to be in love with a greek texan

Laughter was bounding through the studio from every direction. It echoes off the walls, tickling ears, and results in Damien’s now flushed expression. The large monitor advertising the latest meme projected one centered around Damien’s habit of nicknaming every person he came in contact with, which sparked light conversation in the current round of Who Memed It?

Shayne inquires, “Wait, what’s everyone’s name here?” His pointer finger makes a small circle, indicating those currently on set. Damien provides them, alongside a brief explanation which the blonde host also pesters him for. 

“It just feels better. I’m probably just all messed up in the head.” His broad shoulders lift in a shrug as he offers a sheepish grin to the camera. More askew name drops occur, including cast members and some of the crew encompassing you behind the camera. While you were unsure about your boyfriend’s impromptu invite this morning to his work, part of you is now grateful for saying yes. It isn’t often you see him this bashful, nor see the unwavering passion for what he does lit behind his chocolate eyes. 

Angela--or Aungaluh, if you're Damien--chirps amidst the conversation. “What’s your nickname for Y/N?” She tilts her head in your direction, and now it becomes your turn to sport red cheeks and an awkward baring of teeth. 

“Y’know, she doesn’t have one. I guess saying her name just always feels right.” His eyes turn to bore into yours, ortund voice drenched in sincerity. For a moment, it feels like you two are the only people in the room. No other words need to be said--the fond tug on your heart at his comment is enough for you. 

Your teeth chatter at a louder decibel than the wind outside it seems, as Wilbur cranes his neck away from the television and toward your trembling figure. Bundling yourself to the nines earlier in the day couldn’t make you impervious to the cold front carefully approaching England, and the goosebumps dotting your skin beneath your boyfriend’s sweater are proof. As the front door closes behind you with a soft click, you observe the man in question jutting out his lip in a pout.

“Awe, pet.” He coos and stands from his seat on the couch. “I told you to layer up.” Wilbur approaches you with pitiful eyes and open arms.

“I did, three times if we’re counting.” You fall into his embrace without a second thought, and a sigh blows through your parted lips. If not for being in the warmth of Wilbur’s home and arms, a familiar gust of white fog would have traced your hot breath.

“Well, I’ve got some soup warm on the stove for you…” he attempts to conclude your embrace but is halted by your arms latched around his waist, refusing to buckle. You whine. He chuckles.

This recent weather has left you two in an unchanging routine.

“That cold, huh? Alright…” curiously, you peer up and maintain contact with the coffee-colored eyes shielded by unruly straggles of hair. His hands come together above your head and he gently slides them back and forth together, creating a warm friction.

Once separated, each palm gives equal attention to your swollen cheeks. Your lips form a pucker as he gently, but affectionately squishes your face. The feeling of warmth swarming against the apples of your cheeks implores you to roll your eyes back and moan with contentment.

“Better?”

“Much.” The word is said like a drunken slur due to your cheeks folding over the corners of your growing smile, but you manage.

“Good,” he smiles to himself and puckers his lips. When he brings them down to press a small smooch against the button of your nose, the fever behind your cheeks increases drastically. “Can’t have my lover’s face freezing off, can we?”

“Nope.” In agreeance, your hands come up to interlock fingers with his.

“Just don’t throw a fit when my cold feet touch you in the middle of the night.” Wilbur negotiates.

Denji was a small-time devil hunter just trying to survive–

Nope.

Nagatoro is a cute freshman in high school who loves to toy with her senior classmate–

Don’t think so.

At Kamome Academy, rumors abound about the school's Seven Mysteries, one of which is Hanako-san. Said to occupy the third stall of the third-floor girls' bathroom in the old school–

Definitely not.

A sigh of resignation leaves you as your pointed finger caresses the spine of the book and gently pushes it back into its designated slot. If not for relishing in your favorite manga series’ culmination days prior, you would never have led yourself here to become enchanted by a new one. A ridiculous assumption made by you on your drive over–that finding a new, captivating collection of graphic novels would be seamless–seems to have been redacted by the time you're returning another volume to the shelf you grabbed it from. There’s still half of the aisle left to venture, to arbitrarily poke and prod at in hopes of leaving with at least one potential read–but what’s halting you from venturing further down?

