“Y’all like, what— sixteen, seventeen now? How the fuck is he still enrolled?”

  “This is actually an improvement, believe it or not.” She croaks to your bewildered expression on the top corner of her laptop screen. “Last year, he tricked us into wearing cheerleader outfits on national television.”

  “And your teacher just let it slide?”

  “He got a few days detention.”

  Her face stands impassive as you kiss your teeth, though not out of disagreement. Even if Aizawa-sensei’s methods were harsher than most, she and the other girls had considered it a rather minor punishment.

  The minutes stretch on and soon; she’s going over her english essay, one of her more weaker subjects, nodding absentmindedly as the topic changes to your “not so exciting” weekend— never one to pass up the opportunity to complain about your job.

  And while you weren’t on the hero track like she was, that never stopped you from reaching out to her during her patrols.

  “Tsu, I swear t’ god, I almost walked out like . . . so instead of opening your grown ass mouth or showing me how to do it— like you ‘posed to— you fix your lips up t’ gaslight me for calling you out on it?”

  Hero work was a lot. That’s an undeniable fact of society.

  Not for the feint of heart nor for any and everyone. It takes guts, discipline, and strengths of insurmountable proportions just to get one’s foot in the door. Nevermind the boundless challenges and occasionally, morally dubious choices to be faced with. It’s thankless work.

  And still, Tsuyu held no envy for baristas.

  “Shit’s gotta be on purpose at this point, ain’t no way—” you spit into the mic, nearly ripping the pages in your homework packet as you begin to work through the problems on the other side.

  “There’s no one else you can report to?”

  “No— well, there’s the coach but,”

  “. . . but?” she pries.

  “It just . . doesn’t seem like a big enough issue for that,” your features twist a bit, muddying with doubt. “Best case scenario: I tell him and get retaliation from her afterwards; Worst: I’m out of a job— and if I’m being real, it’ll ‘prolly go nowhere cause,” you roll your eyes contemptuously. “Well, you know HR.”

  Tsuyu doesn’t know about HR. Not on a personal level anyways.

  “I’d still try— just to cover all your bases. Push comes to shove, you can get another one.”

  She looks back to her work as you scoff, “In this economy?“

  A wave of silence washes over, not a drop of awkwardness in its depths. Filled only by the clatter of her keyboard and occasionally the soft whizz of turning pages.

  Then, behind the couch, she hears shuffling— muted but steady enough to affirm that whoever it is isn’t trying to sneak up on her.

  Pranks were surprisingly an uncommon occurrence in the dorms, likely due in part to Sensei’s artful wrath (though that never stopped a select few from attempting, in spite of the fact)

  There’s also the matter of her location as traffic is to be expected in the common area. Not only is it connected to the front door, but the kitchenette as well. Students flitted in and out the room almost hourly.

  So when an odd noise suddenly bleats through her speakers, her eyes dart to the corner of her screen and is instantly put off by the look on your face.

  “You okay?”

  Your mouth moves but nothing comes out, apparently too shook to speak up, and she just observes, paying little mind to the agitation sparking in her chest.

  It’s not like she read lips for a living, okay?

  All she can make out is the first word— who’s? — which, thankfully, carried enough breadcrumbs for her to complete the trail of thought.

  Shifting off her now-numb legs, Asui sticks her neck out to peek into the kitchen doorway, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of her bun pressing against the cushions.

  There’s no visible signs of life although there is some light clattering. The sound of cabinets and drawers opening and closing.

  “. . . who was that?” your shock is downplayed by a thin coat of awe when she turns back, neck growing sore from the uncomfortable positioning.

  “Why’re you whispering?”

  “Tsu.”

  She gives one of those slow blinks, the ones that showcased just how unamused she was; flatly recalling your own nickname.

  “You ain’t tell me there were such fine men in your class.” you surmise accusingly.

  Fine?

  . . . wasn’t the word she’d use.

  Creepy perhaps. Loud for sure. Maybe, just maybe she’ll throw in a tentative “cute” on the behalf of Kouda or Iida or Midoriya— Todoroki too, if the word didn’t land so weak on his admittedly divine features.

  Then again, she is a bit biased.

  Flickers of hearty giggles and finger-beans gather warmth in her cheeks.

