thatanimewriter

[thatanimewriter]

𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐘 - 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨.

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❝ 𝐢 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞. ❞ ── 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘹 𝘨𝘯. 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

you used to be a bodyguard for sunday and robin, but after a certain accident involving robin, you've been stripped of your job to work for siobhan. you've never seen sunday or robin since until this year's charmony festival.

── 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘺 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘴

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 + 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

the delicate aroma of wonton noodle soup kissed sunday's consciousness awake. his wings shielded his eyes from the lights, though they weren't nearly as bright as the ones at home. when he begrudgingly arose from the blanket nest he'd made on your sofa, his eyes landed on the steaming bowl on the coffee table.

he'd never stayed the night with you before, not even when you were kids. there was something off-putting yet heavenly about being wrapped in your scent the morning after a sleepover. sunday's clothes showcased innumerate wrinkles compared to yesterday, though the shadows beneath his eyes seemed lighter than before.

you were nowhere to be seen. well, you were everywhere from the photos on your walls to the note you left beside his breakfast, but your physical form was gone.

had to go to work, made breakfast for you before your daily duties.

his naked hands reached for the utensils beside the bowl, but only hovered for a moment. they retreated to find his shoes instead in loud silence as his lips pursed and his brows furrowed. the gloves he'd abandoned on the armrest deprived his fingertips of their senses as he slid them on once again and straightened his suit. he lingered on the doorknob to take a final glance at your home, then he left it behind as if he was never there to begin with.

your feet scuffed along the ground until you met your front door, fatigue clinging to your clothes and weighing down your eyelids. a relieved sigh left your lips when you entered your living room, then the fatigue transfigured into disbelief.

the bowl of soup you woke up early to make for him sat untouched, and had you been drunk the night before, you would've thought you made it for yourself. the blankets had been folded and draped across the furniture as you usually did and the pillows had been fluffed and returned to their original places.

you swiped a note from the table, but was met with your own handwriting.

"...are you serious?" you muttered through clenched teeth. "again?"

you threw your note away and burst out of your house to stalk the streets for any sign of the halovian. your eyes never connected with his, even after scouring every nook and cranny. your nails dug into your palms as you stared blankly at the landscape before you.

vignettes of your recent interactions flickered in your mind, and the bubbling rage you thought had been taken off the heat started to simmer once again. your younger self of at least a week would laugh at your expense should they see you now. perhaps they'd even be disappointed by how easily you offered a second chance.

blood pooled in the wrinkles of your lips from incessant gnawing, though your tongue never nursed the wound. the crescent indents in your hands had faded, but the hurt burned itself into your heart.

a gentle ding from your phone disrupted your ruminating, though the folds from your frown only deepened when you read the message.

TRAILBLAZER 9:43 pm meet us at golden hour. bring your gun.

your footsteps created a disorganised rhythm with the nameless as you wandered through penacony's grand theatre. despite the numerous battles with anonymous mannequins, you hadn't taken the safety lock off your handgun. now, your finger still evaded the trigger when sunday's voice echoed through the air with a practiced tranquility.

"THEY imbued the world with meaning, perfecting all things in the heavens and on earth. then, THEY rested from the labours of creation. yet, all beings cried out to ena — 'under the banner of order, you have defined all things in the cosmos... but this made us realise that we are but puppets in your hands! thus, on that day, all beings united and cast the aeon into the abyss of oblivion."

your jaw locked at his monologue, though your hands never wavered.

"this grand theatre looks totally different..." march noted. "is this the power of the order?"

"everyone, get ready. this could be a tough battle," himeko forewarned. you absentmindedly checked your ammunition as you descended the stairs to the main stage.

"that marked the seventh day," sunday continued. "cheers and chants reverberated in unison..." a discordant choir of voices replaced his to praise the great one.

as you climbed the stairs to the stage, his resolve crumbled microscopically when he caught the weapon in your hands. his eyes met yours, and a chill crawled up his spine. when you were his bodyguard, you never let him see your face on the job, for you swore you'd only look at danger with such scorn.

this was his first time being your prey.

"that concludes everything related to the order. what are your reflections on this, my dear guests?" he inquired. "nevertheless, this is but a trivial blip in the annals of galactic history. what truly matters is the course this river shall take in years to come..."

"we'll see about that," you muttered. he glanced your way again, but didn't bite.

"you've arrived at the perfect moment. the charmony festival is about to commence, and it would be a shame if you were absent for the harmony's prologue." his hand came to rest above his heart. "allow me to extend my warmest welcome once more. welcome to penacony theatre, the very core of the sweet dream, the abode of the stellaron, the grand stage of the charmony festival... and... the very place where the future of penacony shall be determined through conflict."

"allow me to point out that falling into a permanent slumber is not happiness, especially when those people are driven by someone else's will in their sleep," himeko objected.

"do you still believe that the order only seeks to control the universe as THEIR puppet, himeko?"

"your version of paradise may be 'perfect', but a cage is nothing more than that," you countered.

"people will never achieve true happiness in a world like that!" march added. "they would just be toys for the aeon."

sunday sighed. "it seems you have misunderstood my intentions. allow me to clarify — my desire is not to resurrect a fallen aeon or become one myself..."

"really? sounds like you hit the jackpot to me." your thumb flipped the safety lock off, but your fingers stayed away from the trigger.

"my sole objective is to create a paradise free from aeons, where the order ensures the dignity and happiness of all humanity. a paradise exclusive to us human beings."

"that's not the case. if people are to live with dignity, there must be nothing and no one above them," himeko argued. "in your so-called paradise, you would be the one reigning supreme."

the halovian laughed dryly. "looks like we won't be able to convince each other. now that our conflict has been destined, let's unveil our paths and reveal to the universe the true path. however, before the prelude begins, please take a moment to ponder the questions i've posed..."

you resisted the urge to roll your eyes, though you could've with sunday's back turned to you.

"is darkness equal to daylight?" mechanical conductors landed before you. "are sinners equal to the righteous? if you are born weak, which god should you turn to for solace?"

a frustrated sigh rushed out of your nostrils as you danced around and among the nameless in almost wordless synchrony. the gun in your hands fired like it had never been retired, and the muscle memory held your body hostage like a marionette.

your finger stuttered over the trigger as the conductors ceased their advances and hung lifelessly in the air.

"i already know your decision," sunday's voice rang out. "i, now, permit you to gaze into the sun."

"what the..." you squinted as the curtains drew open and light obscured your vision.

"on these 107,336 stones, the almighty and powerful strings of harmony are at my disposal..." the mannequins disintegrated in elegant wisps of fire. "...the supreme tuner, harmonious choir, dominicus!"

you looked incredulously at the large machinery that had now become sunday. "you've got to be kidding me."

"o, lost souls! come and meet your master!" little angel-like beings took their place at each music stand before sunday as if they were his orchestra to conduct.

"the embodiment of harmony? so, the true purpose of the charmony festival is to... usurp it?" himeko wondered, readying her weapon once again.

empty bullet shells clinked around your feet as you reloaded. "what a hassle," you groaned.

a reprise of the previous battle sung throughout the air as you exchanged attacks with the mechanical director like a physical debate.

its arm rose to point the baton between its metallic fingertips elegantly. "the time has come. creation will be reborn from the remains of the gods..."

as you lifted your gun to fire again, a large stream of water burst through its chest. your jaw fell open as the conductor fell forward and a fleet of ships dotted the sky. you had no clue who the duo of men were floating alongside the aircrafts, but the nameless seemed relieved to have the back up. you covered your eyes with your hand when light abused your retinas, then everything went black.

gravity felt heavier than usual. after forcing yourself awake, you found yourself wrapped in your comforter. the dull ache in your temples pulsated, and even though you tried to massage it away, the sensation persisted.

for a suspiciously peaceful minute, you wondered if what had happened was just a dream your subconscious had curated in retaliation to sunday's silent betrayal. while gravity felt weightier than normal, your toolbelt was twice as heavy. your fingers pried open one of the pouches, and you bit your lip at the sight of unused ammunition.

you hummed curiously and slipped your shoes on before exiting your home. the streets seemed the same, yet nothing could shake the paranoia fossilising in your bones. you turned a corner and gasped as you came face-to-face with black swan.

"jesus fucking christ, you scared me." you clutched a hand to your chest to settle your heartrate.

"apologies, i just wanted to check in on you after the battle," she said gently. "how are you feeling?"

"like i've got the weight of the world on my shoulders."

black swan smiled knowingly. "you seem to catch on fast. indeed, we haven't left the dreamscape."

"sunday's plan worked, then?"

"more or less. the nameless have been awakened and are with robin and acheron at this moment. shall i explain the intricacies of our predicament?"

you shrugged. "tell me on the way. we should move as fast as possible if we're to escape this mess."

the soreness in your joints faded as you rose from your position on the main stage again. you rolled your neck and loosened your shoulders as you stared at sunday's mechanical form looming above you.

"...have you broken free from the dream of order?" he asked, rising to full height.

"fuck off," you spat under your breath.

"we've done enough sleeping already," march protested. "let's show them a wake-up call!"

by now, you're confident that whatever unspoken choreography controlled these battles had embedded itself into your brain. if you were cocky enough, you might've been able to do it with impediments.

the onslaught of attacks continued like steady percussion until a lone feather drifted from the sky. sunday's advances halted, and for a moment, the sky was ethereal. a smile slipped onto your lips when you spotted robin, and the astral express glided through the air before slamming into the robotic conductor.

"robin, is that you singing...?" he asked.

"brother, you have heard their cries... this is not the paradise they hoped for," she pleaded.

"even so, they don't know where they should be heading. that's why... i had to become the lone star in the sky to guide them."

"even if that star... must hang in a perpetual night of solitude?"

you'd lost count of how many times you've reloaded, but you winced when you saw you only had this last round.

"if we had never experienced solitude, how could we have embarked on different paths?" sunday proposed. "now, our final talk has concluded. all the work of the creation has been completed. the inevitable day has arrived..." the angelic musicians merged to create a new form for the director. "the embryo of philosophy... will reshape us for all of reality!"

golden arms folded protectively over the porcelain face of the 'embryo of philosophy'. "if your 'paradise' can save more people, sever my path with your hands."

"if you say so," you mumbled, rejoining the nameless in their efforts.

you attempted to ignore the dread that was building as sunday's new form glowed brighter, but it was to no avail when a large hand appeared in the sky to touch fingertips with his. the surge of energy threw you off balance, and a sickening crack from your ribs made you cringe uncontrollably. you inhaled deeply, but what should've been a calm exhale became a pained groan.

you shifted on your knees to find a more comfortable position for the time being and checked your ammunition. one bullet left. beside you, the nameless were slowly losing momentum, but you also saw how the arms guarding the embryo slackened under the relentless blows it'd taken. with practiced ease, you lifted your weapon and fired for the final time. the bullet pierced the embryo's forehead almost soundlessly, then the large figure fell forward.

"so... why does life slumber?" sunday asked breathlessly.

"because... someday..." the trailblazer's hat dissipated into golden specks. "we will wake from our dreams!"

the stage crumbled, and sunday's grip loosened. he fell like a shooting star that was tumbling for the earth, soon to be a treasure discovered by a lone explorer willing to see the value in what others deem useless.

TAGLIST: (if your name is in bold, i couldn't tag you in the post-)

@galagarts @junyueyin @no-hearts-included @caeruslumiere @abyssmal-skies @jellofishuu @axerrri @the-cottage-dragon @qwnelisa @velovicy @sweetistic @zuoran03 @jar-03 @ukiyo-ikigai @violetisreadinghush @tamikahoshiko @b1loop @queenothegeeks @shadowypeachsweets @name-less-666 @bubblegupyy @evan-trand @nellqzz

[thatanimewriter]

y'all i'm writing the next chapter of and on that day and since it's like, the big battle, it's lore relevant n i'm reminded why i haven't continued dolled up in EONS...

i shot myself in the foot like, years ago when i said i like canon canon fics n wrote them nearly word-for-word hhhhhhh

[thatanimewriter]

never too much - chwe vernon imagine

hellloooo ~ i finallllyyy have some free time to edit😭 i swear i wrote a few fics weeks ago, i've just been sooo busy🥺 hope you like this one!

you can follow me on x i usually rant there, niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You’re the planner of the group.

It’s not a role you were assigned, not something you fought for either it just happened naturally. You’re the one who books the Airbnb, prints the itinerary, checks for weather updates, packs the portable charger, and carries the emergency meds. 

You’re the glue. The clockwork. The walking checklist. And you know your friends appreciate it. Mostly. Just... not all the time.

You hear the sighs when you remind them to hydrate. The eye-rolls when you bring out the laminated day plan. The mutters when you redirect everyone because the cafe they wanted to go to didn’t take walk-ins.

“God, you’re always so uptight.”

“Can you chill for once? We’re on vacation, not a military drill.”

You laugh it off. Swallow it like medicine. Smile like it doesn’t sting. But on the last night of your Jeju trip, while everyone’s a little buzzed from makgeolli and high off beach air and fried chicken, it stops being playful.

“Honestly,” one of them slurs, “you make everything so... calculated. Like we can’t breathe without you hovering. You think we’d die without a plan?”

There’s laughter. Not malicious, maybe. But it echoes louder than it should. Like cymbals to your ears.

Someone else jokes, “Let’s do the next trip without her, see if we survive. Freedom sounds kinda fun, huh?”

You force out a small laugh, even as your grip tightens around your chopsticks. No one notices. Or maybe they do. But no one says anything.

Except Vernon. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t look amused. He’s sitting across from you, his eyes meeting yours briefly. Quiet, unreadable, but something in his gaze makes you look away fast.

You don’t say a word. Not during the walk back, not when the group chat starts talking about noraebang. You slip away to the room you shared, start folding your clothes and zipping your bag while the others get ready for another night of karaoke.

No one notices you’re not there but Vernon does.

He knocks softly. Just once. Then opens the door slowly.

You don’t look up. Just focus on rolling your jeans as tightly as you can. You hear him step in,quietly closing the door behind him. You wait for him to say something, maybe ask if you’re okay, but he doesn’t. He just sits on the edge of the bed next to your suitcase.

Silence fills the room like steam, thick and warm and stifling. You keep your head down, but your throat tightens.

“Hey,” he finally says, voice low.

You hum a soft acknowledgment, hoping it’ll be enough for him to leave you alone.

But he doesn’t.

��You’re not too much,” he says suddenly.

That makes you pause. You turn your head, just slightly. Not enough to meet his eyes, but enough for him to know you’re listening.

“They don’t realize how much you carry for everyone,” he continues. “How things actually work because of you.”

You swallow. Blink quickly. Look up at the ceiling.

“They don’t get it. But I do.”

You clench your jaw. “It’s fine,” you whisper. “They were drunk. It’s not a big deal.”

Vernon doesn’t call you out on the lie. He just says, “Still hurt, though.”

And with that, the dam almost breaks. Almost. You sit on the edge of the bed too, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay. Your fingers fidget with your sleeve.

“I’m going with you tomorrow,” he says softly.

Your eyes flick to him. “What?”

“I moved my flight to the afternoon,” he shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Figured you shouldn’t go to the airport alone.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Why would you…?”

He finally looks at you. “Because you’re not alone. Even if they made you feel that way.”

You don’t say anything else. Just sit there beside him, in the quiet comfort of his presence. It’s strange. How someone saying so little can make you feel seen in ways your whole group never managed.

Vernon doesn’t try to touch you. Doesn’t push. He just knows. And in a world where you always have to plan and anticipate and adjust for everyone else, it feels nice—for once—to be understood without explanation.

The morning feels fragile. You move through it like glass. You’re the first one up, as usual. You double-check the fridge to make sure no one left anything behind, tidy up the Airbnb out of habit. 

The others start stirring around breakfast. Laughter returns, loud and carefree, like nothing ever happened.

“Guess we survived the night without a roll call,” one of them jokes, sipping on coffee someone else made.

“Wow, no itinerary for breakfast?” another adds, grinning at you. “Miracles do happen.”

You say nothing. You press your lips into a polite, tight-lipped smile and continue wrapping your charger. Your movements are calm. Precise. Measured. But inside, your hands shake.

You sling your backpack on and smooth down your shirt.

“Well,” you say softly, “I’ll head to the airport first.”

“Already?” someone says, barely looking up. “We were gonna take pics before check-out.”

“That’s okay,” you reply, already halfway out the door. “Just send them to the group.”

Not a single wait, not a sorry about last night, not even a safe trip.

You hear Vernon’s voice behind you—“I’ll go too”—but you’re already outside, walking ahead.

Vernon doesn’t follow right away. He watches the door close after you, chest tight. And when he turns back to the group, something in him snaps.

“You guys really don’t get it, do you?” he says, voice cold.

The room stills. Someone snorts. “Get what?”

Vernon steps forward. “How shitty you were to her last night.”

