vidia

“what’s wrong? you’ve been in a dry spell with me since this morning.” you notice his messages are just barely a sentence, his tone lack the usual warmth he brings, you think maybe he’s just tired — but then you already asked him a couple of times and denied it. your phone goes silent as you plunge yourself to your mattress, your clothes and bag and even your desk all left unattended, your letter unfinished with the pen still uncapped. 

a beat lingered, stretched with a quiet tension in your gut, he says, “nothing.”

“what are you up to?” 

“just finished my workout, i’m fine.” 

you check the time, close to a late evening. you rub your eyes from the weary, trying and failing to understand how far gravity can pull you in this moment, how long will you wire it gently until you’re poised to snap. you’re tired, you should be sleeping by now, he should be sleeping by now. 

maybe it’s best to disengage, it doesn’t seem like he’s willing to have this conversation anyway, “okay then, i’m gonna head to bed-”

“i don’t know—” abrupt, you feel the hesitation pressing around his throat, the breath of someone who’s been holding in for too long, “you just keep disappearing right after you text me.” 

”…what?” 

“just tell me you’re busy.”

“i- i am busy, kei. you know that.” fuck. you don’t mean to raise your voice. you’ve been crawling your way out of this hellhole for days, sure you’re not big into valentines, the grandness of gifts overflowing is all a sickening part of capitalism— but god, you just want to be wrapped in his arms so badly already. “i still text you though?” 

“i usually ask first. you don’t even send photos anymore.” his voice cuts through the line, snappy. “and you just keep leaving me on read before you could reply an hour after, don’t you ever think that’s rude?” 

“don’t you ever think that i never blamed you when you do that?!”  

“hey.” 

“you didn’t even ask me if i was okay this morning.” 

“i didn’t know if we were good.” 

“how the hell can we be good now?”

“i’m not— i’m not trying to pick a fight with you.”

your head spins and splits, a sharp inhale sears your chest without meaning to. guilt and regret mixed in your mouth, a hint of something bitter coated on the tongue. 

you swallow nonetheless. expelling your thoughts through a soft, slow exhale from your nose. a murmur comes like a ghost to soothe. “sure, kei.”

“i’m not asking you to be available all the time. just. give me a heads up if you can’t update.” you hear him shift through the phone, every word brings a pause, voice heavy with hurt, “i really miss you, i keep…waiting for you to tell me about your day, even though the first thing on your mind when you get home is rest.” he heaves a sigh, you can imagine him shaking his head, purse his lips instead of frowning, graze the free edge of his nails between fingertips. “and i’m sorry if—”

“no.” you know what he’s sorry for, “don’t apologize for asking. it’s not too much.” 

you tell him you’ll do better. ask him if he could remind you tomorrow so you can share your week with him. you know this doesn’t suffice, but you’re doing the best that you can. and he tells you just as much.

“i want to let you know that i’m proud of you, you deserve the rest,” he says your name like it could whisk away the bruise, a very calm, comforting balm draping your skin. “sweet dreams, i’ll see you soon.” 

if you dream long enough about it, he could be here with you, sleeping soundly. his voice is as quiet as the soft, pitter patter of rain outside.  you hope to be with him very soon, indeed. 

➽──────────────❥

how can you love someone without being selfless? or better yet, how can you love someone without being selfish? 

tsukishima kei is no poet, but he thinks that selfishness and selflessness are just two sides of the same coin, minted from the desperate need to matter. and if he isn’t a poet, he’s definitely a thief, for he takes away the fairness in flipping that coin, he can’t allow blind faith to determine its landing; today, he chooses selfishness, and he dares fate to try and pry his knuckles open. 

he justifies it—he spent six long and tired days without seeing you, much less have you in a space where time could feel irrelevant. no, he’s not really into valentines either, but if it meant he’d have the chance to soak himself in your very presence today without feeling cringe of himself to come up with an excuse, then he’ll take it without a scoff. 

even if the universe plans on thrusting the blame on him, even if fate makes it a point to make this special day his problem. 

he’s not sure if he’s awaken by your notification (which is personalized so that he’s free to ignore everyone else) or the drizzling rain, or maybe the way his feet’s grown numbly cold because he’s still using a blanket too small for his size, he kicks it aside and tries to reach for his glasses, the chill of the room pooling around his ankles, reminding him of your absence. 

he immediately replies to your good morning and— suddenly your chat bubble pops up, you sent a picture of yourself without makeup, and he doesn’t miss the puffiness around your eyes. did you cry on call? 

you look beautiful. 

thank you kei, i’ll be heading out soon. just have to get this PE done and over

GOD i hate curl ups

warm up first okay? i’ll go to the gym while i wait for you

o-kei

i love you. 

i love you too, kei <3

he knows you and the molded lines on your face, he thinks this one text of yours could look like your warm smile he’s aching to see. 

he gets up right as you locked your door and head to your university. 

➽──────────────❥

an hour and a half later, in the haze of fluorescent lights and squeaky sneakers on school gym floors, you’re drenched in sweat and the physical manifestation of the week’s weight, your core strained. you had to manipulate some trials and write down a number fitting enough for your professor to not suspect. plus, you feel dirty, you might need a shower after this. 

you kind of hoped for the sun to appear, but the sky cries louder, fields of murky gray greet you as you finally exit from the campus. you smell the petrichor through the air, february expanding itself as time slows. you fish out your phone while holding your umbrella, hoping to meet your solitude and tell him you’re here—

look up, idiot

“huh?” 

across the street, there he stands in one of the awnings, tall and looking half-unbothered but mostly keeping his stare fixed at you. he’s a terrible eyesore even from afar— too calm and well composed and everything you’ve been missing—and when you check before crossing and duck under the awning to join him, he catches your wrist first before sliding it down to your hand. your heart stutters at the sight of him, you say, out of breath. “hi.” 