  Quietly, she falls back into the present, popping all the sparkly bubbles and blowing away the rose-colored clouds.

  “There isn’t.”

  Had you spoke just a second before, she would’ve missed the stifled chortle from across the room.

  “‘s not nice to lie to family.” You insist.

  Briefly, she wonders if you’d still have this opinion if you saw a handful of the escapades that she did— Kaminari’s piss poor attempts at flirting (and generally just making an ass of himself) or Bakugo’s morning ritual of screaming into the mirror and getting toothpaste everywhere but the sink; or Kirishima’s moping when his hair dye is out of stock.

  “I’m not,” you shoot a look.

  “Tsu, stop playing.”

  You don’t even grant her the chance to retort, flat gaze glaring like she’d been playing her phone aloud on the subway “—telling me you, Miss Froppy, missed a purple giant walking right past you?”

  That gives her pause.

  “Oh, that’s Shinsō.”

  “He single?” you don’t skip a beat.

  The frog girl shrugs while you pout, glancing over when another louder, still muted chuckle trickles out from the other room.

  “You never mentioned him before.”

  “He just transferred this year.” She fiddles with her fingertips a bit, a little put off by the reality of discussing someone who’s just a few feet away and very clearly listening in. “And it’s not like we interact much outside of our shared friend groups . .”

  “‘s so unfair,” you kiss your teeth,  homework quite literally shoved aside.

  “. . or class, really.“

  “Surrounded by all that ‘n you don’t even want any— god clearly has favorites.” You mostly grumble to yourself.

  Before her brain can think to catch up with her, Asui’s eyes roll straight to her hindbrain.

  Honestly, you were too much sometimes.

  Her attention is eventually taken by the harsh glare of the screen, blank white space making up a good chunk of her essay.

  “I listen to you wax poetic about Uravity every other day, don’t give me that look.”

  Her pout falls on blind eyes as your thoughts run wild.

  “. . he mean?”

  Putting all her weight into the back cushions, she hopes against all forms of logic to get pulled in and suffocated, just to avoid this conversation.

  “He’s . . kind of like Sensei in some ways.”

  “The home room teacher?”

  Asui nods, subconsciously putting a finger to her chin. “Low energy, a surprisingly high tolerance for people considering his mouth— little edgy too if I’m being honest,“

  Something moves in her peripherals but she refuses to turn, “but it’s not as bad as Tokoyami so it’s fine.“

  It’s like looking through a kaleidoscope. Every admission seemingly adding another sparkle to your vibrant gaze.

  “. . his mouth, you said?”

  Your name breezes past her lips, exasperated.

  “What, you weren’t exactly specific,” you’re fully aware that your impishness is unappreciated.

  “You don’t sound upset about it.”

  “Hush.”

  Against her will, a small smile plumps her cheeks.

  It’s so easy to get caught up in the technicalities of heroics and schoolwork. On good days and bad days alike.

  It’s in moments like these that she’s reminded just how fun it is to banter.

  “It’s mostly a quirk thing, I think. Definitely a snarker though.”

  She taps her chin distractedly. “Still, he’s a good guy— had our backs through some pretty scary situations, even before he transferred.”

  The teen in question is leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, strong features arched and swimming in the clear waters of amusement when she peeks around the throw pillow.

  A soft hum flickers through the speakers.

  “. . he like women?”

  She calls you again.

  “I’m just asking!”

  “What part of “we’re not close” did you misunderstand?” She phrases it like she’s addressing her siblings.

  “You’re so mean to me sometimes, y’know that?”

  “Ask him yourself then.”

  You let out a sardonic-sounding bark, “yeah, I’mma fly all the way t’ Japan to shoot my shot— not to be weird but do you like black girls— sorry, foreigners?”

  It spits out like a geyser, “He’s not that kind of person.”

  If his vocality towards quirkism truly was genuine as it was passionate, Asui had no qualms about the lilac-head’s ethics and morals.

  Systems of oppression are insidious in that they burrow into any and everything, like garlic in a freezer. Takes something and taints it with it’s putrid touch until the sweet vanilla taste is lost beneath an acrid sea.

  Some point out the change. Some point at them and say it’s saccharine as ever. Others just eat the abomination in silence.

