ao3 obsessed

He winces, glancing over at the clock. You listen as the hands go tick, tick, tick, before he replies, "it's been, ah, three… no, four hours?"

A small gathering of birds not too far outside starts chattering, a quiet call of morning as the sun rises somewhere beyond your curtains. "Isack, it's—" you peer over at the clock, squinting to make sense of the numbers, "—God, it's 8:14. You're telling me you've been awake since 4?"

You watch as Isack nods, a sheepish almost-smile playing on his lips, "yeah. The, uh," he hesitates, before he glances over at his papers, "the lecture notes weren't making sense."

"Right. Well, 'kay. I guess that explains it," you hum, although it doesn't really.

He hums, turning his head back to his notes. You hop out of bed, "oh yeah— for the love of God and everything else, don't play that french rap again or I'll put poison in your coffee."

A dramatic gasp escapes him, "you'd never!"

"Don't test me, Hadjar." You sing-song back, stepping over to the coffee machine that the two of you'd bought together when you'd first been assigned as roommates; the thing whirrs to life and spits liquid into your mug. "Honestly, though. I'm impressed you manage studying with that insane schedule of yours."

"It's not that bad. The Daily Bugle is good, though— I only have to submit pictures a few times a week," Isack murmurs, pressing the butt of his pen to his lips.

You cock your head to the side, huffing, "and you somehow manage to be fit at the same time. Do you have any moment to relax?"

The frenchman closes his eyes, contemplating. "I'm… relaxing now, aren't I?"

You've been roommates with Isack for a few months, now. You're not friends, no, not quite. Something along the lines of acquaintance-almost-friends. In between studying sessions (sitting by your separate desks while cramming for exams), and stumbling around every morning, you've learned how he works.

You've learned that his ears turn red when he lies. You've learned that he disappears almost everyday and how when he comes back with a bruise, or a scratch, that it's always somehow a gym accident.

"Relaxing by listening to awful french rap and reading whatever gibberish physics is trying to be?"

“It’s chanson urbaine,” he says, imitating a dignity he doesn’t quite reach. “And there is structure in it. You wouldn’t understand, Mr. law man."

You snort into your mug. “Right. Structure. Very academic of you.”

“It is,” he insists, leaning back in his chair like he’s giving a lecture. “There’s rhythm, and flow, and— and intention.”

“Mmhm. And yelling.”

“It’s passion.”

“Same thing.”

He rolls his eyes at you, turning back to his paper and tapping the butt of his pencil against his top lip once more. "Yeah, yeah. Your classes start soon, right?"

"Not soon. Like. in an hour or so," you hum, trodding over to your wardrobe and shuffling through your clothes, there's a few t-shirts (an embarrassing amount of the same shirt design, too, which you had bought in bulk) and you pull one off its hanger, "you wouldn't mind if I hang around, right?"

His head tilts back, eyes falling over you, and there's a grin coating his face. "Oh, I would so mind. In fact, I would mind so bad, I think I'd play some chanson urbaine to get it off my mind."

"Hadjar." You start, trying your best to sound scolding but the smile breaking out on your face betrays that.

"What?" He chirps back, teasing smile still evident.

But you have nothing to say, and instead just sigh. You realise the shirt you try to pull overhead has shrunk in the wash, which, is just your luck. Though, thank god you have dupes of that one.

You linger in the dorm for a while, chatting with Isack about pretty much whatever comes to mind. His assignments, about physics despite your cluelessness, and even a bit about your law work.

It's weirdly nice talking to him. Like mentioned, you don't really get that many chances to actually talk, but then again, you suppose living with someone through Exam season does that. Exam season you is a wholly different man. A very tired, no-bullshit kind of man.

There's something easy about conversation when it comes to you and Hadjar. Smooth, flowing, banter coming as easily as language.

Before you realise how much time has passed, the clock is dangerously close to when your first period starts.