“you look like you’re about to collapse." he suppresses a chuckle, voice low but enough to hear him while the crowd of students disperse. his free hand rummages through his small duffel bag as he hands you his water bottle. 

he brushes your hair behind your ear, some passerby spared him a glance before turning to their friend, whispering. and you have to admit that maybe he’s been admiring for however long he was standing here from faces you don’t want to acknowledge. it makes you a little bit insane, and jealous. 

he interlaces his fingers with yours, watches you finish drinking before you tuck it in his bag yourself. a smirk hovers your lips, “is that a way to greet your girlfriend?” 

“i’m not here to be polite,” he says, thumb rubbing the back of your knuckles in such a conscious way, fair skin and soft to touch, you feel your palms start to sweat, “i’m here to take you home, and i’m staying.” 

he doesn’t let go of your hand the entire time. your shoes are soon drenched from the amassing puddles, and you find yourself laughing at him as he mumbles a steady stream of curses—stupid rain and fuck valentines and god, i hate traffic. he directs sharp glares at passing cars with enough venom that you’re almost ready to find him a brick to throw.

the tension of last night’s call still hums in the back of your mind, but it softens every time you look at him. on the subway, the city blurs outside the window, and you feel his shoulders finally drop their guard the moment you lean your head against him. waiting for the next stop, you look up at him. beneath the reflection on his thick-lensed glasses, he wears a face of exhaustion he hides so well. 

you remain quiet with the revelation, despite how he stands in the high podium, his tired bones match yours perfectly. you like to think, at this moment, that you’re not shrinking into his shadow anymore — you’re just two people leaning on each other, and that neither of you has to fall. 

and when you’re finally fumbling with your keys, the heat of his palm found on your lower back grounds you, invites you once the door clicks shut. the silence of your apartment feels more of a sanctuary than a void. 

you drop both your bags, “i’m gonna shower, the gym floors were disgusting.”

he sheds his damp jacket, removes his glasses and let it rest on your table, and without any judgement he glances at the way your shoulders droop, “go. i’m coming with you.”  

oh. 

you’re…a little dumbfounded, and maybe it shows on your face because kei blinks in realization and his ears go red and he clarifies, “only if you want to—”

”i do.” you shy away your gaze, “i want to.” 

“are you sure?”

”yeah.” you’ve always wanted to. to understand what’s it like to be inexplicably close, what it means to be taken care of, how your hands will learn every place he can’t reach. 

at this point, you’re just finding reasons to be close to him, and if he realizes this, you hope he doesn’t mind.  

the bathroom fills with steam, you sigh in relief at the warm droplets meeting your skin, the sound of water hitting the tiles bounces through the walls in a muffled rhythm, less harsh than the cool unrelenting rain. he follows suit, and you have to quell your racing heart at the sight of him. here, you feel vulnerable—so intimately bare. here, possibly, nothing else matters. 

he takes the soap from your hand, large palms slick with foam. “turn around baby,” he whispers, like the air feels fragile— fingers careful around the slope of your shoulder, travels down to the curve of your spine, circle motions around your stomach and a delicate slide to your chest.

“wash my hair too?” you ask, looking at the floor than at him. 

you hear him hum behind you, “okay, let me finish lathering you first.” 

there is something profoundly selfish about the way he handles you, intent in his gentleness, like he knows already how rough you are with yourself. knows a lot about you, actually. but it feels more selfless than anything, he scrubs away your tender spots off of you until you feel lighter, without question, without hesitation. 

he uses your favorite shampoo, gives your head a massage you never knew you needed. 

you feel like crying. 

when it’s your turn, your hands tremble, you trace all the familiar, sharp lines of his back, feeling the way he bows his head to let you reach. he’s so tall he has to hunch under the spray, and a chuckle escapes you before you could stop. he side glances, a soft smile playing his lips, pale yellow lashes fluttering around droplets that look like jewels. he gives you a look, a tease, bangs sticking to his forehead. 

you say, “stop that.” (don’t, though.) 

“stop what?” 

you both hold each other’s gazes like a mini staring contest, his cheeks blooming. he gives up eventually with a sigh, shaking his head, and bare his neck to you—wants you to keep going. 

you continue to wash him in silence, humming a tune that echoes. he seems so firm as a whole, but under your touch, he is anything but. you find it remarkable how unguarded he is with you, how soft he is with you— makes you love him a whole lot more. 

“i love you.” you do. 

he turns around at that, breaching the small space by pressing his lips against yours as if he could translate the words in your mouth. one hand cradles your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone with a reverence that makes your knees unbearably weak, while the other hooks you by the waist, pulling you flush against the lean, warm length of him.

between the infinitesimal gap he mutters, “i love you too.” he stays there for a moment, forehead on to yours. “we’re good now, right?”

“yeah?”

“good.” he nods, as if to confirm it. 

later, when you’re wrapped up in oversized towels, he suggests getting takeout while you find clothes that would fit him. hand out your electric blanket so he feels warmer. you end up wearing his old and worn out highschool jersey for…nostalgic reasons. and he pretends it doesn’t affect him but pulls you in with him on the bed a little rougher than he should, making you melt with him as he asks if you could recount your week.

he ignores the dampness of your hair and plants a kiss to your scalp, plants another and let it grow into thousands— when you’re done finally sharing your part, he takes you in selfishly, capturing your lips with a sort of wholeness, and a lifetime to spare. 

➽──────────────❥