  Shinsō was asocial, not quiet. Never met her unblinking gaze with disgust or sneered as he eyed her tongue for more than a few seconds. 

  “So you know he not ignorant but not if he’s single?” You deadpan.

  “I am.”

  You both jump at the low, rich voice, the frog hero personally biting back an (rare) expletive.

  The purple bastard, presumably tired of playing bystander, saunters by the arm of the couch, allowing her to catch the tail end of his grin before losing sight of him entirely. 

  Faint scuffling behind her tells her he’s not taking any detours and for that, she counts her blessings. However small.

  “And for the record— yeah, I do.” 

  . . something you clearly lack, based on the sheer mortification now practically bleeding through your pores.

  Because of how her laptop camera is set up, Tsuyu can’t actually see him unless she turns around.

  Though whatever it may have been couldn’t have been too far, she supposes; as your pupils eclipse your irises in real time, spreading the chestnut ring thin.

  Within seconds, the ambient silence rolls back in, tranquil yet suffocating. Like a monoxide leak.

  “Tsu.”

  She hums, mulling over ways to get back at the mind control user for actually sneaking up on her.

  “Did you know he was . . ?”

  Absently, she nods.

  The threatening undertones stewing inside your voice begin to boil over. “And you were gonna tell me . . ?”

  “I did.” She ribbits, causing your eye to twitch.

  ”Tsu.”

  “Twice, in fact.”

  ”TSUYU.”

  Shrugging off your anger like it’s a winter coat, her mind can’t help but recall the unexpected smoothness of his speech, little as it was. Fluent, almost natural like he’d practiced his abc’s straight out the womb.

  A swift glance at the forgotten essay has her downturned lips tugging even farther down as the thought continues to pester her.

  Reluctantly, she sighs.

of course.

you roll your eyes, looking into the mirror a final time, ultimately deciding it goes in the “no” pile.

the front falls in your hands right as your ears perk at the sound of the door handle jiggling.

the store attendants would knock or announce themselves before trying to gain entry, and you know it’s not a stranger— not with that lofty, broad-shouldered panther prowling at the door.

if those guns weren’t enough of a deterrent, that mug certainly is.

you look on through the mirror for what feels like forever, chest cinching with every turn, and in that moment you think back; unsure if you’d actually locked it or not.

you call out to him anyway. “Hitoshi?”

“I’m coming in.”

“the hell you are, nig—“ you catch yourself, sputtering at his audacity. “boy, i am changing!”

“happy for you.” light bounces off the glass and on your face once the door finally gives way to the purple haired menace.

you don’t miss the ends of his hair brushing the head of the door.

“it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” oh, you could punch him.

“that was one time, years ago and you weren’t even supposed to be there,” you whisper yell, clutching the top to your chest, close to showing your teeth. “you know how bad this looks? what about your image?”

you can already feel your brain swell, going mad as it calculates the hundreds of ways this could backfire go for either of you should someone want to get trigger happy with their camera.

the door shuts behind him with a deafening silence and unconsciously, you start to edge over to one of the more darker corners.

“you think I don’t know how to check for—“

you know your body’s changed a lot since middle school. both in ways you enjoyed and ways you haven’t. you grew to like the fat in your cheeks, the roundness of your stomach, how soft you felt.

but, brief as it was, you could say with confidence it has never received a look like that—

not from him.

“put it on.”

your nails dig into the cotton as he takes a step closer.

then another.

and another.

and another, until he stands a few inches away.

bemused with your back to the wall, you blink up at him, hyper-cognizant of the energy sparking between you.

how big he must be to block most of the light with his frame alone-

“go on,” he tilts his head as if he needs more leverage to stare you down, and it takes a great deal of restraint to steel your nerves when you see the glint in his eyes shine tenfold. “i’ll help you.”

Shinsō’s expression isn’t quite angry or happy. Not a smile or frown in sight, the closest thing being a brief twitch of the lips, perhaps a muddied mess of the two.