"Oh, shit," you mutter, turning over to your roommate who raises his brows at you, "my lecture starts like. Super soon. I have to go."

Isack blinks, and then snorts at you, not even trying to disguise the amusement. "Good luck bro. You'll need it."

"No I won't," you glare at him, "but thanks anyway."

"Yeah yeah, now shoo. I know your first period teacher is ass."

"How do you know about Mr. Michae—?"

"Remember that one time when you wouldn't stop complaining? That. Now leave!" He hurries you, and you flip him off before exiting the dorm room.

There's no way you're missing this lecture, that's for sure. Not when it's Mr. Michael. You aren't giving him that right, not in a million years.

When you get back to your dorm, Isack isn't there.

He usually isn't anyway, not at this time. You suppose it's natural, when he balances part-time work and also going to the gym with school, but still. He never gets back until you fall asleep, but he always appears in the mornings.

Your chair squeaks as you sit down in it—you've been meaning to get a replacement, but not with your non-existant money—and you immediately fold over the papers on your desk.

Procrastination is a near thing. In fact, you kind of do procrastinate, pulling up your phone, initially to put on music, but then aimlessly scrolling tiktok for ten minutes.

When you do get to work, you feel despair filling every crevice of your mind.

Not to say you dislike law; you chose the major for a reason! But God save you. The courses that you take with it, as helpful as they are, are pure suffering.

The clock on the wall goes tick, tick, tick as time passes faster than you'd like. Your blinking grows weary, exhaustion creeps in, too; an unwelcome but familiar friend. When you look at the clock, it's past midnight.

What you fear most isn't the fact that you're stuck on your papers (because you're practically finished, anyway), it's the fact that Isack Hadjar has not yet returned.

And you know he takes a while to get home, but this is bad. Like very, super-duper bad. Is he dead? Did he get involved in an accident? Did he get kidnapped?

He would've messaged you if it was getting too late, wouldn't he?

The worry spreads through you like a virus; stubborn, incessant. Honestly, it makes you sick to your stomach, in that weird way. You barely know him, but you know him so well.

You know that he likes one sugar cube in his coffee, and that he has a huge collection of manga at home. You know that he stores some volumes in your dorm too, that they're hidden in his lowest drawer on his desk.

And you know that he would tell you that he'd be back, if it was this late.

Your head hits your pillow, and you close your eyes, but you cannot sleep. Try as you might, your mind just doesn't go quiet.

So you stay awake, staring blankly at the ceiling. Some of your music is playing in the background, a faint hum of song trying to hush your worries.

Time passes, soon it hits the witching hour, yet there's still not a single trace of your roommate anywhere. You've gotten out of bed, cup of hot chocolate sitting in your hands while you stare out in the deep dark.

Then,

Then the door to your dorm creaks open.

When you whip your head around, you're ready to scold him; berate him. But once you notice him, you really can't.

He's hunched over, his hand holding his stomach and his breathing quivering. His curls are pinned to his face with sweat, and his brows are furrowed unlike what you've seen of him before. Once the door clicks shut behind him, he falters down onto the floor.

You put down your mug instantaneously, rushing over to him. "Oh my god, Isack, are you okay?"

He looks up at you with furrowed brows, and winces, "fuck. D— didn't think you'd still be awake."

"You had me worried sick!" You exhale, noticing the scar on his face. Not deep, luckily, but it's smudged red and the dried blood cracks when you press your thumb down, and he recoils at the touch. "Are you hurt?"

"Ngh. A— a bit, yeah," he hisses, and swears under his breath as you dab an alcohol-soaked cotton ball on his still-open scar. "Nothing major."

You fumble with the first-aid kit at your side, looking over at the man in front of you. His face is all scrunched up. The hoodie he's wearing is slightly stained with blood, and there's a trail of dried crimson from his nose. "What happened?"

His accent is heavier when he speaks once more, eyes not lifting to look at you proper, "ah— an argument," he breathes, letting out a whimper as he does, "with some person at the gym. I'm okay."