Your eyes flicker up to find the same duo you were admiring minutes beforehand. The one in the black baseball cap seems to be here for the same reason you are, as his squinted eyes trail down the shelves containing title after title. His hands were shoved into his pockets, only introducing themselves to a paperback he finds himself piqued by. The second could very well be his bodyguard, by the sheer way he towered over the shelves and let his eyes travel across the bookstore to find something to keep him entertained for the time being. The light brown curls dwelling on his scalp flopped to and fro as he traversed from the surrounding aisles, before ultimately returning to his smaller companion to find him in the same position.

“Hey, how about this one?” A mischievous smirk overcomes the lanky one’s face, as he presents a cover to his friend with clear impatience. When the baseball cap’s head tilts up to take a gander at the book, he can only scoff and shove it out of his hand, urging it to fall to the carpeted floor with a thump.

“What’s your problem, dude??” Baseball cap inquires, biting his lip to contain a grin of his own. Curious, your sight trails down to the floor where the novel lay face up, displaying an erotic image and, arguably, a more erotic title. Dick Fight Island.

An uncontrollable snicker falls past your lips, earning the attention of both passersby standing only a few feet away. Now embarrassed by the newfound attention, you turn your attention back to the shelves and ignore the tingling sensation swarming your cheeks. But you find yourself standing before a book you would be a new level of abashed to be seen picking up. A small “ah” sound exits your mouth as your hand dashes toward the bottom corner of the shelf to pick up a random title, with a more innocent cover and–with luck–a more comprehensive premise.

Hushed whispers can be heard by you as you pretend to care about the summary overtaking the back cover of the book, and the tingling in your face only shadows the fit of humor you were expressing moments ago.

“Th-that’s a good one!” One of the voices quips from further down the aisle. A glance up from the book reveals a baseball cap standing closer to you than before, despite still being a few feet away. “Um, I just finished the final volume. Really good, i-if you like sports and all that…” a hand from his hoodie pocket exposes itself to the back of his neck in a nervous scratch.

“Yeah? I don’t know what I’m looking for, to be honest. My favorite series just ended so I was optimistic I’d find something here.” You flip the book around to see the title: Haikyuu!!

Perhaps this could be my next read, you thought to yourself before your eyes find the number in the bottom corner, two.

“Oh, um…” you bend down to peruse the shelf and, to your dismay, are met with volumes two and above of the series. “So much for starting fresh…” you murmur with a tiny smile and find the gap where you took the second volume from.

“That’s alright, I’ve been looking for something new myself.” He admits.

“Yeah? Which one did you read last?”

“More like re-read.” He corrects upon scouring the shelves. This allows his body to shuffle closer to yours and offer you a whiff of his intoxicating cologne. You shut your eyes to relish in it, before opening them to see him standing before you, an unfamiliar cover in his hands.

“This. This is the manga that tops all manga.”

You hum. “Can I?” He hands you the paperback with no objection, and rocks back and forth on his feet through your entire read of the synopsis. Of course, this beautiful stranger standing in front of you makes it difficult to concentrate on the printed words occupying your hands.

“It’s not for everyone,” he begins, compensating after a few moments of silence from you. “But it’s my favorite. I think the pacing is nice, it’s the perfect mix of action and humor.”

“HunterxHunter,” you whisper to yourself, “yeah, I think I’ll give it a shot.”

“Really?” His eyebrows become shielded by the brim of his hat as they shoot up in excitement.

“Yeah, at this point I would’ve chosen anything with the first volume in stock. But you sold me. Thank you, uh…”

“Nick.” He offers a hand. You clutch the book to your chest with one arm and use the other to shake his hand. It was warm and inviting, much like the curve of his lips and the deep sea of his green eyes.

“Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Trust me, Y/N, the pleasure’s all mine.” A distant figure catches your eye as you and Nick both turn your head to find his friend crouching down to peek over the shelves and give Nick an encouraging thumbs up. When his eyes meet yours though, they grow wide and disappear as his figure slinks down behind the shelf.

“Sorry about him, he kind of pushed me to come over and talk to you…” he rolls his eyes through a chuckle, before panicking at the tone of his admission. “N-not that I didn’t want to, I just…I’m not the most outgoing person in a Barnes and Noble manga section.”