“Bro, we were joking,” one of them says. “She’s just sensitive.”

“That wasn’t joking,” Vernon says, louder now. Sharper. “That was disrespectful.”

A pause. Then someone dares to scoff. “Since when are you so pressed? You barely say two words during trips.”

“Maybe because I spend most of the time watching all of you dump everything on her,” he fires back. “And she takes it. Every time. She plans everything, solves your messes, fixes every little inconvenience, and you make her feel like she’s a burden?”

No one speaks.

“You think just because she smiles and doesn’t say anything, it doesn’t get to her?” he continues, his voice growing hot, unfamiliar even to himself. “You think you’re funny? That she doesn’t go to sleep overthinking every word?”

He’s not yelling. But his words cut. Vernon, always calm, always cool, is furious.

“She left without saying anything because she still didn’t want to ruin your trip,” he spits. “Even after what you said.”

One of them shifts uncomfortably. “We didn’t mean it like that—”

“Then say that to her,” Vernon snaps. “Because you didn’t apologize. You didn’t even notice. And she still cleaned up after you.”

He grabs his bag without another word, slinging it over his shoulder. As he reaches the door, he glances back once.

“You don’t deserve the way she shows up for you.”

Then he’s gone.

The airport is busy, buzzing with people and rolling suitcases, but it feels quiet in your head.

You sit at the departure gate with a coffee you haven’t touched, eyes glued to the screen in front of you but not seeing any of it. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry. That you’d swallow the words and forget the sting. That you’d take the high road. That it was just a joke. Just a one-off.

But the tears come anyway silent, stubborn, and unwanted. A few slip down your cheeks before you can wipe them away. You look down, pretending to scroll through your phone. Swallowing hard. Maybe you are too sensitive. Too much.

“Hey.”

You turn and Vernon is there, hair a bit messy from rushing, breath slightly uneven. But his eyes? His eyes find yours instantly, like he’s been scanning the whole airport for you.

“You okay?”

You wipe your cheek fast and nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He doesn’t push. He just sits beside you, pulling out a bottle of water and nudging it toward you. “Drink. You’ll get dehydrated before the flight.”

You huff out a tiny laugh through your nose. He smiles softly.

A beat passes. And then—

“I said something to them,” he says, eyes still facing forward. “They needed to hear it.”

Your heart skips.

You glance at him, surprised. “You did?”

He shrugs, lips pressed together. “They were out of line.”

You look away again, throat tight. “Thank you.”

It’s quiet for a while. Then you speak again, voice small. “I tried not to let it get to me.”

“I know,” he says gently. “But you don’t have to keep holding everything in.”

You turn your head toward him. His eyes are already on you. There’s no judgment in them. Just that same steady warmth. That quiet loyalty. And for the first time in days, you believe that might be enough.

That’s always been the thing, hasn’t it?

You take care of everybody.

The one with the tote bag full of things people forget. The one who checks in when someone’s gone quiet in the group chat. The one who makes sure everyone has a seat, a charger, a water bottle, an umbrella, a ride home.

And no one ever stops to ask who takes care of you.

But Vernon does.

Quietly. Always quietly.

He’s the only one who ever offers to carry your bag without making it a Thing. The only one who notices when you’re too tired to eat and splits his snack in half anyway. The only one who looks at you a little too long when everyone else is laughing—like he sees the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Even now, on the flight back to Seoul, when you’re not talking, not smiling, just sitting there with your hoodie drawn up and your face turned toward the window—he’s there.

Later, when your breath gets a little uneven and you lean against the window with your eyes closed, you feel the faintest pressure. his jacket draped gently over your lap, because the cabin’s cold and you didn’t think to bring one for yourself.

You want to say something. Thank him, maybe. But you’re so tired. Emotionally drained. So instead, you rest your hand on the jacket softly, and he lets you be.

Seoul is colder when you land.

The train ride to your apartment is mostly silent. The city rushes by in a blur, but your insides feel still. Heavy.

When you reach your stop, Vernon helps with your luggage without question. Follows you to your front door like he’s escorting you home from battle. He doesn’t say much, just stands in the hallway while you dig your keys out of your backpack.

You unlock the door. Step inside.

You turn to face him, and for a second, you don’t know what to say. Everything feels too big. Too raw. Too much. But Vernon gives you a soft smile. Not the kind that expects anything back. Just the kind that says I’m here.

“Get some rest,” he says gently.

You nod. “Thanks for… everything.”

He dips his head, like it’s nothing. Like you are everything.

And then he turns and walks down the hallway, leaving you standing in the soft quiet of your apartment, the click of the door behind you sounding louder than it should.

You drop your bags by the entryway. Walk into the living room. Just stand there.

Still.

And then it hits.

You cry.

Not a pretty cry. Not a polite one. But that deep, shaking, gut-wrenching kind of cry you only let out when you're finally alone. The kind that makes your knees weak. That burns through your chest. That leaves you breathless.

You cry for the way they joked like your feelings didn’t matter. For the way you didn’t stand up for yourself. For all the invisible work you always do—for people who rarely say thank you.

You cry because you’ve carried too much for too long.

In his own apartment across the river, Vernon lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He still has the group chat muted. Still hasn’t opened their messages.

His phone buzzes once. It’s you.

Just a short message.

You: Got home safe. Thank you.

He types and deletes a dozen replies. Settles on:

Vernon: Anytime

Because he means it. Always has. And maybe someday, you’ll let him mean more.

=

You didn’t want to go.

You really, really didn’t.

The group chat had gone back to business as usual, pretending nothing had happened during that trip. The way they do. Messages about some new restaurant downtown, someone’s birthday coming up, “let’s meet up for dinner!” with five different locations suggested and no actual plan in place.

You tried not to care. You really tried.

But somehow, you still ended up at the table.

You arrived a little late, walked into a half-chaotic mess of people talking over each other, the server looking mildly overwhelmed, and your friends sitting in mismatched seats someone forgot to reserve properly. Of course.

The energy was loud and frenzied, drinks already halfway drained. Everyone was laughing, tossing inside jokes back and forth like they hadn’t spent the last few weeks pretending you didn’t exist.

You slid into the only empty chair near the edge, giving a small smile to whoever noticed.

Which, really, was just Vernon.

He wasn’t expecting you.

He nearly choked on his drink when he looked up and saw you across the table—shoulders tucked in tight, that practiced expression on your face. Not cold. Just… unreadable.

It pissed him off.

Not you being there. But the fact that you were there, clearly uncomfortable, clearly not part of the laughter, and yet still showed up like you owed them something.

And the worst part?

They were still doing it.

“Oh my god, remember when she made us walk like, twenty minutes uphill just because she didn’t trust the taxi app?” “She probably had a printout of the directions and a backup.”

Someone snorted. “Bet she planned her funeral already.”

You didn’t say anything. Not a single word. You just poked at your food with your chopsticks. Vernon sat straighter in his seat. The noise of the room faded under the heat rising in his chest.

You didn’t deserve this. You never did.

He could feel it bubbling up, clawing up his throat. His jaw clenched tight, hands curling slowly under the table.

He waited for someone to say one more thing.

And of course—someone did.

“Honestly, you gotta admire the control, though. Like, girl probably schedules her breakdowns too.”

That was it.

Vernon pushed his chair back with a sharp scrape of wood on tile.

“Say that again.”

The table fell silent.

The guy blinked. “What?”

“I said,” Vernon’s voice was low and tight, “say it again. See what happens.”

Everyone stared. No one had ever seen this side of him. Chill, quiet, go-with-the-flow Vernon.

Not this version. Not fists-on-the-table, voice-laced-with-venom Vernon.

The guy gave a short laugh, unsure. “Bro, relax. It was a joke.”

“You think it’s funny to pick on someone who plans your whole life for you?” Vernon shot back. “Who lets you treat her like crap and still shows up for you?”

His voice rose a notch. “You don’t get to laugh at her just because she’s better at giving a damn than any of you.”

“Vernon—”

“No.” He stepped forward, eyes locked on the guy who made the last comment. “You act like you’re harmless, like your jokes don’t mean anything. But you made her cry. She went home and cried and none of you gave a single shit.”

The guy stood, chest puffed. “You gonna hit me over a joke, man?”

“I’ll hit you for disrespecting her.”

Chairs scraped. The tension crackled like live wires. A server peeked over warily from the kitchen.

You shot up from your seat before it could get worse.

You wrapped your hand around Vernon’s wrist, firm and grounding.

“Vernon,” you said quietly. “Don’t.”

His jaw was locked, shoulders tense, but he looked at you. Looked only at you. Your eyes didn’t plead. They just asked.

Please. Let’s go.

He exhaled hard through his nose. Backed down, barely. Without another word, he grabbed his jacket and stormed past the table, knocking over an empty glass.

You followed after him.

Outside, the night was cool, but your skin felt hot from shame and rage and everything in between.

He was pacing.

You stood there in silence for a moment before quietly saying, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He turned to you. “Yes, I did.”

You stared at him. “They’re not going to change.”

“I don’t care,” he snapped, then softened a little. “I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it because I’ve had to watch you shrink yourself for people who don’t deserve even half of what you give. And I’m tired of it.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Then—barely a whisper—“You really would’ve hit him.”

He looked at you, voice steady. “If you hadn’t stopped me, yeah.”

You end up at a convenience store two blocks away, the fluorescent lights humming above you as you both crouch in front of the freezer aisle. You point to a box of ice cream sandwiches. Vernon grabs them. You throw in a bottle of banana milk. He grabs another one without asking.

When you leave, the air’s cooler, quieter. Seoul’s a little more forgiving this late—less honking, fewer crowds, just the buzz of neon signs and the occasional distant laugh.

You find an empty bench across from a closed bookstore and sit down, unwrapping your ice cream in silence. You glance at Vernon. He’s got his own sandwich, barely touched. He’s looking ahead, legs stretched out, jaw still tense.

Then, without looking at you, he says it.

“You should really stop hanging out with them.”

You blink. “What?”

“They’re a poor excuse for friends,” he says bluntly, tearing a small piece of wrapper off the stick. “And I mean that with my whole chest.”

You huff out a dry laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve known them for years. Because we’ve shared so much. Because I used to think…” You trail off, sighing. “I used to think that was enough.”

Vernon finally looks at you. His gaze is soft, but steady. “Shared history doesn’t excuse bad treatment.”

You stare at your half-eaten ice cream.

“They’ve always joked around like that,” you mutter. “I guess I just… got used to it. Told myself it wasn’t personal.”

“It was personal.”

You swallow hard.

Vernon’s voice is quieter now, but firmer. “You don’t have to keep making space for people who don’t even notice when you’re hurting. You don’t owe them your silence.”

You blink fast. “I’m just tired of fighting.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I did it for you.”

You glance up.

He’s already watching you. Not intense. Not demanding. Just present. Solid. You look back down at your ice cream, now dripping slightly.

“I didn’t want you to get into a fight for me.”

“I didn’t want to watch you get torn apart again.”

Vernon nudges his shoulder lightly against yours. “Next time, let’s skip them. Just you and me. We’ll plan a trip. No chaos. No passive-aggressive jokes. Just real rest.”

You turn to him. “You’d let me plan every detail?”

He smirks. “I’d even carry your laminated itinerary.”

You laugh for real this time. It breaks something open and stitches something else in the same breath. You lean your head on his shoulder. It’s not a big moment, not a kiss, not a confession but it’s something.

You take another bite of your ice cream, the wrapper crinkling as it melts just a little too fast. It’s quiet for a moment. Just the soft hum of a streetlamp overhead and the buzz of a nearby convenience store sign flickering like it’s trying to give up for the night.

Then you say it. Real soft. Almost afraid to break the calm between you.

“...You don’t think it’s too much?”

Vernon turns to you slowly.

“What?”

“Me. The way I am. I know I can be intense. I plan everything. I stress over things people don’t even notice. I don’t do spontaneous well and I—” you breathe, “I get it if it’s annoying.”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a small, amused huff.

“You’re an INFJ, aren’t you?”

You blink. “How—?”

He laughs quietly, mouth tugging into that easy half-smile of his. “You plan everything down to the tiniest detail. You get antsy when we’re not on time. And you remember, like, everybody’s birthday—even when they don’t remember yours.”

You pull your knees up on the bench a little, sheepish. “You hate it, don’t you?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t.”

He leans back, stretching his legs again. “I’m an ENTP.”

You look at him, wide-eyed. “That... actually explains so much.”

“Right?” he chuckles. “I live in chaos. You plan for it.”

You raise a brow. “And that’s cool with you?”

Vernon nods, more serious now. “Yeah. It is. Because I get you. Even if they don’t.”

He nudges you gently with his elbow. “You’re not too much. You’re just too much for people who don’t know how to hold you.”

That hits something deep in your chest. Makes your fingers tighten a little around the melting ice cream stick.

He continues, softer, “They make you feel like you’re the problem, but you’re not. They just don’t know how to appreciate you. I do.”

You turn your face toward him slowly. He’s not smiling now he’s just looking at you. Honest. Steady.

“I notice everything you do,” he says. “Even the quiet stuff. Especially the quiet stuff.”

Your throat tightens again, for a completely different reason this time.

You want to say something—thank you, maybe. Or don’t look at me like that if you don’t mean it. But the words catch in your chest.

Instead, you just lean against his shoulder again, the space between you closing like it’s always meant to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “But next time, I get to build the packing list.”

He laughs, soft and warm. “Deal.”

And for once, your heart feels like maybe—just maybe—it’s safe here.

Later Vernon gets back to the apartment a little past midnight.

Quietly closes the door behind him, slipping off his sneakers with a tired exhale. The hallway’s dark, save for the faint glow of the living room lamp probably left on by accident. Or not.

He’s halfway into the kitchen, mind still halfway back on that bench with you, when he hears it.

“You were out late.”

Vernon jumps a little.

Seungkwan’s voice, dry as a desert and sharp as ever, floats in from the couch. He’s half-sprawled with a tub of yogurt in one hand and a throw blanket dramatically draped across his legs like royalty.

“Jesus, dude,” Vernon mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “You scared me.”

“I live here,” Seungkwan says, deadpan. “Where were you? I called you twice.”

Vernon opens the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and leans against the counter. “Out.”

Seungkwan squints suspiciously. “Out. As in... out with someone?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say you were just going to dinner with the group?”

Vernon takes a long sip. “I did.”

Seungkwan puts the yogurt down slowly. “...And?”

Vernon shrugs. “They were being assholes. Again.”

“Shocker,” Seungkwan mutters. “Let me guess. About her.”

Vernon nods. His voice is low now. “She was there.”

“Wait, seriously? After everything?”

“She looked like she didn’t even want to be.”

“And what did you do?” he asks, though he’s already half-smiling, like he knows.

Vernon sighs. “Almost punched one of them”

Seungkwan stares. “You almost punched someone?”

“Yeah.”

“Like. Fist raised?”

“Yeah.”

“In public?”

“Dude.”

Seungkwan breaks into a grin, then starts laughing. “Okay, wait—you—silent, unbothered Chwe Vernon almost got into a physical fight? That’s how deep it is?”

Vernon doesn’t respond right away. He just finishes the water, then tosses the empty bottle into the recycling bin.

“She stopped me,” he says eventually, softer.

Seungkwan tilts his head. “And then what?”

“We left. Walked around. Got ice cream. She… cried a little.”

Seungkwan frowns at that. “Again?”

“She’s holding too much in,” Vernon says quietly, staring at the counter. “Like she’s afraid if she says the wrong thing, everyone’s going to turn on her. So she keeps letting it happen.”

“She deserves better.”

“I know.”

Seungkwan narrows his eyes. “So what are you gonna do?”

Vernon looks up. Shrugs. But there’s a quiet kind of certainty behind it.

“Whatever she needs. However long it takes.”

Seungkwan leans back with a knowing smile. “That sounds dangerously close to a man in love, but I’m just gonna finish my yogurt and pretend you didn’t get soft on me.”

Vernon chuckles under his breath. “Thanks.”

He starts walking toward his room, but before disappearing down the hall, Seungkwan calls out one last thing:

“Hey, Vern.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re the only one who ever sees her. Don’t let her forget that.”

Vernon’s grip tightens on the doorknob.

“I won’t.”

=

You almost don’t go.

When Vernon texts “Wanna grab lunch? Got some people I want you to meet.” you hesitate.

You read the message twice. Then again. He says “some people” like it’s no big deal, like it’s not enough to send your brain spiraling into 

What if they’re like the others? What if I don’t fit in? What if I’m too much again?

But it’s Vernon. So, you go.

The café he picked is warm and tucked in a quiet side street, all sunlit wood and gentle indie music. It smells like cinnamon and espresso the moment you step inside. You spot him right away baseball cap low, grey hoodie, that lazy lean against the back of the booth.

There are two others with him.