“my hero . . .”

you shuffle a little, snark coming out floatier than you wanted.

like starting an old car, even though it’s mere feet away, it takes awhile to reach the mirror.

your eyes can’t help but draw back to him, presence almost foreboding in the reflective glass.

there’s a nervousness to your movements, heart going close to a mile a minute, staving off the quakes as best as you could.

cat-scratched hands smooth up your arms with a purpose it seems, laboriously slow in their movements as they take in your shakiness until your wrists are fully embraced.

they pull forward, carefully revealing the bandeau you’d put on before you left the house.

opening your eyes (when had they closed?) you startle to see he’s looking dead at you, absolutely shameless in his visual exploration even as he takes the top out your grasp.

“the hell would you do without me?” it hardly comes out, it’s so low and warm.

you just stare, afraid of what’ll slip should you attempt to speak.

he slips your arms in with a delicacy you rarely see him offer to humans— a true cat person at heart— you feel like a cherished doll.

he moves from your face to your back, thankfully saying nothing about the way your spine straightens under his gaze.

you try not to dawdle on how or why he’s able to lace it up as quick as he does, a pretty easy feat once he finishes up, patting the middle of your back in an assuring manner.

still staring ahead, you watch in silence as he rests his chin on your crown.

watch him watch you.

mooring his eyes to your soul, those sturdy fingers snake from your lumbar to the fat of your waist, calluses catching every jitter. heavy breaths massage the curve of your spine and you feel blood rushing to your skull when the other set sits just below your ribs.

it’s too much.

“‘toshi?”

his nose flares, like he’s restraining himself; a hypothesis that proves true as his hands begin to knead sporadically.

your neck grows heavier and heavier, eyelids eventually following suit, until you’re falling into his chest.

“I was wrong,” you can’t tell if he’s murmuring to you or himself.

the declaration weighs heavy in the confined space, and for a moment, you wonder how none of the associates have noticed his absence.

“. . . don’t look bad at all.”

needless to say, you end up buying the top.

He’s come a long way. Watching the boy’s progress in real time had him sifting through a rather complex series of emotions that he still, to this day, a year after the war; wrangled with.

It was a struggle, but what else was new?

Least this one was actually welcome.

“I don’t know how Eri puts up with it. The hovering, the demands—“

The call should have ended ten minutes ago.

Normally, he’d be crouched over his laptop looking over a mountain of schoolwork, brain running on fumes as he graded and graded and graded. The kid held an “almost eerie” resemblance to him, as Hizashi loved to remind him, including his disdain for needless chitchat.

Now that he’s part of his class, the demand for individual training went down significantly, taking to “after school lessons”.

Yet here he was, almost half an hour in, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, consciously glancing at the framed photo above his hallway dresser— twenty precious grins staring back at him. Reflecting a certain softness in his beady eyes.

He huffs softly through his nose. “Not as much as you’d think.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Through his subsequent mumbled remarks, honed ears catch an uplift of noise in the background. Clicking, a bit of shuffling, as if someone just walked in on their conversation.

But the kid— junior year doesn’t sound annoyed at all. In fact, he gets louder, practically throwing his voice around without a care in the world.

So Shōta knew exactly who it was.

Thank god he had the sense to move his phone away.

Afternoon or not, it was too damn early for that level of noise.

“Ito-ya!”

Biting back a groan, Shinsō steps back from the dresser housing his phone, tossing his freshly folded hoodie into the suitcase strewn across his bed with an ignorable strength.

Prepping for the new semester was more of a hassle than he expected.

He’d been busy all week. What with hero studies, volunteering occasionally at the local animal clinic, and the frustrating practice of cultivating his time-management skills; half of his “off-time” was spent in bed or working out. Sleeping off the stress of the day, just to re-accumulate it by the end of the night. None too satisfied with his sleep, the undersides of his eyelids still dark despite his hours averaging at six.

It sucked, to put it bluntly. For a multitude of reasons he’d care not to share.

An adjustment for sure, but a necessary one so he falls back on old habits— biting his tongue, leaving his complaints to rot at the bottom of his throat. God forbid he fuck up his dream because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Whether or not that’s actually possible is uncertain, what with him being a second year and all. To him, it didn’t matter.

He wasn’t born yesterday. Having observed the institutions of power since the moment his quirk had manifested, and it wasn’t a factor he was willing to chance.

Call him a cynic— you won’t dare call him wrong, as somehow, someway, should “they” want to, they’d surely find a way.