“That’s quite alright. We all need a push here and there, right?” You shrug.

“Why don’t we get him off your case?” You whisper and dig your phone out from your back pocket. “Put your number in here, and next time I need someone to go manga hunting with, I have someone to call.”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” Amidst putting in his number, his green eyes flicker up curiously. “Just manga hunting?” He clenches his teeth. “Any other hobbies you might have?”

Denji was a small-time devil hunter just trying to survive–

Nope.

Nagatoro is a cute freshman in high school who loves to toy with her senior classmate–

Don’t think so.

At Kamome Academy, rumors abound about the school's Seven Mysteries, one of which is Hanako-san. Said to occupy the third stall of the third-floor girls' bathroom in the old school–

Definitely not.

A sigh of resignation leaves you as your pointed finger caresses the spine of the book and gently pushes it back into its designated slot. If not for relishing in your favorite manga series’ culmination days prior, you would never have led yourself here to become enchanted by a new one. A ridiculous assumption made by you on your drive over–that finding a new, captivating collection of graphic novels would be seamless–seems to have been redacted by the time you're returning another volume to the shelf you grabbed it from. There’s still half of the aisle left to venture, to arbitrarily poke and prod at in hopes of leaving with at least one potential read–but what’s halting you from venturing further down?

Your eyes flicker up to find the same duo you were admiring minutes beforehand. The one in the black baseball cap seems to be here for the same reason you are, as his squinted eyes trail down the shelves containing title after title. His hands were shoved into his pockets, only introducing themselves to a paperback he finds himself piqued by. The second could very well be his bodyguard, by the sheer way he towered over the shelves and let his eyes travel across the bookstore to find something to keep him entertained for the time being. The light brown curls dwelling on his scalp flopped to and fro as he traversed from the surrounding aisles, before ultimately returning to his smaller companion to find him in the same position.

“Hey, how about this one?” A mischievous smirk overcomes the lanky one’s face, as he presents a cover to his friend with clear impatience. When the baseball cap’s head tilts up to take a gander at the book, he can only scoff and shove it out of his hand, urging it to fall to the carpeted floor with a thump.

“What’s your problem, dude??” Baseball cap inquires, biting his lip to contain a grin of his own. Curious, your sight trails down to the floor where the novel lay face up, displaying an erotic image and, arguably, a more erotic title. Dick Fight Island.

An uncontrollable snicker falls past your lips, earning the attention of both passersby standing only a few feet away. Now embarrassed by the newfound attention, you turn your attention back to the shelves and ignore the tingling sensation swarming your cheeks. But you find yourself standing before a book you would be a new level of abashed to be seen picking up. A small “ah” sound exits your mouth as your hand dashes toward the bottom corner of the shelf to pick up a random title, with a more innocent cover and–with luck–a more comprehensive premise.

Hushed whispers can be heard by you as you pretend to care about the summary overtaking the back cover of the book, and the tingling in your face only shadows the fit of humor you were expressing moments ago.

“Th-that’s a good one!” One of the voices quips from further down the aisle. A glance up from the book reveals a baseball cap standing closer to you than before, despite still being a few feet away. “Um, I just finished the final volume. Really good, i-if you like sports and all that…” a hand from his hoodie pocket exposes itself to the back of his neck in a nervous scratch.

“Yeah? I don’t know what I’m looking for, to be honest. My favorite series just ended so I was optimistic I’d find something here.” You flip the book around to see the title: Haikyuu!!

Perhaps this could be my next read, you thought to yourself before your eyes find the number in the bottom corner, two.

“Oh, um…” you bend down to peruse the shelf and, to your dismay, are met with volumes two and above of the series. “So much for starting fresh…” you murmur with a tiny smile and find the gap where you took the second volume from.

“That’s alright, I’ve been looking for something new myself.” He admits.

“Yeah? Which one did you read last?”

“More like re-read.” He corrects upon scouring the shelves. This allows his body to shuffle closer to yours and offer you a whiff of his intoxicating cologne. You shut your eyes to relish in it, before opening them to see him standing before you, an unfamiliar cover in his hands.

“This. This is the manga that tops all manga.”