Vernon sees you and smiles instantly. Big. Like he’s genuinely happy to see you. It softens something in your chest.

“Hey,” he says, getting up as you approach. “You made it.”

He gestures to the two guys already mid-banter across the table. “This is Seungkwan,” he says, pointing to the one who’s got the loudest energy, expressive hands, eyes like he’s ready to fight or cry at any moment.

“And that’s Chan,” he adds, nodding to the younger guy beside him, bright smile and dimples for days.

Both of them look at you like they already like you.

“You’re the one,” Seungkwan says, dramatically clutching his chest.

You blink. “Sorry?”

“The planner! The woman Vernon nearly punched someone over!” Seungkwan beams.

Chan nods seriously. “You made him angry. That’s like watching a cat bark.”

You flush. “Oh my god.”

Vernon groans and rubs his face. “I literally told you not to make it weird.”

“Too late!” Seungkwan chirps. “Also, hi. I’m your new favorite friend.”

“Second favorite,” Chan corrects, sticking out his hand with a grin. “Nice to meet you. Finally.”

You laugh and it’s a little disorienting how easy it is to be around them. How warm they feel. Like a blanket fresh from the dryer.

You take the seat beside Vernon. “I feel like I’ve walked into a sitcom.”

“Welcome to our weekly chaos,” Seungkwan says, sipping his iced americano like it’s wine. “We’ve been interviewing new members. You might be overqualified.”

“You make itineraries?” Chan leans forward, curious. “We’ve been winging everything. Seungkwan once booked a trip on the wrong weekend.”

“Once,” Seungkwan says dramatically. “And Vernon didn’t notice either!”

“He doesn’t notice anything when he’s texting her,” Chan adds with a grin, eyes flicking to Vernon.

Vernon kicks him under the table. Hard.

“Ow! You saw that, right?” Chan gasps.

You raise an eyebrow. “Should I leave?”

“No!” all three of them say at once.

Then they break into laughter. Even Vernon, who looks red around the ears.

You end up staying longer than you meant to. The food’s good, but the company’s better. The conversation bounces like a ping-pong match, but no one talks over you. When you speak, they listen. When you pause, they wait.

And they don’t make you feel small.

At some point, Seungkwan leans over and whispers loudly behind his hand, “You know he talks about you, like, a lot, right?”

Chan nods solemnly. “It’s gross. In a cute way.”

Vernon mutters, “I literally hate both of you.”

You glance at him, and he’s smiling, half-embarrassed, half-fond. You don’t say anything. Just nudge his knee gently under the table.

He doesn’t move away.

Later, when the group disbands and you’re walking beside Vernon again, you bump shoulders lightly.

“They’re... really great,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah. They are.”

“They made me feel welcome.”

“I wanted you to see what that felt like,” he says, voice softer now. “Real friends. Ones who get you.”

You stop walking for a second. Turn to him.

“Did you really talk about me that much?”

He looks down, smiling. “You know how I am.”

You don’t reply right away. You just let your hand brush against his as you walk again, casual but intentional.

And when he brushes back just once, you swear it feels like the start of something more.

=

It becomes a thing. Not officially. No one says it out loud. But it happens.

First, it’s another lunch the following week. Seungkwan finds a new tteokbokki place that’s “so spicy it’ll kill Chan and resurrect him for drama.”

Then it’s an evening in Hongdae because you found a hidden rooftop café online, and Vernon casually goes, “Let’s check it out?” like he didn’t already put a star next to it in your notes app.

And before you know it, it’s a weekly ritual.

Fridays, usually. Sometimes Saturdays, depending on schedules. Lunch or dinner, café hopping, escape rooms, indie bookstores, late-night walks with ice cream.

And every single time, you plan it.

At first, you tried to hold back. “Only if you guys are okay with it—” but they immediately shut that down.

“Are you kidding?” Seungkwan beamed the first time you made a color-coded itinerary. “You’ve got maps, budget breakdowns, snack stops—this is luxury living.”

Chan clutched your printed plan to his chest like it was gold. “I’ve never felt more seen.”

Vernon? He just smiled quietly to himself, watching you light up. Because this version of you—laughing, relaxed, thriving—he hadn’t seen you like this in a long time.

You’re not overthinking every move. Not flinching when someone interrupts. Not shrinking.

Because this time, when you hand over a checklist or suggest a new plan, they cheer. They let you be you and no one makes you feel like it’s too much.

You’re glowing. Not in a cliché way. In that real, unshakable way that happens when someone is finally, finally allowed to breathe.

Seungkwan takes a sip of his soda and leans over to Vernon with a grin. “She’s the glue now. You know that, right?”

“She’s always been the glue,” Vernon says softly, gaze still on you. “Just finally sticking somewhere that matters.”

Chan looks up from the itinerary, chewing a fishcake skewer. “You still haven’t told her, huh.”

“Told her what?” Seungkwan sings, way too loud.

Vernon rolls his eyes. “Eat your lunch.”

But his heart? Yeah. It’s gone.

After dinner that night, the four of you end up walking along the river. It’s breezy, lights reflecting off the water, music from a nearby busker floating in the air.

Vernon walks beside you, hands in his pockets, a quiet smile on his face as you point out constellations on your stargazing app.

“Thanks,” you say suddenly, eyes still on the sky.

“For what?”

“For this. For them. For letting me... take up space.”

He looks over at you.

“You don’t take up space,” he says. “You make it better.”

You glance at him. A beat passes. The moment sits between you—warm, unspoken.

And he doesn’t say it—not yet but he thinks it, loud and certain:

You finally found a place where you belong and he plans to stay right there beside you.

=

It’s one of those hangout days where it ends up just being the two of you.

Chan had practice. Seungkwan had brunch with his mom. You’d offered to reschedule, but Vernon just shrugged.

“Still down if you are.”

So here you are, walking along a quiet street in Seongsu after a café stop, your shared iced latte nearly gone, the sun dipping low and mellow. The city feels hushed. Slower. Like the universe gave you both permission to breathe.

You’re mid-rant about a recent article you read something about urban design and too-narrow sidewalks and he’s just listening, nodding along, quietly amused, when he suddenly stops walking.

“Oh,” he says, reaching into his tote bag. “Almost forgot.”

You pause too, watching as he digs around like he’s misplaced something. Then he pulls out a small paper bag—neatly folded at the top, sealed with a little sticker.

He holds it out toward you, nonchalant.

You blink. “...What’s this?”

He shrugs. “Something I saw and thought you might like.”

You take it cautiously, fingers brushing his for half a second.

Inside:

– a set of pastel highlighters

– a notepad with a grid layout and tear-away sheets

– sticky tabs in different colors

– a pen you’ve actually mentioned in passing before, weeks ago, during that time you reorganized Chan’s notes “for fun”

You press your lips together, trying to laugh it off. “I’m so predictable, huh?”

“No,” he says gently. “You’re just you. And I pay attention.”

You look back down at the bag. At the kind of gift that isn’t about money or grand gestures. It’s the kind that says, I see how you love things. I see what matters to you.

“Most people wouldn’t think this kind of stuff is a gift,” you say quietly, still turning the pen between your fingers.

“Most people don’t know you like I do.”

You look up at him. He’s watching you, eyes warm. No teasing. No pretense. Just Vernon, seeing you as you are.

To be loved is to be known. And right now, you feel more known than ever.

“Thank you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles again, looking down with a shy little nod. “Anytime.”

=

You don’t know what kind of night it is exactly but it feels like something’s about to shift.

You’re sitting side by side on the bench outside that tiny bookstore you stumbled across months ago. It’s closing time. The shutters are half-down, the city behind you moving at half-speed.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet for how fast your heart is beating.

Vernon’s been acting strange all evening. Not in a bad way—just different. Fidgety. A little quiet, but not like he doesn’t want to be around you. More like... he’s thinking about every word before he says it.

You thought maybe he was tired.

But now, sitting here, he suddenly speaks.

“Hey.”

You glance at him. “Hm?”

He’s looking down at his hands, twisting a ring on his finger.

“I’ve been thinking about saying something for a while,” he says, voice low.

You blink. “Okay…”

“And I don’t want to ruin anything. But I also don’t want to keep pretending it’s not there.” He finally looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something about his eyes makes your breath catch.

“I like you,” he says, steady. “I’ve liked you. For a long time.”

The world slows. Everything narrows to that one moment.

You blink again. “...Me?”

He lets out a breath half laugh, half disbelief. “Yeah. You.”

There’s this pause, you could hear the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.

“You like me?” you say it again, like you’re still waiting for someone to call it a prank.

Vernon’s brows furrow softly. “Why do you sound surprised?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again.

“I just— I mean, I’m not—” You fumble for the right words. “I’m the background person. The one who makes sure the train’s on time. The one people tolerate, not… choose.”

His jaw tightens. Not in anger, just in that way he gets when you say something too harsh about yourself.

“You’re not in the background to me,” he says gently. “You’ve never been.”

You swallow hard.

“I notice everything,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper now. “How you always walk on the outside of the sidewalk. How you write to-do lists on receipts when you forget your planner.”

You feel your throat close. A little overwhelmed. A lot stunned.

“I like all of it,” he says. “I like you.”

You stare at him, cheeks warm, blinking fast.

Then, so softly it almost doesn’t come out: “...What do I do now?”

He smiles, lopsided and nervous. “Whatever you want.”

You reach for his hand. He blinks down, surprised, as your fingers intertwine with his. Carefully. Intentionally.

There’s a breeze that plays with your sleeve as you walk home side by side, your fingers still lightly laced with Vernon’s like you’re both afraid letting go might undo the whole moment.

Your heart is still doing the absolute most.

He’s quiet, humming something under his breath, a little smile playing on his lips. And then suddenly he laughs. A quiet, amused kind of laugh.

You turn to him. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “No, tell me.”

“Just remembering something.”

You stop walking. “What?”

He looks down at you with that annoyingly soft expression and says, “You. Earlier. Asking me what to do.”

You blink. Then it hits you.

“I— okay, wait—”

He laughs again, holding his hands up like I surrender.

“I just never thought I’d hear those words from you, of all people,” he says teasingly. “Planner of all things. Master of logistics. Keeper of backup umbrellas.”

“I panicked!” you protest, blushing furiously now. “That was a very high-stakes situation, Vernon.”

“It was adorable,” he says, still smiling, not even trying to hide it.

“Oh my god.” You hide your face behind your hands. “Forget I said it. Erase it. We’re moving on.”

“Nope,” he says easily, nudging your arm. “I’m keeping it. Framing it, even.”

You peek at him through your fingers, pouting. “You like me and you’re already bullying me?”

“It’s part of the package,” he says with a shrug. “Affection comes with teasing. You’ll adjust.”

You drop your hands and try to glare, but your face is so hot there’s no strength behind it. “You’re really enjoying this, huh?”

“Very much.”

You huff, but there’s no real heat behind it.

And then so quietly, like you’re sneaking it past your own fear you mumble, “...Still kinda don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.”

He looks at you. Not laughing now. Just that soft, patient expression that makes you feel steady even when your brain is all jittery.

“That’s the best part,” he says. “You don’t have to figure it out alone.”

You glance up at him.

“Whatever this turns into,” he says, “I’m right here. We’ll figure it out together.”

Your stomach does that little flip again. The sweet kind. The oh no I really really like him kind.

The quiet stretch of road back to your place is familiar same storefronts, same flickering lamplight, the same gentle hum of the city at rest. 

But tonight, it feels like you’re walking through something brand new.

Your hand’s still in his. Warm. Solid. Safe. And still, your mind won’t stop spiraling.

It’s been doing backflips since he said he liked you. Since you saw it in his eyes that this wasn’t a sudden crush, or a maybe. He meant it. He’s been meaning it.

And that’s the part that both thrills and terrifies you.

You stare down at the sidewalk, shoes scuffing the edge of a manhole cover, and finally say

“What if I’m bad at this?”

He glances over, slowing his pace without saying a word.

You keep talking, voice softer now. “Like… what if I mess it up? What if I start overthinking and pulling away? What if I don’t say the right thing at the right time? Or I get too much, or too quiet, or… I don’t know.” You exhale. “What if you realize I’m not who you thought I was?”

You can feel the knot twisting in your chest as the words tumble out. They’ve been sitting there since he confessed. unspoken fears, dressed up in the familiar clothes of doubt.

He stops walking. Gently tugs your hand so you stop too.

You look up at himand he’s already watching you. Quiet. Calm.

Then he says, with that low voice that always grounds you:

“Then I should’ve realized it back then.”

You blink. “What?”

“If any of that was true,” Vernon says, “I should’ve figured it out ages ago. When we were just friends. When you made me tea on the day I felt unwell, and didn’t ask anything—just sat beside me until I could breathe again.”

You stare, stunned.

“When you organized that trip for people who didn’t deserve half your effort, and you still smiled the whole time. When you remembered I liked my fries extra crispy and always gave me yours.” 

He laughs a little, quietly. “Even when you pretend you’re not paying attention, you do. All the time. And I noticed.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts in soft, but firm:

“I’ve asked myself over and over again, if this feeling was just a phase. If I was imagining it. If maybe I was just grateful for your kindness. But no matter how I tried to shake it off, it stayed.”

He steps closer now. Just slightly. Enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him.

“And after everything, after watching you break your back trying to keep people together, after seeing you cry quietly in the corner of a plane, after you still offered kindness to the people who hurt you… I still liked you.”

Your heart is thundering in your ears now. He’s so close and so certain.

He softens, tilts his head. “So if you’re scared? That’s okay. I get it. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to know how to do everything.”

He squeezes your hand, gentle.

“You just have to let me try. Let me stay.”

There’s a lump in your throat now—too full of all the things you never thought someone would say to you.

“I don’t want to ruin it,” you whisper.

“You won’t,” he says without hesitation. “You couldn’t.”

You look at him, eyes stinging. “Even if I’m awkward and nervous and bad at expressing things—”

“I like awkward,” he says, smiling. “I like nervous. I like you. The whole version, not the polished one.”

You breathe in shakily, then exhale.

And when he steps forward just a little more, not to kiss you, not to rush you, but just to stand there with you, forehead almost touching you think maybe this is what love feels like.

Not fireworks. Just someone standing beside you and meaning it.

You whisper, barely audible, “Okay.”

And that’s all he needs.

The moment Vernon leaves, the door clicks shut behind him, and you stand frozen in the middle of your apartment.

Still.

For like, three whole seconds.

And then Pure chaos.

“Oh my god.”

You spin around like you’re suddenly being chased by the reality of it. Hands in your hair. Mouth wide open. Brain looping on one single sentence:

“He likes me. He likes me?”

You stop in your hallway, stare at your own reflection in the mirror.

“He likes me. Vernon. Chwe Vernon. With the hoodie collection and the soft voice and the jawline of doom. That Vernon??”

You cover your face and squeal. Loud. Like an actual sound leaves your body that would make Seungkwan proud.

You start pacing, then stop, then walk in a tiny circle before flopping face-first onto your couch. You let out a muffled scream into your cushion.

“He likes me. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Then you sit up straight again. Eyes wild. “Do I have snacks? I need snacks. I need to walk this off. Or run. Or call someone. NO, no, I’m going to act normal. Chill. Cool.”

You stand up, then do a little spin and hop on your feet. A giggle escapes before you can stop it. Then another. And then you’re skipping toward your kitchen like some sort of rom-com heroine with no dignity left.

“He likes me,” you say to your fridge. “I can’t even function right now.”

=

It’s not like anything exploded into existence after the night he confessed. There was no montage of kissing in the rain, no fireworks, no whirlwind declarations.

It just…unfolded. Softly. Like the way morning sunlight creeps into a room slow, warm, and steady.

You and Vernon take your time. No pressure. No countdown. No expectations. He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t pull or tug or ask for more than you can give.

A few weeks turn into a month. Then two. And everything about this still feels new but safe.

You still get shy sometimes. Still overthink your texts before sending them. Still have those moments at night where you stare at the ceiling wondering what if he changes his mind.

But then he’ll send you a picture of something you like—an art book, a row of color-coded pens, a storefront you mentioned once in passing.

He has that effect on you. He doesn’t erase your anxiety he just sits with it. Holds space for it. And you.

To everyone else, he’s still Vernon.

Cool. Collected. Half-smiling at best. Stoic to the point people think he’s either tired or just doesn’t care.

But you know better.

Because when he’s with you— He softens.

You’ll be walking side by side, and he’ll just quietly link his pinky with yours like it’s second nature.  He never makes a big deal about it. He never even looks down. But he does it. Every time.

Or when you two are ordering at a café, you’ll rest your cheek against his shoulder while you wait in line. Absently, just because he’s taller and warm and right there and his breath will catch.

He’ll stay still. Just barely lean into you. Pretending like it’s nothing while every cell in his body is screaming.

Chan caught it once. The pinky thing.