All they needed was a reason.

Striding over and twisting the gilded knob, he pokes his head out, ”어?”

”내— 야! 입 조심해 꼬맹이! 내 손녀가 여기 있어!”

Ashen purple looks ahead at wall, unamused. All too acquainted with his grandmother’s lack of filter and not-at-all-hidden penchant for (teasing) pissing him off.

He rolls his eyes, ”집어치워!”

She’s already yelling some choice words by the time he turns back inside, not that he’s listening.

God’s sake, she must love the sound of her own voice— that’s the most logical line of reasoning he can come up with as to why the woman nags so much. Worse than-

”Is that my cue?” Sensei’s droll timbre intones.

The teen lets out a disgusted noise. Mischief suddenly tugging at his lips as he dropped onto the edge of the mattress, next to the dwindling pile of clothes. ”I know you’re ancient but isn’t she a little old for you?”

A choked sort of noise cuts through the quiet ambiance and his grin splits his face in two.

Gross as it was, he found his grandma’s supposed “crush” on the man downright hilarious. Largely due in part to the man’s initial reaction.

Or lack thereof.

One evening the rain had grown so intensive that training was next to impossible, which typically wouldn’t be enough for Sensei to cancel. Hell, knowing him, he’d take advantage of it for another “teachable moment”.

Except with fall leering around the corner, he wouldn’t risk falling even further behind in his education all because he got the sniffles.

“Self-care” and all that.

Being in the bathroom, he wasn’t there to witness the moment personally, instead having to gather context clues based on the sight of her fanning herself on the couch, murmuring to herself in a hushed manner, his car long gone. The silence that lingered. As well as the awkward, almost shy demeanor from his teacher on the rare occasion when he dropped him off on his porch, like he didn’t know how to react.

Petty, yes, but the humiliation made his sting a bit less.

Actually shocked the hell out of him, for the simple fact that Shinsō could recall with just one hand, the amount of men he’d seen at her side— that being himself and his grandpa.

Before she divorced him anyways.

Shinsō looks toward the ceiling and sighs, eyes crinkling at the edges as he says, ”I mean, gross, but s’whatever. You’re both consenting adults, who am I to get in the way of true-“

”Pushing it.”

His smirk wanes when he hears the soft pad of feet outside. Fast and steady— on a mission.

Honest to God, that woman was stubborn as stubborn could get. Couldn’t let go of a grudge to save her life, lungs for days; he wouldn’t be shocked if she’d lied on her drivers license because her quirk couldn’t possibly be anything other than “Mule”.

Grabbing another undershirt, his back to the cracked door, years-old retorts begin shaping his tongue. More than prepared to re-engage with this foolish game of intergenerational cat-and-mouse.

He was a man of logic. Truthfully, he was.

Not strictly, though his mom didn’t have many complaints.

Age be damned, a common criticism he used to receive from teachers was in regards to his supposed “lack of interest” in the curriculum, or, more commonly, “misbehavior”.

A whole lot of words to say they couldn’t read him like most kids (more likely, they couldn’t be assed to) and he wouldn’t put up with their showboating, adultist crap quietly.

She never bought any of it. Her, nor her mother— not her boy.

Her “brilliant little iris” who, up until his first year of preschool, wouldn’t even speak to anyone unless she did it first. Tiny fists tucked into the back of her leg, scared yet curious of the unknown around him.

Yet, somehow, with family, that flies out the window and just like that, he’s ten again. Exchanging barbs with his classmates, bullies and otherwise.

The grey square is placed into the suitcase and he’s reaching for the pile again when he’s greeted with what feels like a slap to the face.

“How’s my baby~?”

That voice. All warm and sweet.

He could drown in it.

Did she mess with the thermostat? is all there is to think because, yes, Hyun Hitoshi has and absolutely would take it there, but where did this heat come from? His ears, hands, cheeks, chest, his everything; feels like he’s standing in front of an open oven.

Black sweatpants sprawl across the floor, the space between his curled fingers now glaringly empty— wide eyes boring into the comforter.

The sound of creaking wood falls deaf as that was . . new.