You hum. “Can I?” He hands you the paperback with no objection, and rocks back and forth on his feet through your entire read of the synopsis. Of course, this beautiful stranger standing in front of you makes it difficult to concentrate on the printed words occupying your hands.

“It’s not for everyone,” he begins, compensating after a few moments of silence from you. “But it’s my favorite. I think the pacing is nice, it’s the perfect mix of action and humor.”

“HunterxHunter,” you whisper to yourself, “yeah, I think I’ll give it a shot.”

“Really?” His eyebrows become shielded by the brim of his hat as they shoot up in excitement.

“Yeah, at this point I would’ve chosen anything with the first volume in stock. But you sold me. Thank you, uh…”

“Nick.” He offers a hand. You clutch the book to your chest with one arm and use the other to shake his hand. It was warm and inviting, much like the curve of his lips and the deep sea of his green eyes.

“Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Trust me, Y/N, the pleasure’s all mine.” A distant figure catches your eye as you and Nick both turn your head to find his friend crouching down to peek over the shelves and give Nick an encouraging thumbs up. When his eyes meet yours though, they grow wide and disappear as his figure slinks down behind the shelf.

“Sorry about him, he kind of pushed me to come over and talk to you…” he rolls his eyes through a chuckle, before panicking at the tone of his admission. “N-not that I didn’t want to, I just…I’m not the most outgoing person in a Barnes and Noble manga section.”

“That’s quite alright. We all need a push here and there, right?” You shrug.

“Why don’t we get him off your case?” You whisper and dig your phone out from your back pocket. “Put your number in here, and next time I need someone to go manga hunting with, I have someone to call.”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” Amidst putting in his number, his green eyes flicker up curiously. “Just manga hunting?” He clenches his teeth. “Any other hobbies you might have?”

Something is comforting about the morning rush to the train station that George will never tire of, so long as the bustling coats and quietly loud chatter of busy strangers remain prominent. This last week, George rode into the nearest city with no destination in mind other than the autumn weather wafting a calm breeze onto his face. His fridge is fully stocked, and his PC requires no maintenance. The man finds the best way to socialize is that of eavesdropping on random strangers from his respective seat on the train, eyes straining forward at the polyester chair inches away from his bent knees, but ears dialed in on the person who will be turning twenty next week; the family recipe being shared in superb detail a few booths over, which will ultimately make George consult his phone to write down the name of the said recipe to try himself on a later occasion; even more common than the prior, however, is the unmistakable raspy squeals and hushed whispers of the excitement belonging to a person on their phone, informing the recipient that they have found their soulmate.

Try as he might to stay jubilant for the strangers who couldn’t care less about his opinion on their love life, George can only muster a grimace when overhearing the enthusiastic phone calls and mutters of congratulations from passersby also investing their ears in another’s conversation. It’s out of jealousy, and perhaps a bit of spite. George knows this because Julie’s blessing of finding her soulmate, named Mike, at age eighteen makes his fists clench onto the armrests on either side of him. He’s heard enough of the “meant to be” and “fate’s funny way of working” from his friends, Sapnap and Dream, on Discord. For years he has been ready to experience the chest-aching pleasure and heart-stopping experience of seeing colors. So why has the universe not answered his prayers yet?

His foot begins tapping impatiently at the clicking of a keyboard and the sound of someone copying and pasting the same text, firing them off to their respected friends and family still in awe of the person they have just stumbled upon, and the new vibrancy that was granted to them. The world is no longer a black and gray mirage that George has endured for twenty-five years (and counting) but a radiant collage of aquas, buttercup yellows, and whatever other colors he has been yearning to see. Sometimes he wishes to be damned with the system of fate or the teetering anxiety of wondering when his eyes will finally be granted the sight of the mismatched colors of his outfit. Sometimes all George desires are dinners with his parents and avoiding the inevitable question: “Have you found them yet?”

“Of course not, or I would have brought them with me to introduce to you. The world is so big! How could I have managed to find my soulmate since last weekend’s dinner? For all I know, my other half could be dead or non-existent.” But the slew of pessimism dangling in the back of his throat will never extinguish the fire of his parent’s hope that he will find true love. Instead, he stays silent and offers a solemn shake of his head for their sake and his sanity.

