#love letters

he’s not the most emotionally intelligent guy and you’re a sensitive soul, so this is where he bundles you up and takes you when things go wrong. poor grade on a test? couch. missed your train? chips and chocolate on the couch (electrolytes, he insists as he holds a piece up to your mouth). dumped by the loser you were seeing? cry on the couch.

it’s been over a year since that incident, but you haven’t been very successful in dating since. no one really appeals to you that way.

“i’m gonna die alone.” you say blankly, staring at nagi’s 80 inch tv. there’s a simulation game on, passively filling the background while you whine to him about how miserable you are. normally, you try not to talk about love stuff to nagi because after you cried to him the last time the vibe got really weird and then he went and beat up the guy. reo’s lawyers were really good and he didn’t have to pay anything to boot, but you’d hate for him to have to wear a tie (his mortal enemy) to court again.

“i’ll climb in the grave,” he promises. “don’t worry.”

“it doesn’t mean anything after i’m dead,” you grouse. “nobody wants to hang out with me while i’m still alive.”

“i’m hanging out with you,” he looks down at you, sprawled in his lap, your head resting on his left thigh. you puff up your cheeks and he pokes them to watch you deflate slowly.

“you don’t want to, though,” you say. “you don’t want anything. unless it’s related to soccer. you once told me you’d eat only grey paste if it gave you the nutrients you needed to never cook again.”

nagi huffs a little sigh, one that tells you he’s thinking dreamily of grey paste. you scrunch up your face and sit up.

“i’m just holding you hostage because it’s too much of a pain to say no to me or make other friends,” you say sadly. “at least reo can get you to go out of the house.”

“there are other people out there,” his mouth twists like he’s eaten a lemon. “i don’t like it if they look at us.”

“please,” you laugh. “like the paparazzi would ever make that mistake.”

nagi puts a hand on your back and forces you forward. you realize too late as you try to squirm off the couch that he’s moved and put his legs on either side of you, one of them dangling off the side, the other under the cushions. he’s trapped you like a ball, you realize with some indignation.

you land with your face in his chest.

“what are you doing,” you say into his shirt, secretly not displeased.

“getting comfortable,” is his succinct reply. you plant your forehead on his sternum and breathe deeply for a moment, savoring his closeness. you’re always a little afraid of squishing him, so you like it when he maneuvers you like this, proves that he wants to be around you. “you’re holding me hostage.”

“i am not,” you protest. he puts his hand on the back of your head, prevents you from moving.

“you’re on top of me.” his tone is so matter-of-fact it makes you want to laugh. if nagi wanted to move out from under you, he would. he’s holding you here.

“i’m gonna die on this couch,” you revise your previous statement. “i’m gonna die unloved, squished by—”

“i love you,” nagi says. his voice is sonorous, deep; you can feel the bass reverberating from his bones.

“uh,” you say. “what?”

“i do want things that aren’t soccer because i love you,” he says it like he’s explained it a million times, a long-suffering tutor. “if you want to date me too, then you won’t have to worry about it.”