Stupid of him to think he’d heard it all— Toto, “Big Head”, Fivehead, Dickhead, (it’s not that big, dammit) Wise-ass, sir—

Fuck, you drove him crazy with that—

His spine twitches, a feeble attempt from his spiraling nervous system, offering just enough steam for him to try and regulate it himself.

Pushing a silent breath through his nose, he peers over his shoulder.

”What does it look like-?”

Knelt near his bed, right inside his blind spot, you burrow your smile in soft, silken patchwork— cradling the little shit that had vanished underneath his bed a few hours prior, the calico’s engine running full throttle in your lap. Propped up on your chest, bunting your face with hers and whatever quip he was about to say evaporates on the spot.

You draw back, wooden beads and golden hoops clattering in the air, staring into what feels like his soul. All he can do is watch the gears turn through the micro-expressions shuffling around your face.

Tsk.

The smack of your lips is an omen. Deafening in the sense of an impending danger, making his skin hum with anxiety.

“. . now you know good and well,”

His ears burn at your tone. The one mostly reserved for his more . . . rash escapades. Getting ahead of himself and burning through his internal reserves, allowing his ego to get the better of him. When he’d show up at your door with an awkward edge to his saunter, wincing from your touch as it agitated his bruises.

”Yo’ daddy get on my nerves, you know that?” you murmur cutely to the little traitor, all curled up in your arms like you’d never left. Her second home. “Just wanna grab’m and-“

His eye twitches. ”In my defense, she was not there before.”

”Really?” you say, huffing through your nose, “She came out to greet me.”

He blinks, ”’cause you spoil her.”

”As I should!” you proclaim, outraged at the implication. Pouting up at him with those lips, rubbing your cheek against Anko’s head. “Old baby deserves to be spoiled. Ain’t that right, babygirl?

She smothers you back with gusto while you coo, “poor lady- can’t even live out your days in peace ‘cause your daddy’s a hater-“

Even with his body threatening to overheat, a hint of a smile manages to slip through the cracks. Bashful. Enjoying the view.

Picking up his sweats, he turns his head a ways, looking at the blank space ahead as he folds and tosses it inside the suitcase.

”Whatever.”

Your voice becomes the perfect backdrop for his ears, asphyxiating his wandering thoughts. His shoulders quake silently as your rants encompass the room, as if it’s always been there.

His second home.

”Ain’t no “whatever”, I thought respecting the elderly was a key component of y’alls culture…”

It’s true that time tends to pass by faster when you’re having fun.

However, it doesn’t register just how much time has passed until you get up to use the restroom, leaving him in the wake of your presence.

Without the constant stimuli that is you, boredom quickly sets in, prompting him to look at his phone. The boy temporally looking around in confusion when his pockets turn up empty.

“The hell is— oh.”

Eyes landing on the dresser, he slides off the bed, grabbing it and turning the screen face-up— his expression coming to a halt as his brain registers the thin red bar in the corner of the call screen.

”. . . shit.”

A deep chuckle crackles through the receiver and he runs a hand across his face, groaning under his breath.

“Just shut it, alright?”

this is a part of my childhood best friend!shinsō series, so, if you’ve already seen this, no you haven’t 🚶🏽‍♀️

“you wanted to try new foods.”

“I also said I needed a sugar daddy.” you snark.

it was a turn of phrase. spoken lightly, in jest.

. . mostly.

“what happened to the money i gave you?” he asks, stirring what was left of the reduction.

“groceries.”

his arm stalls.

pitching your voice a bit higher, you tuck your face into the refuge of your sleeve, “I couldn’t think of anything else.”

in truth, your life’s been a blur in these past few months. 

from workplace and family drama, to health scares and…looming socioeconomic realities-

it’s a miracle you managed to get out of bed most mornings.

your skin rattles at the faint click of his tongue, peeking over your forearm, trailing his movements unconsciously as he twists the knob down to zero, careful to set the pan on an inactive burner then ambling over to the dish cabinet.

“…you’ll get more.”

