kiss me on the mouth ;; set me free

Eyes widen in pure shock. The word hits him like a slap to the face. No, even harder. He hadn’t anticipated that the other would so boldly call it a date.

And maybe it was for giggs, maybe just because the option unfolded in the spur of the moment, but he found himself taking it to heart. A date. With him?? 

Sounded more like a joke. Was probably meant to be taken as one too.

   othello doesn’t even give his words much thought. for someone who supposedly studies the eloquence of words, maybe he should. maybe he should stop giving poor adrian heart attacks like the one he saw in his eyes just a moment ago. but othello doesn’t react, doesn’t let on any kind of response to that. if he did, wouldn’t that just complicate it somehow?

   he doesn’t want to think about that. real dates are messy. 

   real dates are something he’s buried in the background with old kisses and hurting words.

     “i can try”

   he keeps his relaxed smile, even throws a joke in there too.

He’s distracted by the mere sight of a content Othello. It’s almost aggrivating how endearing he looks when he’s tired. What?

An easy smile rise on his lips as he huffs and begins making the coffee for both. 

Ever since he’d discovered Othello’s sweet tooth, the small detail about him had just stayed on his mind. Now he was even able to make the same brew of coffee that suited his taste without asking.

     “guess i should say thank you to every hipster in the world then”

   as if you’re not borderline one yourself. but he chuckles, straightening up a little just to lean on the counter and watch magic happen. because it counts as magic, it does, when it manages to wake him up in the morning and keep his attention.

   he’ll fall asleep later probably. if, by some unlucky chance of fate, adrian has to deal with that, then so be it. othello is not the best house guest, but he is the best house ornament. he’s certain he’s cute when he dozes.

     “what about breakfast too?”

   his curious gaze goes to the cupboards around him.

     “...do you have poptarts?”

   he deserves it, yeah. that doesn’t make him any less afraid of that tone though.

     “i’m— i’m sorry!”

   he puts his hands up in defense, and actually takes a tentative step away. he’s not great at a lot of things relating to confrontation, actually. if he toes the line on people’s nerves, he turns into a scared cat.

     “i— i didn’t mean to piss you off more!”

“Aren’t you just saying that because you don’t want to make it yourself?“ Though he claims that the other is just being lazy, he neverthless grabs the mug handed to him and proceeds to make coffee without further protests.

Adrian has very few weak points; but somehow, Othello’s doe-eyes had snuck into the list before he was even aware. Now he just found it hard even trying to resist, so he gave up the effort.

     “...yes”

   awful. the wide and wanting look slips when that little grin creeps in.

   he revels in his victory, and even if that ruffle was meant to be a jab at his height again, he’s only left bright and smiling still (was that even a happy little hum? he’s tired). he folds his arms across the counter top, leans against it with his head nestled in the softness of his sleeve fabric. he cuts adrian a little slack while he watches him go about his daily habit of caffeine. he didn't fight back, after all.

“Sure?” He brings the straw up to his lips and drains the cup of its’ liquid, biting on the straw like the child he is when there’s nothing left to drink. 

Adrian is well aware of the food crisis happening at Othello’s home. He’s been first-hand witness to whatever kind of ‘cooking skills’ this boy believed he had. 

You really can’t call fast or microwaved food cooking. It’s an insult to someone like him, who was able to at least decently cook. Growing up with a sister and somewhat busy parents sure did the trick. 

     “alright. it’s a date”

   way to get in there fast and mooch, othello.

     “you know better than i do in the kitchen though”

   he’s not useless, he’s survived for this long, so that’s something. if he was really that big of a lost cause, he’d have picked out the roses for his grave by now. he can read the back of soup can labels and press a few numbers on a keypad. that totally counted.

   he’d been too busy to listen or borrow any cookbooks before he moved out, too long with his head in the clouds and chasing idle dreams to remember how long things took in the oven and what spice gave what flavor. he didn’t want to be a chef. it didn’t matter to him.

   othello stuffs his hands into his pockets too, keeping them cozy when he hops off his seat.

     “you should teach me sometime”

    “—does it count if i ask how you are though?”

  he shouldn't try being cocky. he’s not strong or a good runner.

“.. No?“ That doesn’t even answer the question Adrian. He just doesn’t know. A moment is taken to think about different situations he’d most likely never find himself in. But in the end, he concludes he’d die in the middle.

     “—yeah, probably”

   he’s not even going to fight it. he just fills his fist with more popcorn, and watches the nightmares happen.

     “i’m not that great at running from things. maybe i’d get eaten alive”

   how very festive of him, thinking up his own bloody demise. he’s kind of curious, but he’d also like to live and not breach into something terrible out of curiosity. that’s what kills wandering kittens like him.

“What? Trying to piss you off?? Of course not, I would never.” He replies with the most monotone voice he could manage, staring blankly at the male. It’s never too early for being sarcastic.

But it’s too early to be awake. Adrian grabs two cups, giving one of them to Othello. He sighs deeply.

   it’s far too early to be sarcastic.

     “me first”

   somehow, he’s like a light switch, he was annoyed a second ago, but now he’s like a kid trying to get some attention. both hands cup the mug, but he just tilts it back in adrian’s direction, with doe-eyes and lazy excuses.

     “—you make the best coffee”