“Hyung.” he said across the table, grinning like he just discovered treasure. “Did you know your face literally lights up when she does that?”

Seungkwan, ever dramatic, gasped. “He smiled with teeth. With teeth! Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?”

Vernon just rolled his eyes, deadpan. “Do you guys want to be in a relationship with me, or what?”

But he was smiling quietly, shyly, and genuinely the rest of the day.

And you, well… you don’t even notice the things you do to him.

The way your eyes light up when you talk about something you care about. You get so animated, hands moving, voice rising in excitement. 

Vernon just watched you the whole time like he was memorizing the sound of your voice.

You always look at him like he matters. Like you trust him  Like you actually see him and not just the chill guy with the quiet voice and dry wit.

One time, you caught him looking at you like that, like he was storing your expression in a vault.

You blinked. “What?”

He shook his head slowly. “Just. You’re really something when you talk like that.”

You blushed, immediately covered your face with your hands. “Stop watching me!”

He chuckled under his breath. “Impossible.”

=

And maybe this thing you have this slow, quiet, real kind of love  isn’t loud. It doesn’t demand attention.

But it’s in the details.

In the pinkies that wrap together when no one’s looking. In the way he lets you rest your cheek on him without moving a muscle.  In the way you ramble about planner tabs and obscure exhibitions while he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.

And maybe you were scared. Maybe you still are.

But it’s different now. Because someone stayed. Because someone knows you down to your smallest habits and still chooses to come closer.

Every single time.

=

You’re both sitting at your usual spot in your usual café—same corner table, same window view, same half-sipped drinks.

You’re leaned in just slightly, talking animatedly like you always do when you’re telling a story. He’s watching you with that soft, half-smiling gaze of his, elbow on the table, chin propped on his hand.

You’re in the middle of describing an exchange you had earlier that day—something with a coworker who was being weirdly dramatic over nothing.

“And I told her—verbatim, I swear—I was like, yeah okay, my boyfriend has that exact thing and it works fine, but she was acting like I’d just personally insulted her entire family tree—”

You don’t even notice it until you see Vernon blink once. Then slowly tilt his head. That little pause in the air.

Your words screech to a halt.

Your brain replays it.

My boyfriend.

Oh no.

 Oh no oh no oh no—

You freeze mid-sip of your drink, straw hovering near your lips.

“...Did I just—?” you ask in a small voice.

Vernon’s smile starts slow. Very slow. Dangerous. “Yeah.”

“I— oh my god.” You slap your hand over your face. “I didn’t mean— I mean I did mean— but I didn’t— like, I wasn’t trying to make it a big deal—”

He lets out a soft laugh. “So I’m your boyfriend now?”

You peek at him through your fingers, mortified. “Technically… I guess?”

“You guess?” he repeats, amused. “Bold.”

You groan, dragging your palms down your face. “I knew I was gonna mess it up by saying it out loud. Ugh. I had a whole mental plan to bring it up in a calm, adult way. Maybe with a PowerPoint.”

He laughs again low and warm and fond.

“I mean,” he says, sipping his drink like he’s not enjoying this way too much, “I’ve been calling you my girlfriend in my head for weeks.”

You snap your head toward him. “What.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “You think I was just linking pinkies with random people on the sidewalk?”

You stare, completely thrown off your axis.

“I can’t believe you’re making this look so smooth,” you mumble.

“I’m just enjoying watching you short-circuit,” he says, grinning. “It’s cute.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace,” he says, matter-of-fact.

You sink into your chair with a groan. “This is so embarrassing.”

He bumps your knee gently under the table. “Or maybe it’s just… official now.”

You never planned for this. Not this.

You planned a lot of things—trips, birthdays, color-coded spreadsheets for friend group outings, backup umbrellas, extra snacks, medicine pouches “just in case.” You planned for deadlines and detours, for how to get home when it rains, for everything and anything that could go wrong.

But you never planned for him. Never planned for soft glances across café tables, or pinkies that linked like they belonged there, or a boy with a quiet voice who somehow made you feel loud in the best way.

You didn’t expect to fall in love with someone who let you be everything.

Someone who didn’t flinch when you were overwhelmed. Someone who never once said you’re too much or you’re overthinking just stayed. Just looked at you like you made perfect sense.

You hadn’t scheduled this. Hadn’t put it in the calendar. Hadn’t made room for it on your carefully curated timeline of “things I’m probably never going to get right.”

But there he is.

Sitting across from you in a café, laughing quietly to himself while you rearrange the table to fit a slice of cake and two drinks. Wearing his hoodie and cap like always. 

Looking at you like there’s no place else in the world he’d rather be.

And you realize, in the stillness of it all: Maybe some things are better when they’re not planned.

Maybe love isn’t supposed to arrive with an itinerary. Maybe it just… slips in—soft, patient, and exactly when you’re not looking.

=

The two of you are wandering through a convenience store late at night. The kind of night where everything’s a little quieter, the fluorescent lights a little too bright, the city outside buzzing just enough to remind you that you’re not dreaming.

You’re not in any rush. Just strolling, side by side, fingers lazily linked as you wander through the aisles.

You’re holding a bag of honey butter chips in one hand and his hand in the other, debating internally between two different brands of milk soda. Vernon’s reading the ingredients on a pack of seaweed snacks like it’s fine literature.

You glance at him. Then tug gently at his hand.

He looks up immediately. “Yes, baby?”

Your heart stutters. He says it so casually. So softly. Like it’s the most natural word in the world.

You blink, brain buffering, a little thrown.

“...I forgot what I was gonna ask.”

He chuckles, moving closer. “You sure it wasn’t just to get my attention?”

You pout. “Maybe it was. Maybe I do want attention. You ever think about that?”

He hums, amused. “All the time.”

You lightly bump his shoulder. “You’re annoying.”

“And yet,” he says, squeezing your hand gently, “here you are, dragging me to the ice cream freezer.”

You gasp dramatically. “I knew you were only here for the snacks.”

“Actually,” he says, leaning in a little, “I’m here because you texted me ‘I need seaweed, soda, and your face.’ In that order.”

You laugh so loud a student at the ramen aisle turns around. You don’t even care.

You end up picking both sodas. He pays, of course—always sneaks his card first, always brushes off your protests like it’s instinct.

Outside the store, you’re sitting on the curb sharing shrimp chips while he opens your soda for you without a word, handing it over like he’s done it a hundred times. Because he has.

And as you rest your head against his shoulder, cheek pressed softly into him while you crunch on snacks you didn���t need, he shifts a little to make it easier for you.

No teasing. No you’re heavy, no you’re clingy. Just him. Adjusting quietly. Letting you rest.

“You always let me be like this,” you mumble, not really expecting an answer.

But he says, “It’s not letting you. It’s loving you.”

You look up, heart turning to melted candy in your chest.

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You smile, nudge his side. “Nothing. Just… you’re so good to me.”

He just shrugs. Leans down and presses a kiss to your temple, casual, like muscle memory.

“Of course I am,” he murmurs.

=

You’re sitting in his living room, curled up on the end of his couch, a blanket over your legs and your fingers tangled nervously around a mug of tea he made for you.

It’s been a weird day. One of those off ones where you couldn’t quite shake the heaviness from your shoulders. You’d brushed it off with a smile when he asked if you were okay earlier, but Vernon? He doesn’t miss much.

You’d been quiet. Too quiet.

And now, after he gently nudged you for the third time about why you flinched when he offered to pick up something for you, you finally said it.

“I don’t know. I just…”

You keep your eyes on the mug. “Sometimes I feel like it’s too much. Like I’m too much. And you being so—kind. It’s like I’m waiting for the catch.”

He doesn't respond immediately.

Instead, he sets his own mug down, shifts closer on the couch, one arm resting along the back just behind you. Not crowding. Just near.

Then he says it—calm, steady, but with something firmer behind it than usual.

“You go through lengths for everyone.” His voice is gentle, but it doesn’t waver. “You bend yourself backwards. You take care of people who don’t say thank you. You anticipate needs before anyone even says a word. You show up when no one else does.”

You glance at him, eyes already stinging.

“And then your boyfriend—” he adds with soft emphasis, “—treats you right. Does the bare minimum to love you back, and suddenly you think you don’t deserve it?”

You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand—not to cut you off, but to finish.

“I don’t do these things for you because I want you to owe me. I do them because you deserve softness. Always have. You just never had people who reminded you of that.”

Your breath catches.

Vernon leans forward, elbows resting on his knees now, eyes level with yours.

“You don’t need to earn love from me. You don’t have to do something for me to care.” He pauses. “I care because you’re you.”

You blink hard, staring down at your tea to keep it together.

“And if you need me to keep reminding you, I will,” he says. “Even if it takes years.”

You let out a shaky breath. “You’re making it really hard not to cry right now.”

“Cry,” he says without missing a beat. “I got tissues. And snacks.”

You laugh through the lump in your throat.

He nudges your leg with his gently. “I mean it. You don’t have to shrink to be loved. Not here. Not with me.”

Your shoulders finally drop. Just a little.

And then you lean into him, your body curling into his side as he wraps an arm around you with ease, like it’s instinct now.

And for once, you let yourself feel deserving.

You’re tucked into his side now, your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder, the scent of his hoodie and the warmth of his arm wrapped around you doing more to calm your nerves than any tea ever could.

You shift slightly, just enough to glance up at him, and say it with a half-smile:

“Must’ve done something right in my past life to deserve you.”

You say it jokingly, with that deflective lilt in your voice you always use when you mean something more than you want to admit.

You expect him to laugh. Maybe tease you for being cheesy. Maybe make a dumb joke about karma points.

But he doesn’t. He just blinks down at you slowly.

And then he leans in, forehead resting lightly against yours, so close you can feel his breath ghost over your lips. His voice is quieter now. Lower. Like it’s only meant for you.

“No,” he murmurs. “I think I’m the one cashing in karma.”

You blink. “What?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb grazing gently along your arm.

“You think I don’t notice how you always put yourself last? How you fight for everyone and don’t ask for anything back?” His voice is soft but steady. 

“You think that kind of love goes unnoticed by the universe?”

Your throat goes tight again, but you try to play it off. “Okay, Buddha Vernon.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling just a little, but he doesn’t let go of the thread.

“I’m serious,” he says. “You always talk about deserving things like it’s something far away. Like love’s some exam you haven’t passed yet.”

He reaches down and gently hooks your pinky with his again—your little thing. Your grounding point.

“But I’m right here,” he whispers. “And you don’t have to earn me.”

You stare at him. Every word so matter-of-fact. So him.

You want to say something, anything. But the tears are already threatening to spill again, and you’re not trying to ugly cry twice in one night.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says into your hair. “Even if you say cheesy stuff like that again.”

You laugh through your tears. “It was cheesy, huh.”

“Very. But also cute,” he murmurs.

You hold onto him tighter. And in that quiet, with your heart full and your fears shrinking just a little, you think: Maybe it wasn’t just a lucky past life.

Maybe this is what it feels like to be loved right in this one.

You sniff once quietly and wipe your cheek on your sleeve, muttering, “God, I probably look like a mess right now.”

He laughs gently, the sound warm against the crown of your head then he leans back just enough to look at you.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

You hesitate.

And then his fingers are there tilting your chin up with the lightest touch. His thumb brushing lightly at the corner of your mouth, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You blink up at him, breath caught in your throat, lips slightly parted. Your eyes flutter, confused by the closeness, the weight of the moment settling on your skin like silk.

He just gazes at you, his own eyes soft—so soft—like he’s seeing something precious.

Then, without a word, he leans in. Not rushed. Not dramatic.

Just closes the space.

And the kiss—

Oh.

It’s soft. Unbelievably soft. Like a secret. Like something he’s been holding onto for a long, long time and only now has permission to give.

His lips just barely brush yours at first, and it’s enough to make your eyes flutter shut. It’s not even a full kiss at first more a question, a breath, a can I?

You answer with the way you lean in. The way your fingers curl into his hoodie like you’re anchoring yourself. Like if you don’t hold on, you’ll float straight into the clouds.

When he kisses you again deeper, still tender, still slow it makes your heart ache in the most beautiful way. Because it’s not just a kiss.

It’s a promise.

You pull back just slightly, dazed, eyes blinking open like waking up from a dream.

He’s already looking at you.

You whisper, almost afraid to break the moment, “That was…”

He tilts his head. “Too much?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. That was… everything.”

He smiles and you swear the universe shifts a little to make space for this version of you, the one who gets to be loved like this.

And then he leans his forehead against yours again and murmurs, “Good. ‘Cause I’ve been waiting a long time to do that.”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, your nose brushing his. “Worth the wait.”

=

The weather is perfect.

Blue skies, a soft breeze, not too hot—and you, in your sunniest mood, holding a folded map in one hand and a color-coded itinerary in the other, grinning like a kid on a field trip you planned yourself.

Which, let’s be honest you did.

“Okay, if we keep a steady pace and don’t get distracted by every single snack stall, we can hit the bookstore, the botanical garden, and the little record shop before sunset,” you declare, spinning around mid-step.

Behind you, Vernon blinks at you from under his baseball cap, already holding your tote bag 

He just smiles. “Lead the way, babe.”

You squint at him, suspicious. “You sure you’re okay being my pack mule for the day?”

He gives you a slow, deliberate nod and lifts the tote higher on his shoulder. “As long as I get to see you this excited, I’ll carry your whole apartment if I have to.”

You try to hide your smile and fail miserably.

The rest of the day is like a montage of every tiny thing that makes your relationship yours.

You pull him by the wrist into cafés and art stalls, pointing things out with bright eyes and wild hand gestures. You pause at every random wall mural, every weird-shaped plant, every shop that looks remotely cozy.

Vernon doesn’t complain once. Just follows, content, like this is exactly where he wants to be.

At the bookstore, he rests his chin on your shoulder while you flip through a poetry collection.

At the botanical garden, he lets you walk ahead so he can take secret pictures of you pretending to name plants like you're giving them personalities.

And when you finally sit down at a tiny street-side table with drinks and pastries, he watches you talk about the last place on your list, eyes full of fondness so soft it could break you in the best way.

You pause mid-sentence, catching the look.

“…What?”

He shrugs, reaching out to fix your hair where the wind had messed it. “Nothing. Just—you’re really something when you’re happy.”

You blink. Heart quietly imploding. “You make it really hard not to fall in love with you more every day, you know that?”

He grins, tapping your drink with his. “Right back at you, planner girl.”

Later, you’re walking home, the sun melting behind the buildings, your steps slower now but your hand still swinging lightly in his.

You turn to him and say, “Thanks for letting me drag you around today.”

He looks at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “You didn’t drag me. I followed you willingly. Like a golden retriever.”

You laugh, bumping your shoulder into his. “Do you ever get tired of being this good to me?”

 “Not even once.”

And as the city lights flicker on and you walk the rest of the way home in step with him, you think. You never planned for this but somehow it became the best thing you ever had.

A quiet, everyday kind of love. One that holds your tote bag, your extra jacket, and your whole heart.

All without being asked. Just because he can.

[thatanimewriter]

Jinu Art

[thatanimewriter]

THE MOURNING AFTER.

➳ synopsis: mirio knew since you started dating in first year that you were the one. for years, you'd assimilated into each other's routines irrevocably. it's just a shame it couldn't continue into forever.

➳ character/s: togata mirio

➳ warnings: fluff to angst, death, grieving, graphic description of injury

➳ word count: 1k

➳ notes: i'm sorry to do this to our sunshine boy, but i love angst-

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 / 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭  / 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 / 𝐰𝐢𝐩 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

your voice was the soundtrack to mirio's life as of his first year at ua. the unique harmonisation of your vocal cords echoed through his eardrums for months before he finally asked you on a date. it murmured him to sleep — he always snuck into your house or dorm at nights — and chimed him awake without fail.

people used to talk about the angel on their shoulder as a guiding voice, but mirio always thought of you as his compass. not an angel, not a devil, just you; a melody that eased his aching heart and whisked away his fears when he needed it most. even when you weren't by his side, your voice reverberated in his skull.

"lemillion? that's a cool hero name."

"you're improving so much! i'm so proud of you."

"i love you, quirk or no quirk."

your touch warmed his skin regardless of how many layers he wore, though not as hot as when you first seared his hand with your kindness. the absence of your fingers intertwined with his dampened his signature smile.

the knots in his shoulders dissipated beneath your hands, and the fatigue from training took their place. he once thought to buy a weighted blanket, but your head on his chest overrode that decision. the pins and needles in the morning was worth every millisecond that you remained in his arms the previous night.

mirio relished every gentle squeeze of your hand before a crucial battle and each tender kiss when he came out alive. a pout occupied his features every time you gave him a peck on the cheek until you kissed him properly.

despite the affection you had given him that morning, a smile failed to cross his lips. the chaos of war competed with his inner voice — your voice — as all for one's forces clashed with heroes. you were nowhere to be seen, but he wasn't granted the privilege to fight by your side.

he would perpetually regret not fighting for that honour.

a sharp ring possessed mirio's eardrums as a hush finally fell upon the city. the adrenaline coursed through his veins despite the peace that settled throughout the decimated streets. a relieved sigh nearly escaped his lungs, but his stuttering heartbeat blocked it.

the ringing grew louder when he spied your figure being carried by deku. his hurried footsteps drowned out the sound of your name falling from his lips.

