g(enius)b(uilt) ao3

“Donnie!” you call, catching his eye and jogging up to his side as quickly as you dare without looking too desperate. “There you are! I’ve been worried sick! Are you okay?”

For his part, Donnie is looking at you with something that’s about halfway between surprised and a little grumpy. Like he’s happy to see you, but really he needs a good seventy two hour long nap. It’s fucking adorable, but it’s Donnie, so, day that ends in -y. 

“I… Yes. I’m fine, thank you,” he says, gripping the strap of his saddlebag. “I’m surprised you noticed my absence. I’m unfamiliar with people paying that much attention to me.”

You tilt your head. “What? Of course I did. You were out for a whole week!” you protest. “That’s totally unlike you. I know a lot of people get sick in the spring since the seasons are changing and all that, but—Have you even missed a single class so far? You’re the most diligent person I know.” 

Donnie’s fingers tighten on the strap further. “I-Is that so?” he says, turning his face a little to the side. “Usually I have that particular personality trait referred to as nitpicking or workaholic or an insultingly-broad and bland obnoxious.” 

“Well… You’re certainly not for everyone,” you admit, feeling the smile bloom on your face. “I like you, though! The dry humor, runs-on-coffee, snarky genius thing works for me. So who cares, right?” 

You expect him to brighten up a bit under your compliments. Instead, you watch as he almost curls in on himself further, his lips pressing together like your words are anchors more than wings. He doesn’t meet your gaze, anymore. Instantly, the mortification strikes you like a blow. Oh, god, you’ve said too much because of this stupid crush and made him uncomfortable. 

“I mean—I didn’t mean to insinuate that you’re unpalatable, because you’re really not! And the people in our class that say shit are really just mad that you got in without an undergrad, but you still get the top score every time. Don’t listen to those jerks, really, there’s only a couple, and once you call them on it, they shut up real quick and—”

“You called them on it?” Donnie asks, blinking at you in surprise. 

Almost insulted he’d think otherwise, you scoff. “Of course I did! You’re my friend, I’m not going to let them talk shit about you! You’re—You’re amazing, Donnie. I’d tell everyone in the street if I thought they’d listen, and—”

Donnie looks off to the side thoughtfully while you keep babbling on. Eventually, he interrupts you again, this time with a tone so quiet, it makes your jaw snap shut.

“Don’t say all that if you don’t mean it,” he whispers. His face is blank. His heart tucked away, behind a wall you suddenly see.

It was obviously a difficult thing to ask of you. His hand is almost shaking on his bag strap. His shoulders are hunched just enough to be visible, and he still, still isn’t meeting your eyes. You’d almost say he was… flustered. Oh, god, he is.

…He felt brave enough to say it. So you’ll be brave enough to respond.

“Donnie,” you say softly, reaching out your hand to cup your hand on his cheek, turning his head until finally you meet his eyes once again. “Of course I mean it. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. You really are amazing.” 

Donnie studies your face like he does everything else, and you watch as he relaxes… but only just a little. He’s still tense. Still disquieted. Not good enough. Not yet.

Licking your lips, feeling a bit untethered, using the restless energy of your embarrassment to propel you further, you take one step closer. Literally, at first. When he doesn’t protest—when he seems to welcome you into his space like it’s as much yours as it is his own—you swallow. 

Then, figuratively. “And I… I really do like you,” you continue, letting your gaze drop to where you’re touching him, letting your thumb trace along his cheekbone, along the edge of his purple mask that was the first thing that caught your eye those months ago. “I thought you were sick, or hurt. I was so worried. It made me realize I… I don’t have your phone number to text and ask if you need something. I don’t know where you live to bring you soup. I don’t know what coffee shop you go to when you bring that sludge in, or what you like to eat for breakfast, or if you sleep with the fan on. If you’d be happy if I brought you a piece of candy, or if you’d prefer to split a piece of fruit. I don’t… I don’t know so much about you.” 