Despite this, George wills himself from beneath his duvet and to the train station one early morning, this time for a much-needed grocery trip. Going on his third day without milk for his cuppa had him going feral last night. In his tirade of swears and slamming his fridge door closed, he made the impulsive decision to cancel his scheduled stream to achieve a good night’s rest with his local news channel reporting a story in the background. As soon as his bleary eyes fell on the headline reading “Local Women Finds Soulmate in Unlikely Place”, he buried his head with one of his pillows and hoped to either fall asleep or suffocate. (whichever came first).

He was only slightly irate when the former happened, cueing his trek to the train station the following morning. His windbreaker stalled the tough breeze and its mission to knock him over, but the rain was impervious to his speed walking. The cruel weather urges more people to visit Brighton’s train station and seek shelter beneath its ample awning. Whether it’s due to the overcast clouds fogging up the glass panels above the station, the citizen’s choice of dress, or George’s grayscale vision—people appear like packed sardines in how they shuffle beneath the awning to form skewed lines behind the ticket booths. Crowds of London residents, in fear of becoming further drenched, follow George into the station until he is squeezing through gray coats and black shoes, trying to keep a steady eye on his identical pair, lest his shoelaces come undone and he fumbles into the abyss of strangers who will trample him mercilessly. Dodging boney elbows and annoyed stares on his way to the ticket booth, his prayers are half-regarded (what’s new?) and he nearly meets the floor when knocking into a stranger concentrating on their phone.

He shrieks and latches onto the stranger’s arms without a second thought. The same arms copy his motions and help stabilize him through a haste apology.

“So sorry about that.”

“It’s alright.” His eyes spare a few seconds to dart down and he recognizes the hoodie. Branded in the center is his gamertag. “Nice hoodie.” And when he looks up to meet their eyes he gasps.

“…your eyes.” He blinks his own for a few moments, processing the color before him. The opaque swirl intrigues him like no other thing, it's as indescribable as the heat swarming his insides at this very moment.

“Your eyes.” The stranger breathes out, “wow.” George feels his heart swell and bloat until it is pounding against his rib cage, desperate for release. But he relishes in the feeling, the slight longing for relief as he studies the visage of the person before him.

“Lips are blue, too?” He wonders aloud. The stranger furrows their brows as George’s eyes fall to the hoodie donning their frame again. The embroidered name now appears to be surrounded by a dark, muddy color he couldn’t describe. His lips curl down in faint disgust.

“What, you don’t like the red? Aren’t you the one who designed it?”

“That’s not red. Is it?”

A stranger overhears the conversation and chimes in. “That is red. And your shoes are green. Congrats you two.” As they retreat into a line filing before one of the booths, the two lock eyes, and George releases a shaky breath through his lips.

His cold hand introduces itself to the patch of skin in between your shoulder blades and leaves the scent of his cologne in its wake. Your nostrils flare as you chase down the scent like it could get you high. The same hand trails down your arm, marking goosebumps on your skin like breadcrumbs through its journey to your hand. The fingers, chipping of nail polish, and coated in rings interlocks with yours and beckons you off of the hotel bed.

“C’mon, Y/N,” Karl persists through contagious giggles and an illuminating smile–did he need to put the hotel lamps to shame? “Just one dance.” He is now hopping on a single foot before you, attempting to untie a sneaker from his other leg dangling in the air. The shoe falls to a thump on the carpet below. A similar one follows as he manages to get the other undone. He slides about the carpet, wearing tube socks; a button-up shirt that’s two buttons too loose to be considered professional–but you weren’t going to draw any unnecessary attention to that; and a pair of shorts that hugged his thighs in a way that made you envious. His gray eyes flicker up to yours now and then, hunting for something more than curiosity: acceptance.

“You know you want to…” His open hand approaches you once more as an offering, hanging defenseless in the air for you to take. As you yearn to reach out and grasp it, you ponder inwardly what your reason for declining his dance will be. Sore thighs from walking the TwitchCon venue up and down for the third day in a row? The clumsy march into the elevator after one too many drinks in the hotel bar? A stubbed toe can bring any mood down, but your insisting that you were fine the entire ride up with Karl to your room diminishes that argument entirely. So long as he’s in your company, how could you feel anything but unbridled glee?