"i'm sorry..." deku mumbled when your weight transferred to mirio's arms. "i tried to save them, but-"

"it's ok."

the comfort your skin would normally provide mirio triggered an isolated chill beneath his torn hero costume. the pros stared on in sorrow, but said nothing, even when his knees collided with the fractured bitumen.

"can you hear me?" he asked weakly. a thumb caressed the side of your face and smudged the blood along your face like a stroke of paint. "we can go home now."

your face remained statuesque, and your larynx failed to sound again. the quiet percussion of your breathing didn't join his, but the deafening silence said more than he wished for.

"it's over..." he rasped, holding your head to his with an unmistakable tremor. "it's over..."

onlookers weren't sure if that was a reprieve or a burden. they didn't know you properly, but they wouldn't deny the tragedy that was your untimely fate. mirio planted a prolonged kiss to your icy lips to distract from the deep gash that tore your side open. the tendons and veins nearly spilled onto the ground had his hand not held onto your waist for dear life.

"i love you." he twisted the promise ring on your finger absentmindedly. "always will."

mirio reluctantly slid your ring from your hand and pulled his necklace out from underneath his costume. a matching ring rested against his chest, and he added your blood-stained one to the chain dangling around his neck for safe keeping.

your corpse was lifted from his arms, but your weight had yet to free his mind as he stared at the blood-stained road beneath his knees. tamaki hesitated from behind mirio before reaching a light hand to grasp his shoulder in solidarity. nejire sniffled quietly and knelt beside them, wrapping her arms around the usually smiley boy's still shoulders.

the days following were a blur for everyone, though mirio wasn't certain a day had even passed when you weren't there to greet him each morning. by now, the blood that coated your ring had been washed off and forever rested beside his heart. he changed the chain for a sturdier one, for he refused to take it off even to shower.

tears hadn't fallen from his eyes still. they didn't until he graduated ua and became a pro hero.

there was a party that night celebrating their successful promotion to pro heroes, but he didn't stick around long. he exchanged the rowdiness of freshly graduated students for the ambience of the cemetery. he always visited every week with a new bouquet of flowers — god forbid there were no flowers on your grave for more than a few seconds — and a story about his week.

"hi, my love," he began, crossing his legs as he sat before your headstone. "i graduated ua today... wish you were here to graduate with me."

the wind rustled his hair, but your voice didn't grace his ears.

"i miss you," he admitted to the breeze. "i keep waiting for you to walk into the classroom at any moment and tell me it's ok, that it was just a dream." calloused fingers adjusted the flowers wrapped in tissue paper. "we always talked about what we'd do when we were pros," he continued. "all of my plans included you, so i'm not sure where to go now."

he could imagine the words you'd say to him so clearly he thought you were truly there for a fleeting moment. mirio's blue eyes met yours in the photo he'd chosen to leave at your grave, then your visage blurred. a broken sob seized his shoulders and air hiccupped through his esophagus in irregular beats.

"i wish you didn't go alone," he wailed. "i'm sorry i wasn't there." his lips quivered uncontrollably as his burdened tears fell to the granite slate that barricaded your body from him. "wait for me, please. i'll make you proud, then maybe we can finally be together again... forever this time."

still, no response. there never would be one ever again.

[thatanimewriter]

i fear the saja boys would have me in a chokehold if they were a real band, cause i have had soda pop stuck in my head non-stop for the past few days since i watched kpop demon hunters-

[thatanimewriter]

SUNRISE IN YOUR EYES, SUNSET IN MINE.

➳ synopsis: you had long resigned yourself to being married off to a wealthy family. it was a fact of your life you'd known since childhood. you hadn't prepared yourself for the organised chaos of ootori kyoya as your husband-to-be. he, too, wasn't ready for the unfamiliar warmth of someone who he hadn't batted an eye at until now.

➳ character/s: ootori kyoya

➳ warnings: fluff, gn reader, it's very sappy, slow burn, mentions of a proposal/arranged marriage, acquaintances to lovers, kyoya and reader match each other's freak (workaholics), mentions of food, mentions of injuries, mentions of sex (neighbours be like), made up ootori family lore, infinite domestic banter

➳ word count: 4.3k

➳ notes: slaved over who to write this for but (for some reason) one of my ohshc posts continues to pop off so i decided to come back and feed y'all some more. i spent too long writing this... but i'm trying to get better about writing as a practice and not just when i feel like doing it- also whoever be saying an em dash is a sign of ai can fuck themselves, i'm a serial em dash user.

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 / 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭  / 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 / 𝐰𝐢𝐩 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

he knew who you were. it was impossible not to when you catered most of, if not all of his family functions and club activities. naturally, you were also made aware of the ootori's existence since you were in elementary school. your faces were imprinted into each other's retinas, yet you never conversed beyond business exchanges.

"my father wanted me to thank you for your assistance last night," kyoya informed monotonously. "you truly are one of the best."

you nodded politely as you stashed your belongings into your bag. "i appreciate the recognition, ootori. it's always a pleasure to help loyal clients such as yourselves."

he smiled gently, but you saw through the artifice. "speaking of which, the host club have an upcoming ball next month," he began. he opened his mysterious black notebook, and you refrained from sighing at his predictability.

"platters or a course dinner?"

"platters will do."

for years, this was the peak of your relationship. as a family of professional chefs, you always stood behind the ootori's at innumerate conferences and fundraisers. despite growing up within proximity your whole lives, a friendship never blossomed. not even when you signed the contract that sealed your marriage. admittedly, you didn't know who your partner was when your signature tattooed the paper, but you'd learnt not to ask questions anymore.

comparatively to your peers, you got engaged rather late. prior to your first meeting with your fiancé, you had shed the graduation robes that signified your completion of tertiary education. the clothes that donned your form beneath the cloak remained as you pushed open the large double doors to your drawing room. a lean figure turned away from the window, and you would've laughed at the way kyoya's mouth hung agape if not for your mirrored expression.

"you." your voices harmonised as you acknowledged each other's newfound presence in your lives. a silence befell the room, and the sun's rays illuminated your faces as it dipped below the horizon.

"didn't you buy the company back in our ouran days? i don't understand why you would agree to such an arrangement," you wondered. you folded your arms over your chest, and kyoya hummed in thought before sitting on the chaise lounge.

"i did, though it seems my father is quite set on meddling with my life even into my adult years," he said. you sat on the armchair beside him and threw your legs over the arm. he eyed your posture with a raised brow that would've been microscopic had you not grown up with him. "making yourself comfortable, i see."

"my house, my rules," you retorted casually.

"fair enough."

"did you read the contract, then?"

he nodded, twisting his body to face you better. "indeed. i thought it was intriguing that we are to be affianced for a year before the wedding ceremony."

you laughed dryly. "publicity stunt. they want to promote a 'secret romance' that began from childhood."

"how tedious," kyoya muttered. "are we going to address the part where an apartment is chosen for us?"

"fine," you relented. "know that it's going to be a single bedroom apartment. they won't allow us to sleep separately." his eyes flicked to your shadows cast along the parquet floors. "don't worry, i wake up early and come home late because of work. we likely won't be sleeping at the same time as it is."

he smirked, but kept his focus on the floor. "very reassuring. i probably work later than you anyway."

"knowing you, i'll be waking up by the time you retire to bed."

"a bold claim knowing we've never spent the night together."

"i don't have to, i see the eyebags even from across the room," you said, resting your head on your hand with a shit-eating grin. "consider it an educated guess, if you will."

kyoya's lips curved into his typical sly smile. "can't argue with that."

even if he wanted to combat your teasing, his evidence was severely lacking. this was only made more obvious when you moved into your shared apartment not even a couple months later. he would've liked to say that this manufactured love story was made easier due to your long history, but he barely knew you past your professional career. this incredible oversight on his part — he had a suspicious amount of information about you at his fingertips and never looked at it properly — slapped him in the face when you started turning the apartment into a 'home'.

"opinions on a moss green feature wall? no, not the weird lime green, the darker one," you asked, staring at the large blank wall in the living room.

"wouldn't it be nicer to just decorate with colour instead of painting a wall?" kyoya countered, holding a hand to his chin.

you scoffed and waved his comment off. "don't you work in healthcare? we don't need a house to look like a hospital or a doctor's office."

"so long as the place looks cohesive and clean, i generally don't care what you decorate it with."

"really? mr. micro-managing-vice-president-of-the-host-club ootori?" you pushed, giving him a sidelong glance. "are you sure?"

he sighed and turned to inspect a different area of the apartment. "don't make me regret it."

in hindsight, perhaps he shouldn't have rescinded his autonomy in how his own apartment was decorated. thankfully, you seemed to have a brain between your eyes — he was partially worried he would marry a brat — and while initially he was indifferent to working late, the need to come home at the end of the day ate at his brain each passing week.

house plants accumulated in the corners of your living spaces and an assortment of lamps occupied cabinets and side tables due to your resentment of the overhead lights. he used to roll his eyes at such a trivial demand, but his eyes thanked him by the time the sun had risen and his eyelids threatened to close for the foreseeable few hours.

truthfully, your apartment looked much better with the stupid moss green wall, infinite lamps and plants. yet, he almost never saw you. the apartment was shared between the both of you, but it felt as if he was intruding on your space each time he unlocked the door. his shoes sat beside yours, but you were usually nowhere to be seen.

he ran a hand through his hair and blinked his fatigue away as he switched his work shoes for his fluffy house slippers you forced upon him. he paused in the entryway when he saw the lamps still illuminated the living room and a savoury smell drifted through the air. kyoya padded down the hallway and eyed you curiously as you hovered over a little pot on the stove.

"what are you still doing up?" he inquired, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "it's 3:27 am, you can't be working on a couple hours of sleep."

"i have a day off tomorrow, mum," you responded, turning the stove off. "i can sleep in for once."

he watched as you ladled soup into a bowl and pushed it into his hands before forcing him onto the velvet couch he claimed he didn't like. "are we sure you're not the mum here?" he questioned.

"definitely not," you grumbled, washing the leftover pots and leaving them on the drying rack. "i'm more like the nurse in a hospital who forces you to eat even when you don't want to."

"mother adjacent."

you brought another tray over with rice and chicken. "rice, 3/4 white and 1/4 black, that's why it's purple. crispy scallion chicken. you're holding your miso soup." kyoya opened his mouth to thank you for your efforts, but blinked owlishly when you turned on your heel to head for the bedroom. "i'm going to bed now. good night. enjoy the food."

you waved behind you as you disappeared behind the door and he was only faintly aware of his bewildered expression until his stomach growled in dissatisfaction.

"thank you for the food..." he mumbled.

for the next half an hour, he ate in silence. a shiver ran up his spine at the foreign warmth that settled in his stomach and he wondered if this was how haruhi felt growing up as a commoner. he pulled a fluffy blanket from the arm of the sofa and draped it over his lap with a pensive expression. kyoya looked at himself in the reflection of the full length mirror you wedged into a corner 'for style' and internally sighed at his disheveled hair.

the quiet was off-putting without the never ending bustle of maids around the family estate. much of the house keeping was up to him to complete between the long hours and unfortunate necessity for sleep. sometimes he would come home to it finished already and you snuggled beneath the comforter.

thus begun a habit he only saw the product of.

later that morning after an insufficient amount of sleep, kyoya groaned to himself when his alarm sounded. he rushed to silence it under the guise of the beeping being obnoxious, but he knew it was because he didn't want to disturb your well-deserved rest. he sat upright with an unshakable drowsiness and glanced at your sleeping form. his dark eyes waited for a sign that you'd woken up, but there was none.

kyoya reluctantly trudged into the living room for a subpar cup of coffee and cringed when the sunrise blinded him more than he already was without his glasses. perhaps he'd developed an immunity to caffeine, because it didn't do much to wake him up before he showered and prepared for work again. between rooms, he always checked that your eyes remained shut and your head was still buried into the sheets. as he inspected the fridge for a quick morning snack, he thought he was hallucinating the little bento box in the fridge with a sticky note on top. he rubbed his eyes and frowned when it didn't fizzle out of view.

when he opened the lid, his gaze softened slightly. a bed of rice was accompanied by an assortment of vegetables and protein in an intricate design he'd never seen before. kyoya's attention moved to the note stuck haphazardly on the lid.

morning! made you lunch, 'cause i know you don't eat >:((

he cracked open the door to the bedroom one last time to look at your figure tucked beneath the blankets. his eyes returned to the note, and a genuine smile crossed his features.

"i appreciate it," he whispered into the early morning air, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible.

this soon became a pattern. you would awaken before him to head to your restaurant and leave behind a lunch for him to take to work. in the back of his favourite black notebook — you soon found out he had multiple of the same notebook — he had a museum of each of the little notes you'd graced him with to compensate for your absence.

despite the abhorrent amount of work assigned to him each day, his overtime hours gradually lessened in favour of the cozy abode you had curated. it was never complete without you, though. a dull wave of disappointment settled in his lungs each time he was greeted by a dark apartment, but he found himself thankful for the dimmable lights that would ensure your slumber remained undisturbed.

though his culinary abilities were much lower than yours, he found himself making you simple breakfasts in exchange for the lunches you bestowed upon him. he noticed how often you would reach for the yaki onigiri at host club events back in school, so he always left some plain for you to fry when you arrived at the restaurant. the practice seemed to pay off in the end.

"kyoya," you called as the apartment door clicked shut. "why are you awake at this hour?"

he froze in the kitchen as you padded into the living space. "doing some... future husband duties."

you suppressed a smirk and nodded slowly. "i see."

his dark eyes focused on the bowl of filling, but his attempts to ignore your lingering gaze were futile. "i don't need your criticisms, please. i'm trying."

"i wasn't going to," you defended.

"i can feel you staring."

"i'm simply observing."

"with your professional head chef eyes, no doubt."

you scoffed lightly and lifted yourself to sit on the kitchen island. "so dramatic..."

"i can hear you."

a hush blanketed the room as you watched kyoya assemble the onigiri, and you arched a brow in surprise. you swung your legs lightly as you scrolled on your phone while he kept his back to you as he slaved away in the kitchen.

"how was your special event tonight?" he asked, breaking the mildly awkward silence.

"it was good, i think whatever investors hosted the dinner got what they wanted," you said. "it doesn't matter to me, i just serve food."

"you do more than that," kyoya argued gently.

"not as much as you."

"i mainly sit behind a desk or go on site visits. you work from 5 til 11 in a kitchen commandeering dozens of chefs. they're incomparable."

you rolled your eyes at his insistence. "maybe we should make it a dozen and one. your onigiri shaping skills have improved since the first time you made them."

kyoya chuckled softly. "respectfully, i'm not cut out for that kind of work."

"never know until you try," you offered. "if you ever get fired, i can make a place for you on my staff."

he turned to look at you disapprovingly. "i'm the owner of the company."

"you might get overthrown," you shrugged.

"you have no faith in me."

"i haven't seen you work yet. maybe you could be overthrown."

"i ran a tight ship with the host club, show me some respect," kyoya huffed. "don't bite the hand that feeds you."

"i feed you most of the time," you objected.

he couldn't fight that. not when you never failed to prepare him lunch, sometimes even dinner, every day. if he ever woke you up when he came home late, you'd groggily make him a quick meal despite his protests. you always made plenty of meal prep in the case that he was still hungry, but couldn't be bothered to make anything. he'd never seen the soy marinated eggs run out, and he certainly never saw fried rice missing from the fridge once in the months of living together.

your presence beside him had almost been a constant since ouran, but he never knew he would miss the silent snark and unsaid care that followed you day in and day out. a business trip was nothing new to him. he'd gone on plenty of his own, but for once, it wasn't him going overseas.

the bed was perpetually empty for the next month and despite having all the space of a king size mattress, he kept to his side. his weight almost certainly dropped without your premade lunches and the midnight snacks. unexpectedly, he missed the self-imposed necessity of making onigiri each night. so much so that he made them for himself one night to pass the time. he soon realised he should've played music in the background to drown out the irrationally horny upstairs neighbours that only served to remind him what he didn't have.

perhaps he wasn't so good at change as he thought, for the host club raided the apartment unannounced to boost his morale that weekend. kyoya wasn't even sure how they managed to find out when he had a rare day off, but their intrusion was unwelcomed on this particular day.

"tamaki, i would appreciate if you didn't cause a ruckus," he grumbled.

"we haven't seen you in months, you can stand to tolerate us a little bit," the blonde dismissed.