Looking back to his eyes, you see that they’re wide, now, wide and sparkling and wet. Shimmering like something celestial, and just as pretty. Feeling your mouth curve into a weak smile, you gently press your palm to his cheek even more, stepping close enough that you’re almost pressed against him and you can smell coffee on his breath. 

“But I want to,” you finish, feeling his fingers close around your wrist. You have but a moment where you wonder if he’s going to pull you away, to reject your feelings—but oh, no, oh no he doesn’t. He holds you tightly, his brow arching as huge wet tears spill and stain his mask. 

“You—You—?” he croaks, his voice cracking. He looks younger like this, somehow. Younger and more vulnerable and cute and sweet and—god. You really, really, really like him. Charmed, feeling your throat go tight with emotion, you cough a laugh and wipe at one tear with your thumb with a tender arc. 

“I like you,” you tell him again, making sure he hears it, that he understands. “A lot. I've totally been flirting with you this whole time and it's so dire and—And I want to know everything about you.”

Donnie’s eyes flutter shut, and he bears his teeth with a hiss like he’s in agony. His other hand grips the back of your caress, holding you in place as his face turns so he can press his lips to your palm in what can only be described as reverence. Like he’d fall prostrate before you if it didn’t mean he couldn’t keep your skin on his. Like you’re something biblical and he’s been raptured in your light. 

Over and over and over he kisses your hand, brows furrowing, face focused in worship. Your chest sparkles in response, your other hand reaching out to grip in his lapel, your knees feeling rubbery and weak. “D-Donnie…” 

“…Same,” he whispers in the space between your fingers, opening his eyes and letting them lazily glide to you like he’s trapped in a bottle of honey. “You… You feel the same…” 

Oh, you think, feeling a bit like you’ve taken a bite of a star. “S-Same…?” 

Donnie nods, going back to kissing your palm. Sweet at first, though the last he seals with a quick dart of his tongue and a scrape of teeth that make your breath catch in  your throat. You must make a noise, as he pauses and looks to you again, his eyes dilating and his mouth pulling from your skin so he can tilt your hand just a little. Then, maintaining that eye contact, he incinerates you with a slow, purposeful press of teeth to the base of your thumb. Just enough that you wonder if it’ll leave a mark, just enough that you hope it does. 

“…Taste just like I thought you would,” he murmurs, low and hungry. You don’t know if you were supposed to hear, don’t know how to respond now that you have. All you can do is burn, watching his tongue slide between his teeth to caress your skin before he kisses it again, then again, then again.

Startling you out of the rushing inferno beginning to boil in your veins, your phone alarm goes off. Officially time to leave for class if you haven’t already, ignoring the fact that you’d of course done just that in the hopes of having the time to run into him and talk before having to settle down. 

Donnie pulls your hand from his face, but he doesn’t release it. He stares down at your palm, touching the wet marks his mouth has left like he’s trying to massage himself into your skin. He licks his lips, then he speaks.

“After class. I’ll show you where I get my coffee,” he says, and it makes you laugh. Of course, he wouldn’t ask you on a date. He’d just tell you how it’s going to go down.

“Yeah. Sounds perfect,” you grin, curling your fingers so they close on his and he can’t misunderstand your meaning. 

But Donnie isn’t through. He turns his face like he did before, and you recognize, now, the signs that he’s flustered. “And… after that. I’ll… tell you why I was absent.”

Your mouth rounds in surprise. “Oh. You… weren’t sick?” 

“Not… exactly,” he hedges, glancing at you once before he has to fidget with his bag strap. Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he grips your hand and pulls you along. “Come on. We’ll be late, and I’m behind as it is. I’ll be borrowing your notes for the last two classes, by the way.”

“Donnie, please, it’s like you don’t even know me,” you tell him, smiling when he looks for you to elaborate. “I already made you copies. And I printed them in color so the purple highlight would come through. You're welcome.”