But despite his assurance of it, he sure doesn't look that way. But you don't dig into him, not yet—not when he's practically still bleeding. Instead, you let out a reluctant hum. "Okay. Just… message me, next time. If you're out this late."

Isack raises his head, and his eyes are wide with something you can't quite place; he gives you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "right. I'll do that."

Neither of you talk for a long while. Tension is high in the room when you patch him up, he has a few cuts along his abdomen, and his rib looks bruised. That explains why he winces every time he tries to breathe, you suppose.

There's something in his eyes, though. Every time you look up, there's something fond. Something warm. Something fierce; loving.

You're not sure if it's directed at you, or your actions.

He's the first to speak, after sitting on the carpeted floor for long enough that it's left prickled marks in your thighs.

"I'm sorry," it's hesitant, soft. But genuine enough. "I didn't mean to make you worry. I didn't think—"

"Like you ever do."

He glares at you, but smiles despite himself. "Like I was gonna say, I didn't think it'd make you worry at all."

"Let me get this right," you snort, "you think that, your roommate—and friend—wouldn't worry if you come home at whatever-past-midnight. Plus! You're all bruised up."

"I didn't think you'd be awake!" He argues.

"So what? Me being awake or asleep shouldn't change that!"

Isack furrows his brows, and opens his mouth like he's ready to retort—

Nothing comes out bar a shallow breath. He tilts his head back against the door, hitting it with a dull thud, and the sound feels like it reverberates through your entire dorm room.

"I don't want you worrying," he tries, but grimaces at the sincerity in his tone; too unsteady, wobbling at the edges, "maybe it was wishful thinking but… The least I want is you to get dragged into my mess."

You exhale, a long and exasperated breath.

"Isack, you don't—" you pause, letting out a wobbly sigh, "you don't just get to decide that I shouldn't care. You're my friend, for gods sake."

Isack's jaw tightens. and he redirects his gaze to anywhere but you. To your messy desk, to the poster-lined walls, even to the door, like it's suddenly decorated with ancient wisdom.

"Well," he begins, shifting a bit. He winces a bit, clutching his ribs but pulling away just as quick. "It's easier if you don't."

A scoff escapes you, though it bears no teeth, "easier for who, exactly?"

And, Isack just goes quiet.

For a second you think he might argue again. You can basically see his retort forming—something flippant, dismissive. Something that keeps you at an arm's length.

But it doesn't come.

Instead, his shoulders sag. Just barely, like he's melted that top layer off; that defensiveness dissipating.

"I didn't mean to disappear," he says, finally, "I thought… I really thought I'd be back before you'd notice."

"You were gone for hours. I thought you were—" you stop yourself just before you say it, shaking your head, "don't do that again, please."

He nods, "okay. I won't."

Silence settles between the two of you once more, heavy with emotion and all things you've left unsaid. Isack's breathing is uneven, shallow, and you're sure he's hurting more than he's letting on.

But even then, Isack visibly relaxes for what you think is the first time tonight. He sinks further down onto the floor, almost akin to ice melting. There's something weirdly comforting about it, about seeing him calm. As you think he's about to fall asleep on the floor, he lets out a murmur.

"You should be mad, you know."

You blink. "I am mad."

He opens one eye with a slightly quizzical look, and you continue. "But I'm obviously not gonna berate you when you're sitting here with injuries."

"Details." He waves his hand vaguely, laughing (and trying his best to hide the sudden burst of pain that gives him).

"Yeah, yeah." You hum, smiling at him. "Let's just go to sleep, or you'll be dead tomorrow."

Neither you nor Isack talk about that evening for a while.

He starts messaging you more, though—selfies in the gym, complaining whenever he's in meetings with The Daily Bugle, even small photos of things he finds in random stores and captions of "bro this looks just like you".

It's charming. It's weird. It's also very Isack.