"today of all days is not ideal," kyoya said, scooping a blanket from the floor and draping it over the sofa once again. just the way you liked it.

"why? it's not like you do anything but stare at a computer all day," hikaru accused, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.

"how's the living arrangement going?" haruhi wondered. "i can't imagine you'd willingly share a bed with [name]."

kyoya sighed and pushed his glasses up. "our work schedules prevent us from sleeping together more than a few hours."

"bet you wish it was more, huh?" hikaru shot him a mischievous grin that earnt him a playful shove in the shoulder.

"i don't know what you're talking about."

"you're extra grumpy than normal," tamaki observed. "isn't [name] on a business trip in china?"

"...indeed, though it can't be helped," kyoya responded reluctantly.

"ah. the woes of long distance love."

"there is no such love. this is an arranged marriage."

the twins eyed each other suspiciously, but miraculously chose not to speak on it. mori grunted in acknowledgement, but also remained silent.

"so, when is [name] coming back?" honey asked.

"they will be returning tonigh-"

the door unlocked, and the host club froze. as you pushed it open and pushed your luggage through the opening, kyoya trekked across the room to greet you.

"welcome home," he began. "please excuse the buffoons in the living room, they will be leaving shortly." he shot them a dirty glare over his shoulder, though no one budged.

you laughed half-heartedly and tried to stifle a yawn. "it's fine, i can cook a small feast for them. your friends are always welcome." as you shuffled to the bedroom to abandon your luggage for tomorrow, you waved at the host club lazily.

kyoya tailed you and leaned against the doorframe. "that is unnecessary, you've just come back from a big trip. you should rest."

"it's not that long of a flight, don't worry too much," you assured.

"the sun is setting, i insist you rest."

"i'm fast, you've watched me cook before. it won't take long," you argued, though he didn't miss the carefree smile on your lips.

as you continued to debate the likelihood of you catering for the host club, they sat in the living room wide-eyed. who was this man, and what had he done with the real kyoya?

"i've never seen him so... domestic," haruhi mumbled.

"it's creepy," the twins agreed.

"the woes of love..." tamaki lamented.

"maybe it'll be good for him," honey proposed.

kyoya disagreed with this sentiment entirely. he, too, was wondering where the real kyoya had vanished to. he'd never craved 'home', not even when he was living in his family estate. he'd never wanted to cook for anyone, and he'd never willingly cleaned for anyone other than himself. he'd certainly never wanted to hug someone. or kiss them. maybe it was the flu he'd caught.

it was impossible to sleep away the sickness with the snot pooling in his nostril, but he wasn't super keen on sitting upright with a tissue semi-permanently lodged in his nose as he lets it drip. instead, he'd rather restlessly flip sides as the mucus slowly trickled from one nostril to another. the incessant sneezing didn't prove to be any help either. still, he refused to notify you.

not even when the moon hung high in the sky and you eyed the lump of blankets from the doorway.

"i know you're not sleeping," you said monotonously.

"no you don't," kyoya croaked.

"if you were, you wouldn't have responded as clearly as you did. you slur your words when you sleep talk. those are the words of a conscious man."

"i sleep talk?"

"oh, yeah."

"do i dare ask what i've said?" he grumbled.

"i advise against it," you grinned.

kyoya opened his mouth to spout a half-baked comeback, but the overwhelming urge to sneeze replaced the words. then another. and another.

"you're sick, aren't you?" you walked to the bedside and pressed a hand to his forehead. "did you go to work today, or did you take a day off?"

"i've been here since 2 am last night."

"responsible," you mumbled. "alright, stay in bed tonight. i'll get you something to eat."

"you don't have to," he replied.

"what's the story with textures today?"

a pause consumed the room, then the dark-haired man covered his face with the comforter. "just nothing too chunky."

"yes, chef."

the door clicked shut behind you, and he removed the covers from his head. kyoya attempted to sigh, but a series of coughs heaved from his throat. maybe the redness in his cheeks could be excused with his fever.

what am i thinking, why else would my face be red if not for the fever?

a gentle aroma crawled beneath the crack in the doorway and tickled his sense of smell. he'd never been so disappointed in his life to lose the ability to sniff the air.

a chill caressed his skin from underneath and tucks itself between his tendons. a groan escaped his chapped lips as you knocked on the door, but entered without permission.

"i didn't say 'come in', you know," he protested weakly.

"you're in no position to be giving orders."

you slid the tray of food onto the bedside table — the one on your side, of course — and lazily helped kyoya sit upright against the pillows. he groggily glanced at the food nearby, and a faraway stare possessed his irises. the steaming bowl of okayu sat beside a little glass of shogayu, and as you brought the tray to lay across his lap, he swore he saw the image of his mother in the reflection of the glass. he lifted the spoon to his lips and resisted the audible sigh that simmered in his lungs when the warm porridge travelled into his stomach.

his lips parted, then his vision blurred.

the icy embrace of kyoya's cold retracted when the tender heat of your cooking lined his stomach. his mother's image emerges amidst his limited sight, and in the fog, he sees a mirror. he doesn't remember his mother very well, but her memory lives within his closed-lipped smile and the curious tilt of his head.

"earth to kyoya?"

he blinked the visage away when you waved your hand in front of his face. a cough clawed past his throat when he offered you a grateful smile. worry etched itself onto your features, and he found he hated the way it drew creases along your face. yet, he let himself indulge in your rare concern.

"it tastes just like my mother's," he noted. "i haven't had okayu since i was a child."

your eyes darted along the wall behind him momentarily before returning to his. "criminal, truly," you mumbled.

"i don't usually receive such hospitality when i'm sick." kyoya took another spoonful of his food. perhaps it'll kill him with kindness for admitting something oddly personal.

"bet you didn't tell anyone."

"...not since my mother passed."

a stray tear slipped down his chiseled cheekbone, and against your better judgement, your thumb brushed it away. he tensed, just barely, and you instinctively leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to his forehead.

"eat well, then. get some more rest." you forced yourself to look away when kyoya looked at you with such vulnerability as you walked to the door. "i'll, uh, be in the living room. if you need anything, let me know."

his doe eyes disappeared behind the door as you left, and so did the lack of impulse control as you rested your head against the wall in shame. unfortunately, he never did ask you for more. a couple hours had passed and you never heard more than a sneeze, sniffle, or a cough.

you shyly cracked open the door, but you only saw an unmoving mass of illness beneath the sheets. his name echoed through the room gently, but this time there was no sarcastic response. your figure lingered by the door, then you retreated to the linen cupboard where you sourced some miscellaneous blankets.

your phone flash replaced the overhead lights as you padded back to the sofa and rearranged some of the pillows. the darkness of the sky beyond the walls of your humble abode faded as the sun crept above the horizon. it didn't seem to matter, for your eyelids provided the shadows necessary for your consciousness to slip into.

the bright morning rays seemed to disturb kyoya's much needed sleep. he blearily opened his eyes, though the dryness in them wasn't a good incentive to keep them open. a stifled cough erupted from his throat, and he unenthusiastically sat up to reach for the glass of water at his bedside. a deep sigh left his blocked nostrils when he saw it was empty.

the warmth of the bedsheets clung to his skin as he shuffled to the kitchen, but his trek was swiftly halted as he spied you on the couch. the floor beneath his feet soon matched the temperature of your shared bed before he abandoned his glass on the kitchen counter. he sat on the fluffy carpet beside your peaceful face, and he shook his head disapprovingly.

"you're gonna get a sore back sleeping like that," he said in a hushed voice, though there was no bite to his tone as he readjusted the blankets around your shoulders.

"hm?" you stared at him through half-lidded eyes, but he could see you weren't fully there yet.

"don't you have work?"

you snuggled further into the blankets and shut your eyes again. "i called off. you're sick."

"why are you sleeping out here? we didn't fight," he probed.

"you're sick."

kyoya could barely hear your slurred response, but chose not to ask any more of you in your deprived state. the dim lighting in the living room cast a soft glow that convinced him you were an angel sent from above. his original mission in the kitchen was long forgotten as he traced your sleeping features with his eyes.

"you still here?" he whispered, fiddling with the edge of the blanket that dangled near the ground. no response. not even a tired hum. he slowly leaned forward to press his forehead against yours. "...i'm glad it's you who i'm marrying."

[thatanimewriter]

NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.

[thatanimewriter]

USE BY DATE.

➳ synopsis: maybe they weren't lying when they kept preaching that high school would be the best years of your life. what used to be a close connection with layers of pining buried beneath the friendly hugs and gifts is now a film you'll watch from afar. you just won't be in the end credits.

➳ character/s: kirishima ikuya

➳ warnings: angst no comfort, marriage, friends to lovers to exes to friends to strangers??, kinda canon divergent (he didn't move to america for high school)

➳ word count: 1.7k

➳ notes: making a comeback for a vent post cause i keep hearing stuff about who i considered to be a close friend from everyone BUT them?? requests will still be dead until i update and finish some ongoing fics and also finish my degree-

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 / 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭  / 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 / 𝐰𝐢𝐩 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

you never knew a silent presence could add so much fulfillment to your life. since your first year of middle school, ikuya's company joined the noisy chorus of your pre-existing friend group. his quiet and perhaps awkward charm wormed its way into your synapses and burnt itself into your hippocampus to join you even in sleep.

your friends always rolled their eyes whenever you'd slip his name into every possible conversation, and you never failed to indignantly deny your feelings. longing looks from across the classroom weren't missed by classmates and teachers alike. late night calls reverberated in your eardrums and replayed in your head to fill the silence he left behind.

ikuya was your first boyfriend if you could even consider the 9 months of unspoken recognition of reciprocal feelings and the 2 months of official dating a real relationship. the mere melody of each other's names brought a youthful grin to your faces and your friends swore dimples would permanently imprint themselves onto your features. you shared clumsy hugs and rushed pecks on the cheeks more times than you could count on both hands and feet, but the tooth-rotting sweetness created a cavity that never truly healed. neither of you noticed, for the nerves had been eaten away and the sensitivity dissipated until it was too late.

the moon was witness to the undeniable affection you shared, but the sun observed the affection transform into an obsession that soon died and reincarnated as love, however that may be defined by a teenager who still has much to learn. the desire that obscured your reality loosened its hold on your neck and heart as the juvenile romance dissolved into platonic sentiments and haunted its counterpart.

the break up was sudden, but you maintained your friendship because you couldn't fathom the other suddenly disappearing from your rigid routines that possessed your bodies and minds. there was never a fight, never a conflict, just a desire to go back to being friends that ikuya reluctantly agreed to.

the bond you shared solidified over the next few years despite the heartbreak. as his jawline sharpened and you matured far past the oblivious child you were back then, a newfound understanding rooted itself between you. it was as if he was the only one who truly comprehended your personality and accepted the flaws you fought for your life to hide. he felt that he could tell you anything and regardless of whatever he spilt, it would be met with warmth.

a new equilibrium had been established until you graduated to senior high. excitement vibrated between the students as the ceremony came to a close, then a gentle hand grasped your wrist.

"hey, um... can we talk? privately?" ikuya asked, avoiding your gaze as much as possible and hoping you couldn't see the redness in his cheeks. your smile faltered, but you allowed him to take you to an isolated corner outside. he sat on a wooden bench and you noticed his knee bouncing, but chose not to comment.

"are you ok?" you inquired. he didn't respond immediately. his mouth opened and closed numerous times, though you didn't prompt another question.

"the feelings came back," he said.

"oh."

a sigh left his lungs and he pursed his lips. "yeah... i just wanted to let you know."

"i'm really sorry," you began as you picked at your fingers behind your back.

"it's ok. i know you don't feel the same anymore," ikuya interjected. he smiled despite the disappointment, but it didn't bring you the same reassurance it used to. "we can still be friends, that won't change anything."

"i sure hope not," you mumbled. he stood as he got a text from his father and you gave him a hug before he walked away into the new year.

true to his word, your friendship didn't change, at least not for the worse. lunch time rendezvous were never missed for the world and class time inside jokes were constantly being formed each week. your camera rolls became a museum for your friendship more than anything else, especially as your high school days were coming to a close. even as you continued onto university in differing prefectures, you made the time for each other between the bustling social life and incessant homework. a stream of late night shower thoughts and nonsensical instagram reels occupied your chats, and though your mutual friends didn't share group chats with you, there was something special about your personal bond. that was until a fateful train trip that changed your perception of your friendship.

"ikuya is visiting in winter," asahi said with his usual easy smile.

you gave him a sidelong glance. "what?"

his smile faltered and he turned to look at you properly. "didn't he tell you?"

"nope, apparently not," you muttered, leaning back into your seat.

"i'm sure he'll tell you soon."

a month had passed and you continued to interact with ikuya over social media and engaged in the odd conversation here and there. he never told you he was visiting, though you never told him you knew of his eventual travels. he had returned before without informing you, though it was for a swim meet that robbed him of any leisure time. you convinced yourself this was a similar situation. asahi still swam, perhaps that's how he found out first. then he spilled the reason ikuya was visiting.

ASAHI 9:43 pm IKUYA HAS A GIRLFRIENDDDD oh, i wasn't supposed to tell you that- YOU 9:44 pm i know, i heard from makoto i thought it was a joke at first, but i guess not ASAHI 9:44 pm he really didn't wanna tell us, but that's why he's coming to visit make it official i think YOU 9:45 pm interesting

the cycle repeated itself after that. a multitude of conversations happened since asahi spilled ikuya's secret. still, you never heard anything from ikuya himself. in fact, you noticed the slow, nearly microscopic decline in your interactions. he never commented on whatever meme you'd send and he often left you on read or simply liked the message and continued with his life until the next meme. sometimes he would send one first, but a conversation never progressed beyond that.

the silence gnawed at your brain, but you excused it away with the understanding that life has started picking up and he didn't have the same freedom he used to have. this was plausible for a year or so until the communication fizzled out entirely. the typical animosity behind friendship break ups was nonexistent and for years after, you were wrangling with the notion that you were simultaneously friends and strangers. admittedly, you didn't have much time to ponder this unfamiliar territory with full-time work and an apartment to maintain.

one late night doom scroll calmed the water's surface and a clear image of what your relationship had become finally formed. once again, asahi had come to deliver the news.

ASAHI 11:23 pm you know ikuya's girlfriend?? YOU 11:23 pm yeah ASAHI 11:23 pm he PROPOSED tonight he made me go ring shopping with him and i must have an eye for jewellery cause she loved the ring YOU 11:24 pm huh, never would've thought ASAHI 11:24 pm what is that supposed to mean >:(( but how excitinggg

your phone screen went black and you rolled to lay on your other side. it was late, but you weren't remotely tired. it stung that you were never involved in the plans, nor were you clued in to ikuya's goals for the future, but it had been years since you even spoke. and so, you closed your eyes and slept with the bittersweet comfort that you weren't going to be included in the wedding preparations either.

despite the initial hurt, you moved on with life. it was the only thing you knew how to do. it was sealed in your subconscious that you no longer held a place in ikuya's life, and though you knew you weren't replaced, you acknowledged that someone else had filled the radio silence between you. the crisp autumn air cleansed your lungs and relieved the tension in your shoulders as you closed up shop. you gently pulled on the door to check if it locked properly and let a content smile decorate your features as the setting sun warmed your flesh. as you stepped back to make the trek home, a body collided with yours.

"ah, i'm so sorry, i wasn't looking where i was going," a deep voice said. you froze for a moment and you didn't need to turn your head to know who bumped into you.

"it's fine." as you moved to walk away, his hand grasped your wrist. maybe the gods or some other fates above felt evil for this awkward parallel to your younger days.

"[name]?"

you resisted the urge to sigh and opted for a tight-lipped smile. "that's me."

ikuya's lips pulled into a large grin — a stark juxtaposition to your expression — and ran a hand through his dark hair. "wow, i haven't seen you in years. how have you been?"

you blinked owlishly at him and your brain screamed at you to stop buffering. "uh, yeah, i'm doing good. heard you got engaged. congratulations, that's... exciting, i'm sure."

a soft hue spread across his cheeks and he gently released his grip. "never thought i'd be here, but it feels good," he confessed. feels good without me here, you thought bitterly, but maintained your composure.

"well, i've got to head home now, i hope the rest of your life is fulfilling and you're happy."

that wasn't a lie. while you may not be the same as you were when you were teenagers, you never wished anything unfortunate to befall ikuya. he returned your sentiments and as you gazed into his chocolate irises, you realised you were almost meeting him again. the thoughts that seemed to visibly swim in his eyes never faded, the curve of his lips was a spitting image of his teenage self, but you could no longer read what lay beneath his skull and hid beneath his thick eyelashes. you didn't know him at all.

[thatanimewriter]

Hello, I'm Shahd from Gaza.

I was born in 2006.

I got married a year before the war.