“Are you kidding?” His scoff perks you up from your spot on the queen mattress. “This is our song and you’re telling me you still don’t want to dance?” A few seconds of silence pass, and after listening to the music blaring from his iPhone speaker, you recognize it as a song that played during your first stream together.

A pathetic snort of surrender leaves you, as you stand up and glide over to him. “Our song?”

He hums in confirmation and wastes no time grabbing your hand now that it is within proximity. The man draws you close, leaving almost no room between you. His free hand takes purchase on your hip, and yours naturally find comfort around his neck.

“Makes it sound like we’re a couple.” You murmur, sparing a glance towards your feet. They’re still adorning a pair of shoes and growing increasingly uncomfortable through this strange waltz Karl resumes guiding you through. He says nothing in response to your comment, and instead, rests his head against your shoulder. A ghost of a breath trickles against the base of your neck, and something inside of you keels at the thought of his lips forming the bare minimum of a pucker. Something more affectionate than the dozens of hugs he’s given you and every other person. Something more obvious than the lingering touches and unspoken fondness. Anything to keep at it with your mission of unveiling your feelings when the time is appropriate.

An awkward shuffle out of your kicks earns a small huff of laughter against your chin. “There you go,” encourages Karl.

Is this the most appropriate time? In a hotel room, shielded from any passerby and only vulnerable to each other's amateur dance moves and hesitant eyes. Being caught up in your thoughts leads you into a stagger and has you clutching at his arms for support.

“Woah, you alright?” His head bounces up from its previous spot to lock wary eyes with you. He is not confident in the nod you spare him, as he leads you back to sit on the tuft comforter of the bed.

“You sure?” Your lips part, but before you could muster a lame excuse that will most likely end in an awkward exit on Karl’s part, the song playing from his phone on the nightstand morphs into a catchy ringtone.

Not as catchy as your song, though.

He excuses himself as he reaches for his cell phone and slides a finger across the screen to answer the incoming call. As soon as he brings it to his ear, you deduce the semi-frantic notes swirling in the otherwise silent hotel room to be that of a woman. His soothing voice attempts to soothe her qualms, but he has little to no avail.

“Are you alone?” Gray eyes have their attention on you, who pretends to be clueless about whoever is on the other end of the phone. But he knows that you know. It’s his first place. The one you can never seem to be put before, in any circumstance.

“I’m with a–a friend right now. Gimme five and I’ll call you back?” A hard pill appears on your tongue. You can’t seem to swallow it down through Karl’s explanation despite your efforts. Did she notice him stammer over the word "friend"? You did.

“Candle girl, right?” You manage to choke out amidst his journey to the door.

“She has a name, Y/N.” Karl informs, reaching for the handle. As he turns the knob to exit, you quip.

“Do you two have a song as well?” The timing is most certainly not appropriate. But now your feelings are apparent at the very least, for your competition.

“Of course we do…” He bites without hesitation, craning his neck to look back at you. His eyes then dart to the floor, where his shoes lie haphazardly. He strides over, scoops them up without meeting your eyes, and says through gritted teeth, “we’re a couple after all.” Shoes in hand, he marches back over to the entryway. You halt his footwork before he can escape this confrontation yet again. Though the confirmation of his latest affair is cueing your throat to swell by the second and warm tears to blur your vision of him abandoning your late-night rendezvous, the dirty laundry between the two of you has not yet begun airing out properly.

"I think I fell in love with you tonight." Desperation in the shape of a pout hangs on your lips. Why fight for something you know you cannot have, you ask yourself? He belongs to somebody else now. This is not the appropriate time to play tug-of-war with his heart, but it never will be after tonight, so who cares? Why not try one last time to vie for his attention? To earn one, final lingering touch and have it mean something; you could ration the moment to last you through your lifetime sentence of this unrequited feeling-fest. "I didn't mean to, but I did. And now..." The pill is back, and coating a bitter taste on your tongue. It tastes like the end of something that was promised as a beginning at the hotel bar. The start of something you never predicted would end so abruptly.

You're already aching for the smell of his cologne to consume your senses again.