on his heel to leave.

Just before he puts his hand on the door to push it open, Isabel yells out at him again. "Wait! I actually forgot my keys today, can you or Furlan stay up to open the door when I'm back?"

"No." He already saw that she left them in the morning, though, so he fishes the obnoxious neon orange lanyard she keeps her keys on from his backpack's side pocket and throws it back to her. "But stop forgetting them. You're lucky I saw them on the couch on my way out."

She catches it before grinning at him and making a heart with her hands above her head. "You're the best, Levi! How ever can I repay my hero?"

"You can start by vacuuming the living room."

"Oh, nevermind then."

He expected as much. "Of fucking course. Anything else?"

"Well, Romeo, since you were asking, she was getting those flowers for her-"

And before she can finish her sentence, Levi is through the door and already on his way out.

✰

After getting home, getting changed into comfier clothe, and making dinner for himself (and for his housemates to eat when they get home), Levi is now at the dining table, typing an email on his laptop as he gets ready to turn in for the night.

The solution he's come up with to making sure his students don't fall behind and don't have to choose between his class and someone else's whose much less forgiving is that he's going to have to start recording his lectures and providing a separate transcript of his lessons. It's unfortunate that that's the only reliable enough option, since it's sure to lessen attendance and the department will hound him for not being strict enough to demand it, but it's the only solution Levi has that isn't going to inconvenience anyone but himself.

He has to email the technician for the lecture hall he teaches in because it doesn't have a camera and recording system hooked up, and he'll figure out what else needs to be done later. He's already done enough since having dinner—redoing his course syllabus sheets, contacting all his TAs and students and informing them of any changes, doing some preliminary grading to help take the load off his teaching staff—and a lot more to do, but, right now, all he cares about is getting settled in for the night and having a cup of tea.

After proofreading the email and making sure that he's properly listed what he needs for the class recordings to happen, he hits send and is on his way to get some water boiling. He closes his laptop and brings his phone with him to the kitchen so he can keep track of time, and he goes to the counter to grab the kettle and fill it with water.

While he's waiting for it to get full, he hears his phone go off with a text notification. Is Isabel already on her way home?

He checks it, and it's you.

Astraea - 8:56 PM

sorry i didn't get back to you earlier yeah, i had work off today to plan an intern's birthday party

...Is that who the flowers were for?

Levi mentally knocks himself for immediately assuming that they'd be for someone else for something else, but before he can do anything else about it, the water has spilled over and Levi has to frantically move it out from under the spout and put the kettle on the counter. He goes to grab a kitchen towel to clean up the spill, and he frowns as he goes to pick up the now-wet fabric and put it in the laundry bin in the washroom. Coming back to the kitchen, he plugs in the kettle and turns it on. While he's doing that, his phone goes off again, but it

When he comes back, there's another text from you. This time, it's a picture from what looks like a handwritten recipe book.

Astraea - 9:03 PM

here's the recipe! sorry, my handwriting's kind of garbage

Clicking on the picture and zooming in, it really doesn't. It's fine enough to read, all the numbers clear and written distinctly. The two-page layout is spotted at the edges with what looks like flour residue and earmarked, but it looks like all the other pages in this recipe book are too. It seems well-loved.

Levi - 9:07 PM

No need to be sorry I was just worried you missed our bus

Is that the right word to use? Worried? The word feels a bit too... intimate, but Levi thinks it's the truth; he was worried something had happened to you, even if he knew he wasn't entitled to know what that was.

Looking at the text again now that it's sent, his face falls when he reads that he'd written out "our bus."

He puts his phone face-down on the counter and runs his hands down his face, groaning.

Why the fuck did he do that? Sure, he considers seeing you there every week part of his routine, but that doesn't mean he entirely associates it with you. He doesn't own the bus, neither do you, so what the fuck was he thinking, call it our bus?

Okay, okay, he can save this. Hange, in their infinite wisdom, would suggest making a joke, and even though Levi doesn't quite listen to their advice, that seems like the appropriate thing to do now.

Levi picks up his phone again.

Levi - 9:09 PM

And I'm a professor, do you think I can't handle some messy handwriting?

He waits impatiently when he sees you typing back a response near immediately, but a breath of relief passes through his lips when you don't say anything about his text about our bus.

Astraea - 9:10 PM

i said nothing of the sort! but is it really that messy?