My husband, my daughter, my mother-in-law, and my uncle and I lived in a house before it was bombed.

We were happy until the war broke out.

The war on Gaza began on October 7, 2023.

Here, hell began for us in Gaza. We lost our home and became homeless. My husband had nothing, and I had nothing.

My husband, his family, and I were displaced to the southern Gaza Strip for 15 months. I didn't go with her. Those were months of longing for my mother and brothers who were in northern Gaza.

My brothers Ahmed and Abdullah remained in the northern Gaza Strip. We were displaced several times because I live in Rafah, a border area close to the army.

During our displacement, we left the house and ran down the road to escape the shells and planes. Then came the thunderbolt. The shock was that death was faster than my brothers could escape... Here, here, we lost our loved ones. I lost my brothers, the apple of my eye, Ahmed. Ahmed left no children. And my mother is in pain because they departed to God without saying goodbye, without a kiss on their foreheads, a farewell kiss. After a while, we returned home. The house was severely damaged by demolition and the falling of stones from their places, which sheltered and protected us. Now, nothing protects us except some worn-out candles that do not protect us from the heat of summer or the cold of winter. Our suffering is great, but with your help, we may reach a better and more dignified life. I appeal to you to help me support myself, my mother, my loved ones, and my family. What you provide makes a difference in our lives as individuals. We live in a world that has forgotten the meaning of humanity and giving. May God bless you all. Please help me help my family. Anything you provide, even if it is small, will mean a lot to me. Please donate to me.

[thatanimewriter]

Dear friends,

I’m reaching out today with a heavy heart, hoping for your kind support. My younger brother Ahmad is facing serious health challenges, and we desperately need your help to provide him with the necessary treatment. Even the smallest donation can make a world of difference in his life.

Please, if you can, consider offering any support, whether it's financial or through your prayers. Every little bit counts toward Ahmad’s recovery.

Thank you deeply for your kindness and generosity.

https://gofund.me/553d8d4b

donate if you are in a place to do so, if not, simply sharing is ok :))

[thatanimewriter]

My name is mahmoud mohammed jaafar jaafar i studied computer engineering and graduated from university in 2023 i worked as a software engineer in a local company here in gaza unit the war started, then the company got destroyed and became unemployed and our house is destroyed partially and became inhabitant to live in but nevertheless we stayed in it because we do not else to go i currently live in north gaza where is a scarcity of food and i have 3 brothers and 4 sister one of them died while he was trying to find food for the family so i am the eldest in my family now i have to provide a living for them

Any amount you give me will help me a lot in supporting my family in Gaza in light of the fear and lack of food, medicine and drink

Any amount you give me will help me a lot, even if it is $10.

[thatanimewriter]

🌸 From One Mother’s Heart – Please Read 🌸

My name is Saja. I’m a wife, a mother, and a woman who once believed her story would be simple. I thought my days would be filled with watching my daughter grow — from her first smile to her first steps — surrounded by the small joys of everyday life.

But life had other plans.

War has returned to our home. Again. And once again, we find ourselves living under skies that never seem to rest.

There was a moment — a fragile, breathless moment — when the bombs paused and the world seemed to remember us. It gave us hope. We thought maybe, just maybe, we could start to rebuild. But now, we are back in the dark — hiding, holding on, praying.

I’m writing this not as someone seeking pity, but as a mother who has no other choice but to speak.

Imagine holding your baby in the middle of the night, not because she cried, but because the world outside roared too loud for either of you to sleep. Imagine whispering bedtime stories not to lull her into dreams, but to keep the fear from settling into her tiny bones.

This is my life.

This is my daughter’s life.

And even now — especially now — I believe in softness. I believe in kindness. Because when everything else is taken from you, hope becomes the most valuable thing you have.

Why I’m Reaching Out Our home has been damaged. Our lives changed. But through it all, my daughter wakes up every morning with a smile. She reaches for me with trust, with love, with faith that I will keep her safe.

That’s why I keep going.

I’ve launched a campaign to ask for help — not because it’s easy, but because silence is no longer an option. I am asking for support not just for me, but for my baby, and for the quiet strength of so many mothers like me who are fighting, every single day, to hold their families together.

How You Can Help: 🤍 Help us restore parts of our home so we can live with dignity 🤍 Support women and mothers in Gaza with access to care and resources 🤍 Keep the light of hope alive for a generation born in the shadows of war

💛 If you can, please support our journey here:

If you can’t give, please consider sharing. Your voice might be the reason someone else hears ours.

From My Heart to Yours Maybe our lives are worlds apart. Maybe you’ve never lived through war. But if you’ve ever held a child and wished the world could be better for them — then you understand more than you know.

I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking the world turned away.

Please, if you’ve read this far — thank you. Thank you for seeing us. Thank you for caring. We are still here. Still hoping. Still holding on to every kind act like it’s a lifeline.

With love and endless gratitude

[thatanimewriter]

Waiting for requests to open up again

I want my ace!R x Leone fics again

i'm so sorry bestie, you're gonna be waiting a while for me to finish my degree and also finish all the half-done fics i've slapped on hold for months, maybe even a year ;v;

[thatanimewriter]

Please continue the mori x reader series!! You are genuinely an amazing writer 🫶

thank you for supportinggg, i will be finishing it to the end (pray for me-), but i'm dead with uni work right now, so it might be a while before i actually get a move on with the updates LOL

[thatanimewriter]

SWEET BOY

Shinsou Hitoshi gets the practise room on odd days, and you the even ones. You’ve never met him, but the notes he leaves on the music stand keeps you interested.

Noquirk!au, band au, guitarist Shinsou

—————————————————————————-

There’s only two practice rooms in UA.

It’s no surprise. UA is a sports school. That means about ninety percent of their extracurricular funding goes to new basketballs and volleyball nets, and not to the suffering music department. You're not too fussed by it. You suppose two rooms are better than nothing. The only reason you use them is because you and your slightly overzealous friend, Hana, are both auditioning for some prestigious music school in the summer. You need as much practice as you can get, and luckily being a senior means that you can kick out the younger students if you need to use them.

Only this year, there's a new stupid sign up sheet. Apparently now, instead of the usual first come first serve system, you have to sign up for a room and get allocated them in advance. Your friend Hana grumbles beside you, and you adjust the violin case that’s wearing heavy on your shoulder. 

“This is so stupid. These should be first come first serve. Why do I need to sign up?” Hana snaps.

You smile slightly, quickly scribbling in your name under hers. “Look, nobody has even signed up apart from us. And… Shinsou? Who’s that?”

Hana peers at the sheet over your shoulder. She shrugs. “God knows. Probably some loser first year who thinks he can play piano.”

“Hana.”

“What?”

You nudge her shoulder. “Don’t be rude. If we’re lucky we’ll only have him to share rooms with.”

“Whatever. Let’s go get food, I'm hungry.”

.

You try not to cringe at Hana’s very over dramatic reaction to the schedule two days later. She doesn’t really have any shame in yelling in the middle of the corridor, and you tap her shoulder impatiently at the looks you start receiving from around you.

“Hana. Please, chill out! It’s not that serious.” You urge, trying to push her away from the notice board she is very angrily staring at.

“No! He put us on seperate days!”

You look back at the sheet, in the scrawny handwriting of Mr Hamada.

UA Practise room timetables:

Odd days of the month: Hana Ushijima in 3A and Shinsou Hitoshi in 3B

Even days of the month: Sato Akiro in 3A and Y/N L/N in 3B

“It’s not so bad. You're sharing a room with Sato, he’s nice!” You try to smile encouragingly but Hana is not impressed.

She grips your shoulders and shakes a little. “Let’s ask Hamada if we can move days. So we can practise together.”

As horrible as it sounds, you don’t really want to move days. Hana is your best friend but she’s also a lot, especially when it comes to your music. You can only practise with complete and utter calm and silence, and she prefers to chat the whole time and comment on every piece you play.

“I’ll talk to him later.”

You’re not actually going to do that. But what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

.

Your first day in the music room is spent considerably annoyed. 

You said your goodbyes to Hana, after assuring her you were definitely going to talk to Hamada today, and welcome the silence as you click the door to room 3B shut. You can hear the distant sound of chatter and commotion pouring in from the open windows, and you make quick work of shutting them all. You only have half an hour before you have to get to English, and the sound of prepubescent teens fighting over a football outside is not going to make that time any slower. 

The room isn’t anything special. It’s not that big and only consists of an old piano that’s always out of tune, and a guitar hidden in a fabric black case that’s falling apart a little. The furthest wall from the door is covered in drawing and notes from students, and you won’t sit and lie that a thirteen year old you hadn’t scribbled her own messages on the wall.

And then you see it.

The wrapper of what you recognise as the schools way too overpriced sandwiches thrown on the stand for sheet music, and a tissue. Irritation immediately spikes in you, and you frown.

You know it’s that Shinsou kid. Who else? The teachers never come in these rooms, and clearly the cleaners don’t either. It’s just rude, frankly. It’s common courtesy to not litter, especially in a room shared by top people. It’s literally one of the rules in these rooms. You think about throwing it away for a second, because there is a trash can literally outside the door, but you decide against it. This Shinsou kid can clean his own mess.

But you can’t stop thinking about it.

When you take your violin out of its case and pick off the hair that’s sticking to the top. When you wax your bow, place the cool wood on your shoulder. You have to balance your sheet music on the windowsill because of your righteous decision to leave his rubbish on the stand. The piece is one of Bruch’s, and you try your hardest to run over it as best as you can, but you just can’t. His stupid mess rings in the back of your mind like an incessant fly. You’re annoyed he left his stuff there and you’re even more annoyed you’re so annoyed about it. A vicious cycle.

After twenty pretty unproductive minutes, you pull out your own lunch. You sit in the rickety chair in the corner of the room and stew as you eat the bento your mother made you. It’s then you decide that you can be petty too. You rip a paper out of your maths notebook and leave a note, balancing it against the stand alongside his rubbish.

Dear Odd day musician,

It’d be nice if you didn’t leave your rubbish on the music stands. You’re not the only one using the music rooms, and you can clean up after yourself.

Sincerely, Even day musician

.

Dear Even day musician,

Thank you so much for the little note, but that was not rubbish. I had a riff written down on that tissue. Also, please kindly do not leave your negative Even day vibes all over this room. You’re not the only one using the music rooms, and you can clean up after yourself.

Sincerely, Odd day musician.

You have half a mind to go and find this Shinsou guy and shove this note up his ass. He’s thrown the wrapper away, but you see now that the tissue, that he still hasn’t moved, has messy scribbles on it he’s considering notation.

You decide that after you practise your violin you’ll write a reply. It feels stupid and a little childish passing notes back and forth like this but you don’t think you’ll be finding yourself coming back on odd days to yell at him for his mess. The sound of your music leaks out under the door and vibrates in your chest. It’s loud and grating and you put your violin down faster than you should’ve.

You love music. And the violin. You just don’t think you see yourself dedicating your whole life to it, contrary to the beliefs of just about everyone you know. It just feels like you have to do it. You get perfect grades, and the teachers love you, and you’re known around school. You don’t really know how or why, but it’s just who you are. And the next step is some prestigious music school that your mother can brag about to all your aunties.

It’s fine. You like the violin. It will be fun.

You grab a pen and more paper from your bag. You sit in the same rickety chair and scribble another note.

Dear Odd day musician,

Apologies for my mistake. Did the wrapper of your panini also have a riff on it, or was that in fact just your trash? I think my even day vibes are quite positive, and I don’t see how I can stop leaving them all over the room.

P.S: If you clean up after yourself, you won’t have to read any more of my ‘little notes’.

Sincerely, Even day musician.

.

“We’ll be in there in like, ten.”

Hana’s voice sounds tinny out of your phone speaker. You’re laying down on your bed, violin and school bag beside you. The collar of your shirt itches your neck and you tug at it.

“Did you braid your hair like I told you to?” Hana asks and you hum in reply.

“Yes. Took forever.” You mumbled, hands twirling around one of them.

“Yes, well. It’s worth it. You look cute.” 

You don’t want to look cute, you want to look sophisticated. You tell Hana that and she laughs. 

“Sophisticated is overrated. And TestsuTestsu will like it. He’s got a crush on you, you know.”

You frown. You sit up, fixing the back of your hair. “No, he doesn’t.”

“He so does. He’s always looking at you in chem.”

You stand up as you hear the rev of an engine outside. You hoist the violin case on your shoulder and the hard case digs into your back. Your brain thinks of a tissue on a music stand and angry notes.

“I don’t care. He’s too loud.”

“Whatever. We’re outside.”

.

You wait anxiously for the lunch bell to ring. Today you’ve got a egg sandwich that sits heavily in the back of your backpack. You’ve got about an hour until lunch and until your small peace in the practise room. You have orchestra first, though, and everyone waves hello when you walk in, and Mr Hamada grins loud and bright.

“Y/N! I’ve been meaning to ask you. We’re having a school open evening, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to perform a piece?” He asks, bounding over to stand in front of you.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” You smile brightly and you hope he believes it.

It’s the last thing you need to have another performance to practise for. Your mind flits to your audition, the English essay you haven’t completed and the notes on the music stand.

“Great! It’s this Friday. Is that enough time for you to practise?”

This Friday is three days away, you want to yell. But you just nod, hands itching around the neck of your violin. “Yes. That should be good.”

Mr Hamada gives you two thumbs up and makes his way to the front of the room. Hana pokes your shoulder.

“Lucky. You always get the performances.”

You sigh, rubbing at your eyes. “I don’t even want it. I just can’t say no to people.”

Hana rolls her eyes. “Sure, sure. You know you love the attention.”

You wish you could tell her you really really don’t but Hamada’s voice rings across the room to silence you all and you raise your violin.

Orchestra can’t end quickly enough. You wave your goodbyes and rush your way over to the practise room. You place your stuff on the floor and you sit, sighing. You look down at your violin and curse. You can’t be bothered today. Especially not after the hour you just spent with Hana whispering too-mean jokes in your ear every time the girl on clarinet messed up. You pull out your phone and find a recording of you playing and let it ring across the room. At least this way anybody walking past will think you’re actually using this room for good.

You breathe a little lighter. Your eyes dart to the guitar in the corner and then your latest note to Shinsou. This is weird, but you stopped caring a while ago. It’s sort of fun, if you’re being entirely honest with yourself.

Dear Mrs Even,

I’m struggling to understand why you are so bugged by my wrapper. Surely the time it would’ve taken to throw it away would have been much shorter than writing me another angry note? I know you are well known at UA for your perfect grades and perfect attitude and perfect violin plucking, but instead of being mad, get inspired! Maybe write a violin number called “Mr Odd Day’s trash.”

Sincerely, Mr Odd.

You read the note twice to make sure you're not seeing things. You ball it up in your hands and lunge it at the wall. You watch it skid across the tiled floor and, after a few choice words, pick it up and throw it in the bin. You take it back. This isn’t very fun. What does Shinsou know about anything? You’ve never even heard of him before this whole music room problem. You whip out your own notebook and start furiously writing.

Dear Mr Odd,

I apologise that my annoying and perfect vibes have ruined the serenity of your music room. Please enjoy the remains of my egg sandwich. Maybe write a song about that.

Sincerely, Mrs Even

You feel better when you drop the crusts of your sandwich on the music stand. A little voice in the back of your head warns you that Hamada might see them and you’ll get in trouble, but your revenge feels more important than that.

Your leg jogs up and down and the chair creaks below you. Your eyes flit to the guitar in the corner of the room. Without thinking, you reach over and grab it. The case is worn out and old, the fabric peeling, and you unzip the case. The guitar is used and worn out. The strings are not cut at the top and it’s heavier than your violin. It sits across your lap, and you strum. 

You mess around with the strings until you find the E major scale and you pluck the notes gingerly. The sound is deeper and louder than your violin, and you waste away the rest of your lunch break playing the guitar instead.

.

Dear Mrs Even,

Have you been playing the guitar?

Sincerely, Mr Odd

.

Dear Mr Odd,

No. I play violin, not guitar.

Sincerely, Mrs Even.

.

Dear Mrs Even,

This is sad. The guitar is crushed and so am I. My band could’ve used another.

Sincerely, Mr Odd

.

The next day you and Hana check out Shinsou’s instagram page.

You’re not interested in him. If anything he’s annoying, with his stupid notes and surprising intuition that you’d been playing the guitar. You’re just… curious. You feel like you know him, even though you’ve never seen his face before. Until now, of course.

You’re both laying down on Hana’s bed, stomachs down on the mattress. Her covers are soft and there’s a lavender candle burning on her bedside table. You tug her laptop closer so you can see properly. 

“Do you have a crush on him?” She asks.

“No! I’m just. I’m just curious who he is.”

Hana hums suspiciously. You watch her click around on different profiles, searching for his. You lean your head on her shoulder. 