“kento, you don’t-“

“you’ll get more.” he parrots, scooping some of the dish on a plate without mess, his pace unchanged. 

like it was never a question.

your lashes flutter wildly, fighting the sudden flow of steam warming your chin— the thin ceramic landing on the table in front of you with unnerving quiet.

he’s quick to follow suit, the majority of his mess long accounted for, sliding into the chair across from you. his sights falling not to his plate, 

but yours.

at one point, before you had gotten engaged, nanami had likened you to a flower.

it had been your second anniversary; a quiet day spent lounging in the park, food and drink sprawled out over a large quilt, protected by a dense, leafy shade. a thin black envelope tucked between an array of pink roses. 

he didn’t write much- not unless you count email-

but that day, it felt appropriate.

back in the states, his grandmother worked at a flower nursery, and had actually grown to pick up the hobby long after she’d retired.

enough to have her very own greenhouse.

as a boy, it became an outstanding memory of his— hunched down in the garden, knees deep in dirt and weeds, running around the backyard. her honeyed words of wisdom and encouragement nudging him to and fro.

never rushing.

he could still see it; the hot sun bouncing off the wide brim of her straw hat. the dirt under his nails. he could still feel the tickle of petals and leaves against his ankles as he maneuvered through the brush, watching the fruits of his labor bear root in a way he’d never quite appreciated before.

and it’s here that he watches, taking small, detailed notes.

such as the way your expression dims. tensing slightly around the edges, like you’re trying not to make a face.

there’s no offense in his gaze. no rolling of his eyes, no brewing sighs— 

only an informed understanding.

distantly, he registers a vibration near his foot. the faint squeaking of wood and vinyl— your restlessness echoing through the floorboards. staring down at your plate as though it would rise up and bite you instead.

it’s not something you’d normally eat. 

you don’t eat a lot of things, he later learned.

though, mostly due to your parents lack of filter.

drove them crazy growing up— breakfast, lunch, and dinner a constant ordeal. 

you couldn’t understand it. why were you the only one not allowed to enjoy your food? why was it always you who had to nut up or “compromise” at the risk of a sore ass and an empty stomach? 

you didn’t want to be “bad”, you didn’t want to be “picky”

you just wanted to be heard.

to have a meal that didn’t make you feel lesser than.

a warmth quietly encapsulates your knee. his thumb moving along the ridge of your patella in light drags, taking in all the minute quivers.

your stomach ripples unpleasantly. deep set pulls at your throat causing you to shuffle in your seat. dampened palms opening and closing in self-imposed agony, your body all but rejecting it out of principle. 

you crane your head towards the ceiling, eyelids cinching shut as you spit, “this is stupid.”

“it’s a work in progress.” he states.

no fluff, all patience.

as time went on, you accepted it. 

after all, what type of person gets upset at someone for knowing what they like?

you ignored it all. the laughter, the little comments, the lip smacking— pretending that every segment of derision didn’t cut through your self esteem like a hot knife.

“you don’t have to finish it.”

slowly, he travels up the length of your thigh. a chilling trail being left in his wake as he bides his time. weaving his fingers through your shaky ones, calmly unraveling your death grip on your pants with little more than a few tugs. his touch like a security blanket with how swiftly you latch on to it. 

he gives a light squeeze. “don’t even have to swallow it.”

adamant to avoid looking his way, your eyes land on his plate. the trails of steam fainter than you remembered. 

you bite your cheek.

“y-your food-“

“will be fine.” 

his cadence remains the same. no pitch, no dip. 

no judgement.

another squeeze— his grip slipping out from yours to clasp your hand altogether, absorbing the shocks with ease. his thumb parses the inside of your wrist with that familiar tenderness that never failed to make your heart race and your mind still.

“you can do it.” he speaks softly, still carrying that soft edge in his voice mentally jotting down the ratcheting of your pulse as he catalogs the progression of your upset.

there’d been one plant in particular.

bright. promising. expensive but “worth it”, his grandmother said.

nanami hated it.

he hated how gaudy it looked. how much space it took. 

more importantly, he hated the upkeep.

water it, but not too much. add some ground up eggshells and god knows what else to help keep the ph down. move it around every couple of hours or else the leaves may start to burn.

oh, and don’t forget to change the soil bi-monthly or it’ll become too hard for the water to actually penetrate-

he couldn’t understand it. the weeds in the sidewalk grew just fine. the trees, the grass, the petunias scattered around his mother’s yard. 

it’s a damn flower, how could they be so needy?