Levi - 9:10 PM

I can read it just fine Thank you for sending it

He's not entirely sure he's going to be making use of it anytime soon, but it'll be nice to have if he needs to get Isabel to clean her bathroom or get Furlan to grab dinner on his way home when Levi's took lazy to cook.

Astraea - 9:11 PM

yeah, of course! let me know if you need help with any of it

Levi - 9:12 PM

I definitely will need it

Astraea - 9:13 PM

i can also make them for you guys i really don't mind

Levi frowns slightly. Of all the half-truths Hange tells him about you to get him interested in you, the one he finds the most true is that you're much too kind and forthgiving with your time.

Levi - 9:13 PM

You barely have time to sleep

Astraea - 9:14 PM

and how do you know that?

Levi - 9:14 PM

You look more tired nowadays

Astraea - 9:14 PM

that noticeable?

Levi - 9:15 PM

Yeah, no offense

Fuck, why the fuck did he say that? It isn't that hard to keep his mouth shut about it, but it's not really like he's lying or exaggerating. He groans again as he puts down his phone, this time, face-up, and he hears that the kettle beeps. As he goes to grab a teacup for himself and the cannister of dandelion root tea that's about half-way empty now, he sees another text back from you.

He tips some of the tea leaves into a strainer, and he drops it into his teacup, watching as the colors bleeds into the water. In his peripheral, he reads what you'd said.

Astraea - 9:16 PM

none taken i'm in bed so i'm gonna go to sleep

That's good to hear. He'll assume that Hange's backed off on having you join any plans now that Levi isn't coming, so you can actually rest up this weekend. He sets a timer for his tea before replying to you.

Levi - 9:16 PM

Sleep well then

Astraea - 9:16 PM

you too!

There's an unfamiliar flip in his chest at the sentiment of the text—like he's about to throw up but he doesn't feel the actual dread that comes with that feeling—but he ignores it.

And maybe it's because you're already on his mind and there's already a cup brewing, but he takes a picture of the teacup as it sits alone on his countertop, and he considers for a second sending it to you so that you can see that he's making good use of what you'd given him. He attaches it, and he types out the first thing that comes to mind.

I will. See you next week

And, almost immediately, he physically cringes and deletes everything: the text, the picture, the thought of sending something like that at all. He clears all the apps active on his phone, and he haphazardly slides it across the counter to be out of reach.

What the fuck is going on with him today? He's all worked up over nothing, and it's making him act all... weird. He's a near-thirty-year old man, what the hell is he doing?

Before the tea feels like it's had enough time to steep, his phone beeps to tell him that it has. Maybe time just moves faster when he's flustered. He takes out the strainer, opening it and tapping it against the side of the compost bin, then dropping it into the sink, and he pulls the teacup closer to him.

And even though there's nobody around, before he takes a sip, he looks over both shoulders again here because, uh... he doesn't know? He thinks a robber has broken in? God forbid he's not aware of that happening if somebody had just come in and ransacked all his belongings.

It's definitely just because he's shy all-of-a-sudden, but he isn't going to be the one to admit that.

As he takes his first sip of his tea, he finds himself smiling faintly at the taste. It's become familiar, as absurd as that sounds, and regardless of how much of a mess today way, this is still a nice way for him to end his evening before having to turn in and get showered and ready for tomorrow. The citrine eventually calms his nerves, and he carries the cup with him to the couch as he watches a rerunning episode of some random cop show that pisses him off.

And as he watches the courthouse drama unfold and tips the cup all the way up to find it empty, the thought strikes him as harshly as the gavel does wood—that even without any meddling or orchestration by anyone other than the universe, he was able to see you on this particular Friday.

And that realization is kinda... nice.

Yeah, nice. It's nice that the one good thing he's looked forward to for the last, like, five months still hasn't really changed, and that he can keep that little bit of nicety to himself to enjoy.

...

God, he's going to be so fucking nervous when he sees you next week.

✰

Next Chapter - coming soon!

thank you for reading, and please consider checking out a sip of sunshine for more content from levi's pov! it's postcanon, slow burn, angst, (domestic) fluff, friends to lovers, and is a very lengthy levi character study (42k+, to be completed by the end of august)! i'd appreciate it a lot ^^

#levi x reader #tao.levi #levi ackerman x reader #attack on titan #levi aot #fanfiction #levi ackerman #the affections of an architect #levi pov

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