“I spoke to him, you know. I saw him walking into 3B and I asked him if you could swap days and he said no. That he liked the ‘odd days of the week’.” She rolled her eyes but you smiled slightly.

“Yeah. Sounds like him.”

“Oh, come on. You don’t know him.” 

“Shut up and open his profile.”

She clicks it, shin_sou.h04, and you both lean in. 

He’s cute. He’s got that rugged, nerdy sort of look you find unfairly attractive. He also looks sleep-deprived and a little emo, so it’s a perfect combination. The fact this is the guy you’ve been leaving notes to leaves a little tingle in your stomach. Hana hums beside you as she scrolls through his page.

“Hm. He’s okay. He’s in a band. He plays-”

“Guitar, yeah.”

Hana looks at you suspiciously. “How do you know that?”

You falter, face heating. “You know. His guitar, he always leaves it in the music room.”

She doesn’t say anything. The silence makes your skin hot, so you snatch the laptop out of her grasp. “He’s in a band. That’s cool. I want to be in a band.”

“No, you want to be in an orchestra. Our auditions are literally so soon.”

“They are in three months.”

“That’s very soon.”

You pause on one post in particular. He’s standing next to a boy with bright blonde hair, teeth shining as he grins widely into the camera. It’s clearly been shot on an old camera and the quality faded the edges, but they still look good. He looks good.

Hana drags her laptop back. “You so have a crush on him.”

“I do not!”

.

Dear Mrs Even,

I’m no fool, you know. Once again I sense your even day vibes lingering all over my guitar. So I may or may not have done the stalkery thing of coming to room 3B on your day, and there I hear it. Under the sound of your (recorded?) violin playing, the up and down scales of my guitar. So that begs the question: has my influence made you turn from a life of violing? That band position offer still stands, you know.

Sincerely, Mr Odd.

.

Dear Mr Odd,

Fine. I am playing the guitar. It’s a nice breath of fresh air after all this sucky violin playing. Don’t get me wrong, I love it and all, but. I’m sort of sick of it. I’ve been playing ever since I was four, and even though I have no idea how to play it, the guitar is fun. Just don’t mention it to anyone. I’m supposed to be performing tomorrow at the open evening assembly and I should be practising for that but. That’s neither here nor there.

Also, thank you for the band position offer. However, I am in the school’s orchestra and I already have my work cut out for me as is.

Sincerely, Mrs Even.

.

The auditorium is noisy with the sound of a few dozen people chattering. Your eyes scan over the new prospective students and their parents, your violin sitting heavy on your lap.

You don’t mind performing. Contrary to your recent aversion to violin, you love music. You love everything about it, especially the complicated melody of the song you’d picked for tonight. It felt like your responsibility, as someone who played music, to share it with the world, and you were glad you could at least do that much. 

You listen as Principal Nezu rambles about the upcoming tours and whatever else principals talk about, before he turns to you.

“And now, a piece played by our own Y/N L/N.”

You smile. The audience breaks out into applause and you swallow. You know Hana is sitting there somewhere, promising to wait for you after so you can get boba, still a little jealous she didn’t get the part. Your eyes flit to the audience for just one more second to look for a purple-haired guitarist. You don’t see one, though, so you raise your violin. Your eyes shut. You lift your bow and begin.

.

The next note is not left on the music stand. Instead, it slips out of the bottom of your locker, and you scramble to hide it before Hana can see. Unfortunately though, the world is quite against you, and she sees it just before you slip it into your backpack.

“What’s that?”

“It’s nothing.” You say, quickly zipping up your bag.

Hana reaches forward and tries to grab it. “Come on, show me!”

“No, Hana-“

“Just give! Is it a love letter? From your big fat lover Shi-“

You shove her and she laughs. Your little back and forth is catching the eyes of a few people nearby and you think you’d die if this somehow got back to Shinsou. You shush her, quickly shutting the door to your locker.

“Okay! Shut up, people are going to hear!” You hiss, shoving her shoulder again.

“Alright, alright! What is it, though? Another performance offer?” She drawls and you roll your eyes.

“Shut up.”

You slip the note out of your bag. You open it, and just like you suspected, it’s from Shinsou.

Dear Mrs Even,

Your letter makes me sad. Nobody should ever hate their instrument. Music is beautiful, and it should always be played and loved. Which is why I was wondering... if you’re sick of violin, I could teach you how to play guitar? You can come to the music room on one of my days and I’d be glad to show you the ropes. If you think that isn’t weird or anything. I’ll leave my number at the bottom, so just text me if you’re interested.

Sincerely, Mr Odd. 

Your face heats as you read the note. He wants to teach you guitar? He wants to meet you in the music rooms? He gave you his number? 

You don’t care. You don’t. It’s not like you have a crush on him, regardless of what Hana seems to think. You just think he’s kind of annoying. But in a funny way. And he’s attractive, but that’s pretty much it. You don’t care.

Hana gasps at the look in your face. “Wait, is it actually a love letter?”

“Not a love letter. Just a letter.” You shove it into your pocket before she can read it.

Hana huns under her breath. “From who?”

“Nobody.”

“You lie. Just tell me!” You start walking towards class and she dashes after you, linking your arm in hers. “I promise I won’t make fun. As long as he’s not ugly.”

You huff. “Shinsou isn’t ugly, he-“ 

You curse under your breath. Hana gasps for what might be the hundredth time today. 

“I knew it!”

“It’s not like that!” You whine and she laughs.

“Sure, sure. Did all our instagram stalking make you fall in love?”

“I hate you.” 

.

The note burns a hole in your pocket as you sit in maths class. You think about what to text him. If you even should text him, instead of working out the difficult looking quadratic formulas on the board in front of you. Your teacher drones on, his voice low and monotone. Your legs jogs under your table, and against your better judgement, you’re pulling your phone out of your bag and hiding it behind your water bottle.

You feel a little rebellious. You're not really supposed to be on your phone in class, and the thought rings in your head as you copy the number from the letter. It takes you another two minutes of convincing to send a message.

You: Hello

You: Is this Shinsou?

Was that too much? The grammar probably is. Hana always says that your texting is too formal. Maybe you should’ve mixed in an emoji.

Shinsou: gasp

Shinsou: y/n texting in class???

Shinsou: is my favourite goody-two shoes rebelling once again??

You: Unfortunately 

You: This is your bad influence

Shinsou: aw shucks x

Shinsou: im flattered im so influential

You: Don’t get too ahead of yourself

Shinsou: you always text this fancy?

You: Yes

You: Is that a problem?

Shinsou: nah its cute

Shinsou: does this mean u want a guitar lesson

You: Yes

Shinsou: YIPPEE

Shinsou: today is my day so u can come on down

Shinsou: and ill teach you a lesson

You: It sounds like you're going to beat me up

Shinsou: LMAO

Shinsou: i never hit women…

You: Wow… U are so woke

Shinsou: thank u I LOVE WOMEN!

.

You end up telling Hana, because you're not really sure how you’ll explain yourself if she sees you walking into the practice rooms with Shinsou. She drinks thoughtfully out of her apple juice as you both walk slowly to the music rooms. The corridors are basically empty, and you smile at a teacher who catches your eyes as she enters her classroom. Nobody questions why you and Hana are inside during lunch. You’re not supposed to be, but you guess it’s one of the perks of being a ‘goody two shoes’, as Shinsou calls it. The thought of him fills your stomach with another bout of nerves, and you swallow.

“I’m nervous. Should I be nervous?” You ask, and Hana shrugs.

“No.” She pauses. “Well, maybe. I think he likes you, so. This could be considered a first date.” She ponders and you groan.

“I look like shit! This can’t be a first date.” You say, gesturing down at your clothes.

Hana rolls her eyes. You arrive sooner than you’d like and Hana pulls you back before the two of you can walk in. She fixes your jumper, wipes off the mascara from beneath your eyes. She fishes around in her pocket and holds out her lipgloss and you dutifully put it on.

“Just chillax. You overthink too much. And you look cute.” She raises her eyebrows. “And I’m sure Shinsou will think so, too.”

You sigh. “Thanks, Hana.”

She gives you a reassuring smile. “Remember I’m next door.”

“Aw, thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need anything.”

She takes the lipgloss out your hand. “No, not for help. I mean if you two start fucking in there, don’t get too loud. I need to practise.” Your face burns red and Hana laughs, walking off. 

“You- Shut up.” You hiss, shoving her as she walks into her own practise room.

You look at room 3B. It’s on the end of the corridor and luckily far away enough that not only does Hamada never come check on them, but also nobody would see the fact there were two people in the one-person-only rooms. 

You take a deep breath and walk up to the door. Should you knock? Or maybe just walk in. That could be rude, though. Technically, this is someone else’s room, considering the fact today is Shinsou’s day. But he invited you so that probably means he doesn’t care if you walk in. Knocking feels too formal, anyway.

Luckily, your questions are answered for you when the door swings open, and Shinsou is there. 

He’s tall. Taller than he looks on Instagram, at least. He looks a little more sleep deprived in person, but the way he grins down at you makes his whole face look wholly more attractive than you feel is fair. He’s wearing an old band shirt and your eyes dart down to the chain that sits against his collarbones.

“Well, if it isn’t Mrs Even in the flesh.” 

You smile slightly and walk in. The room feels smaller with the two of you in it, and the door clicks shut.

You hum. “I’m only here to make sure you aren’t littering again.”

Shinsou’s voice is deep, and he runs a hand through his hair. “You wound me, Even. And here I thought you were here to learn.” His fingers drum against the neck of the guitar.

You drop your back on the floor and lean against the wall. Shinsou sits on the chair. The guitar looks better in his hands then it does yours, like it belongs. He strums it once.

“No, I’m here for that, too. Can’t turn down free lessons.”

He huffs a laugh. “You gold digger. You’re just using me for my incredible guitar skills.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“I’m literally in a band. That’s like all the proof you need.”

“So show me.”

Shinsou sighs, rolling his eyes playfully. “So bossy. Didn’t expect this from timid Mrs Even.”

You frown. “I’m not timid.”

Shinsou tilts his head. “You’re a little timid.”

“No. I- Okay, just play.”

And he does. It’s nothing long but it’s also nothing simple. You learn quickly enough that he’s a rhythm guitarist, and the practised way his hands fly across the guitar is incredible. And he loves it. You can tell by the way he plays, the ease on his face. It fills you with a little jealousy, but. You love the music too much to focus on that.

He finishes and you clap. “Alright. I’ll admit it. You’re good.”

“Thank you, thank you. I’m here all night.” He holds up his hands and you glance at his hands. There’s way too many bracelets that clink against the guitar.

“I like your bracelets.”

“Thanks. You want one?”

You laugh slightly. “What? No I wasn’t-“

“Have one. I’ve got hundreds of these.” He shrugs and tosses you a beaded bracelet you just about catch.

You pull it onto your wrist, and pull up the sleeves of your jumper. It’s dark green and streaky and cool against your skin. “Thank you.”

He stands, holding out the guitar to you. “You ready?”

You nod. You walk forward and when you grab the guitar your fingers brush against his.

“Should I be nervous?”

“Nah. Your fancy violin fingers should be trained enough to play guitar easily.” 

You sit down in the chair, and place the guitar in your lap. Shinsou pulls over the cajon drum in the corner of the room and sits across from you. He’s close enough that you can smell a woodsy cologne and the smell of fresh laundry on him. 

“Alright. Lesson one: lighten up.”

You give him a pointed glare and he laughs. “See? So much tension in those shoulders. Relax, sweetheart.”

You swallow roughly. “I thought I was timid. Not tense.”

He grins, all white teeth and dimples. “You can be both. Cute, too.”

Your cheeks flush. “Shut up and teach me. You’re so unprofessional.”

“Apologies, apologies. Okay, so you look less tense. I can work with this.” 

He taps the long end of the guitar. “This is called the neck. And these lines separate different frets.”

You nod. It’s kind of like a violin, except your instrument isn’t separated by frets and lines. You just have to remember where the notes are. You tell Shinsou and he nods.

“Us guitar players aren’t as clever.”

“That I can agree with.”

“Shut it. Okay, so chords are simple. You press your fingers on the right strings really hard and you strum.”

You nod again. He nods too, hair bouncing.

“Okay, so. Press your middle finger here, pointer there and index at the bottom string.” 

You follow his instructions. “Like this?”

“Kind of. Just.” His hands inch forward but he stops. He look up from your hands to your eyes. “Can I?”

“Yeah.” 

His hands are long and slender and soft when he pulls your thumb lower on the neck of the guitar. You feel the rough edges of his callouses as he presses over your own fingers, his other hand strumming the guitar once.

“Look at you. Fast learner.”

You smile. “Thanks.” He strums it again, other hand leaving yours.

“That’s a G chord.” You say, and he hums.

“Impressive.”

“Hm. I’m much more musically inclined than you, I bet.” You tease and he huffs.

“Show off. Come on, let’s keep going.”

You play three more chords, and with all four in total, Shinsou tells you you’ve learnt a song. It’s only after three runthroughs and his humming that you realise what he’s taught you.

“Is this Creep by Radiohead, you emo?”

“Bingo!” He cheers. “You know good music.”

“Everyone knows that song. Though I do like Radiohead.” You say, balancing the guitar against the wall.

You aren’t playing and Shinsou isn’t teaching anymore, but he doesn’t move any further away. Your knees brush against his and you smooth your skirt over your thighs. 

“You do? I assumed you only listened to classical music.”

“No. Well, I do. But I listen to other stuff, too.” 

The mention of classical music has you glancing at your violin. You’ve started just leaving it in the music room. You wonder if Shinsou has ever picked it up. His eyes follow the trail of your own.

“Ah. The dreaded violin.”

“Stop. I like it. I do.” 

Shinsou looks at you curiously. You feel a little watched. Like he’s looking right inside of you.

“I don’t know. I love music. Really. I live and breathe it, but recently violin just feels like a job. I don’t get to love it anymore. It’s play this, learn that. Whatever to impress the people at the audition, the parents at open evening.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Sorry. I don’t mean to ramble.”

“Nah, you’re fine. I get it. Well, not completely. My mum doesn’t love my passion for music so I think that makes me love it a little more.” 

You huff a laugh and Shinsou smiles a little. 

“But you’re very good. At violin playing.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “When have you seen me play?”

“At the open evening.”

You think back to the night, the quick piece you’d played and the fact you’d looked for him and found nothing.

“Really? I didn’t see you there.”

He leans forward closer. “Aw. Were you looking for me, sweetheart?”

“No. Though I’m sure the bright purple hair would’ve been hard to miss.”

Shinsou cracks his knuckles and you wince at the sound. “I messed up the times, but I caught you at the end. You’re amazing. Really.”

You stir a little at the compliments. With the most grace possible, you get them a lot. But it sounds a little better coming from Shinsou, especially when he’s looking at you so intently.

“Yeah, well. I have been playing since I was four.”

“Stop doing that. Making excuses. You’re good because you’re good. Even if it’s getting annoying it’s obvious you love to play.”

You flick his leg. “Alright. Fine. I’m good. At violin and guitar.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves now.”

Your finger lingers on his knee a little. You’re about to say something, and so is he by the way he sits up a little. But the door to the music room opens suddenly, and Hana pops her head in.

You stand up suddenly. Shinsou waves at Hana while you try to look like you’re not doing something you shouldn’t be.

“If you two are done.. whatever you’re doing in here, me and Y/N have got Math.” 

“Hey, neighbour.” Shinsou says and she nods curtly, stepping out to wait for you.

“She’s a pleasure.” Shinsou raises his brows and you smile.

You pick up your backpack and pull it over one shoulder. “She just needs to warm up to you a little. She’ll like you if I like you.” You walk over to the door.

Shinsou stands too. “So. Do you like me then?”

You look back at him, hand still on the doorknob. “Hm. Still deciding. Might need a few more guitar lessons before I can know.”

He grins. “Good. I’m free every odd day of the week.”

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This fic was very confusing to write.. lots of different media forms.. I was trying something new and I hope u like it!

I was tryna go for nerdy ochestra girl x emo band guy cause Shinsou is lowkey giving that if I’m being really honest with myself and I want SHINSOU if I’m being honest with myself

I hope u all enjoyed.. I will deffo be writing a part two, but it’s currently Ramadan so my posting schedule will probably be very sporadic..

LOVE U ALLL

[thatanimewriter]

this has nothing to do with anime or games, but i'm crashing out over how my most recent romantic endeavour made me realise the kind of relationship i'd want (if i was to ever get into one again cause lowkey sounds annoying rn) isn't what most people consider a relationship.

i want whatever the hell dan and phil have going on, y'know?? from afar, just really good friends but if you look super close, there's that undertone of affection that friends simply don't have.

i could honestly make a slideshow about why dan and phil are peak what i want out of a relationship-

(will definitely be projecting this feeling into a pending fanfic so other people who feel this way can feel seen)