“ken, i’m just gonna-“

“it won’t go to waste.” he affirms. his tone too committed to be anything less than a promise. 

while not born into abject poverty, you’d mentioned offhandedly how frugal your family had been growing up.

the ways in which it manifested— some of whom he had the pleasure of never thinking of.

and when you finally brought him over to meet them for the first time; a family function held on your cousins estate, your parents were all too joyous to tell him about your dietary habits,

or lack thereof. 

it didn’t exactly come as a surprise. back when you were still dating, you rarely liked to go out, and would often shoo away his suggestions for bars or restaurants in favor of “saving money” or ordering out. 

as if he’d spend all this money on himself.

you also tended to avoid eating in front of him, gave excuses upon excuses when asked why, and when those eventually ran out, he quickly noted you spent more time picking at your food than actually eating it. 

you’re still chewing yourself raw when he lifts your hand up to his face. 

your lips part silently as he imparts a kiss to your quivering knuckle, the heat of his lips inadvertently causing your gaze to sling back to his— his eyes, hooded with a warmth that settles in your cheeks, bearing back at you with quiet intensity. the small, winged heart etched into the thick gold band tickling his cupid’s bow. 

like looking down a smoking barrel.

then, your palm meets cool metal— his fingers tensing around yours, settling your grip for you.

with a squeeze to your wrist, he pulls away when the fork doesn’t rattle. the legs of his chair briefly protesting the sheer power and muscle concealed beneath his white collar get-up, leaning back into the seat with a finality that manages to quell most of the butterflies in your stomach. 

your chest wavers with uncharted breaths, releasing a breath you had no clue you were holding. the gravity of his presence landing like a misstep.

you watch with trepidation as he finally gathers his fork. “i even used those noodles you liked.”

he did. 

he’s nice like that.

it disgusts you when you think about it for too long. 

not that he cares, not that he failed— 

but that he tried.

it was that easy.

no griping. no whining about how annoying you were, how selfish.

you told him and he’d listened. 

guiding the prongs up to your lips, their sharpness warps and dulls. the bright overhead lights glinting off the barely steaming morsel stretching into thin streaks of color, gradually clouding your vision until the food in front of you is inscrutable from that of an abstract painting.

…

sniff

if the rim of your sclera blooms pink with every blink, he chooses not to comment on it.

you don’t finish.

minutes later, his plate now virtually empty, he stands. his shadow encroaching upon your space as he steps over to your side. 

before you can say anything— i’m sorry- i-i can eat more- you knew i wasn’t— your winding thoughts all come to a shrieking halt when he leans down, your breath catching as he places a simple peck to your forehead. 

your nerves hum as he lingers seconds longer than necessary. your skin writhing jubilantly atop your bones,  face frozen in shock before he straightens himself up and walks away, your plate in hand. 

“good job.”

good.

the proud lift to his lips worms its way into your cheeks, warming you from the inside. the butterflies livelier than ever, romping about your stomach like a loctus swarm as you watch him rip out a long sheet of tinfoil.

in time, he’d understood. 

the care. the preparation that portended it. the patience that it cultivated.

at the sink, he’s rinsing off the dishes, watching the soapy gunk taint the colorless water when a familiar pair of arms begin to wrap along the small of his waist. their movements slow, as if expecting opposition.

then- a pressure at his side. 

he hums, low and probing.

“love you.” you manage to muster, shy and muffled against his shirt.

the plate sinks silently to the bottom.

turning his neck, but not all the way, he’s met with the view of your crown; your shroud of curls obstructing the top half of your face, tucked so carefully into the bend of his ribs, beneath the sprawl of his arm, like you were hiding from the world.

surrounded.

like there’s no place you’d rather be. 

something inside him twinges.

tugging off a glove, he reaches down below the counter, your hands linked at his navel, untangling them with a gentleness that just came naturally with you.

dipping his chin, his movements deliberate as he lays a kiss on the soft of your wrist, drawing back only to press down even harder— the gesture saying everything his lips didn’t.

his back burns with the brand of your smile.

the flower was needy, yes. 

strange. time-consuming. far more trouble than what was disclosed.

but, even he had to admit, it was the prettiest bloom he’d ever seen.