Aria

Pierrot paused.

Then he stepped inside.

“I was watching,” he said simply.

He crossed the room without asking, as he always did, and lowered himself onto the bottom half of her bed. The mattress dipped dramatically under his weight as he sat cross-legged, filling the space like it had been made for him.

His eyes stayed on her immediately.

Always on her.

She sighed, shifting slightly under her blanket. “You always say that like it’s normal.”

“It is normal,” he replied.

That earned a soft huff of amusement from her.

Pierrot tilted his head slightly, watching her as if cataloging the sound.

Then, as always, he reached for her hands.

His large hands wrapped around hers carefully, like he was holding something fragile that he didn’t fully trust the world with. His thumbs moved over her knuckles in slow, absent motions while he stared at her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.

“I thought about you all day,” he said.She blinked. “We saw each other today.”

“I know.”

That was all he gave at first.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he leaned forward slightly, voice lowering.

“You looked at me more today.”

A pause.

“…I liked it.”

She gave him a look. “You always like it when I look at you.”

“That’s because you should,” he said immediately, completely serious.

That made her laugh under her breath, shaking her head.

Pierrot didn’t understand the joke, but he liked the sound of her laughing anyway. His grip on her hands tightened slightly.

Then he started again.

Like a dam breaking.

“I can give you more than they can,” he said quietly. “More attention. More care. More time. I don’t sleep much. I don’t need to. I could stay with you all night, every night.”

His thumb stopped moving.

His voice got softer—but heavier.

“I could keep you safe. Always. I already know who watches you. Who looks too long. I remember their faces.”

That part made something in the air shift.

“But I don’t need them gone,” he added quickly, like correcting himself. “Not if you don’t want that.”

His mask tilted down toward her hands, still holding hers like they were something sacred.

“I just want you close.”

Silence stretched.

Then again, softer—“You’re beautiful when you don’t even try. I don’t understand how no one sees it the way I do.”

His words kept coming after that, steady and unfiltered now that he’d started.

How she should never have to walk alone.

How he could fix things.

How he could make everything quieter for her.

How he could make her life “easier” if she just let him.

And she listened for a while, hands still trapped gently in his.

Until eventually—She lifted one hand.

Pressed it over his mouthpiece.

“Pierrot,” she said gently.

His body went still immediately.

Every thought seemed to halt mid-motion.

She met his gaze.

Then, very plainly, she asked:

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

Pierrot stared at her.

Slowly, he tilted his head.

"Your… friend?”

The word sounded wrong in his mouth.

Confusing.

Almost offended.

“No,” he said after a moment, brows faintly furrowing. “Why would I want that?”

She blinked.

“…What?”

“Friends don’t do this,” he said, gesturing slightly with one hand still holding hers. “Friends don’t think about each other like this. Friends don’t stay. Friends don’t—”

He stopped.

Searching for the right words.

Then gave up entirely.

“I don’t want that. But...if that would make you happy then-”

She laughed.

It started small, like she was trying to hold it in.

Then it broke out of her completely, warm and bright, filling the room.

Pierrot went very still.

“…What.”

She was still laughing when she pulled her hand away from his mouthpiece. “That’s not what a boyfriend is.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“…Explain.”

“Oh my god,” she said, still smiling, wiping at her eye. “Pierrot…”

She shifted closer just slightly, holding his hand now instead of the other way around.

“A boyfriend is… someone you’re close to. Someone you care about. Like… more than a friend. You date them. You’re—” she hesitated, then gestured vaguely, “—together.”

Pierrot stared at her like she had just redefined reality.

“…Together,” he repeated.

“Yes.”A beat.

Then, very quietly:

“That’s it?”

She laughed again. “That’s it.”

There was a long pause.

Something changed in him so quickly it was almost disorienting.

His grip on her hands tightened—“…So I don’t have to leave,” he said.

“No,” she said softly.

A pause.

“…So I can stay.”

Her smile softened. “Yeah.”

That was all it took.

The shift was immediate.

Pierrot leaned forward so fast the mattress dipped sharply, and suddenly she was being pulled into him—arms wrapping around her with a force that was careful but overwhelming, like he didn’t know how to contain what he was feeling anymore.

His voice came out muffled against her shoulder.

“That’s what I want.”

Then again, stronger:

“That’s exactly what I want.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, and for the first time all night, there was something bright in his eyes. Something almost childlike in its intensity.

“I can do that,” he said quickly. “I can be that. I already am that. I’ve always been that.”

She opened her mouth—And he kissed her forehead.

Then her temple.

“I’ll be good at it,” he said, like it was a promise he was making to the universe itself. “I’ll be the best at it.”

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