There's also this weird feeling that bubbles in your chest each time his contact pops up. Like a flower in bloom, all warm and fluttering nerves. A bit silly, in your opinion, though it is what it is.

It's easier to ignore it than to figure it out. Figuring it out is a future you problem.

Something that's a present you problem, however, is finding your way back to your dorm.

Okay, yes, you're a bit lost.

It's dark out—darker than you'd expected when you left the library at the very least—and the paths all look painstakingly similar once the lights thin out. There should really be some street lamps installed around here.

Your phone sits useless in your palm, now just a black mirror reflecting your own vaguely annoyed expression back at you.

"Great," you groan into the cold air, mist escaping along with it, "this is just… fantastic."

You shove it back into your pocket and start walking, turning slowly in place. There's a sign. Some trees. A lamppost. A bench. Quite frankly, none of it looks familiar in the near-pitch darkness. Or, maybe it does, and your brain is just fried enough to be unhelpful about it.

There's an urge somewhere inside you to scream into the void, but you settle for just a sigh instead; running a hand through your hair.

To be fair, it's not like you're in active danger, or anything. You're merely inconvenienced. And maybe it's kind of cold. But it's not dangerous, despite the unsettling atmosphere that follows the stillness.

You start walking again, though this time in a vastly different direction since the other one clearly didn't work.

As you do, your mind drifts—that traitorous thing that it is—back to Isack.

To him all hunched up in your dorm, shoulders sagging and that small near-smile he gave you; that warm look. To the texts he's been sending lately, like he's suddenly acknowledged the fact that you exist outside of shared mornings and evenings.

And, his face. His smile. His moles, God his physique—

Get a grip, you internally scream. He's just being a good friend!

You kick a stray rock as you turn a corner, stopping to do so. But even though you stop, there's something behind you.

Footsteps.

Maybe you're just imagining things. Maybe it's you overdosing on energy drinks.

But you hurry anyway. And they do, too.

It's probably nothing. People walk places, they could just be walking to the same place as you. But the feeling doesn't leave; that prickly feeling of someone watching you.

You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, and there it is.

A figure not too far away, barely beguiled in the darkness. Though they're hard to make out in the low light, you can see that they're tall. Hood up, face down. Their hands in their pockets.

Your pace quickens. Is this where those impromptu judo lessons Isack gave you comes in handy? He did say your form was good. You could probably beat this person down. Maybe.

You turn another corner, heart beginning to thud just the bit quicker. The path in front of you narrows, and you feel your chest tighten. It's not panic, not exactly. More like a distant friend of it, close enough to be uncomfortable.

And, the footsteps don't stop.

For a moment you consider calling out. Or running. Settling on neither, you merely continue walking as your heart continues to chafe against your ribs.

Then you hear something move, a rush of air somewhere above you.

It's hard to spot, but it's someone swinging around up there. There's a faint swish! sound, atleast, so that's what you assume it is.

Then before you can process it, there's a blur of motion and a sharp yelp that definitely isn't yours. All of a sudden, the prescence behind you disappears.

You turn around and, yeah. The path is empty.

"What…?"

From somewhere above, a voice cuts in, low and strangely familiar—even if you're sure that you haven't heard it before. "You okay?"

Your head snaps up.

Perched on the edge of a building, nearly akin to a hawk, is a figure in what you think is red and blue. Spiderman? His mask is halfway up his face, and you're not sure if it's the situation getting to you, but you swear you recognize that mole on his nose.

"…Isack?" you say, dumbly.

He winces, but tries to play it off.

"I— Isack?" There's a change in his accent, before a jumble of something you're not sure of turned into a faux-british one. "Never heard of him! You must be, ah, imagining things."

Immediately he pulls his mask down, "you need to get back to your home! Just turn right at the end of the path and you'll be there! Uh, good luck out there—"

And he swings off.

You really need some sleep.

When you woke in the morning, you half-expected to have forgotten everything that happened last night.

It was straight out of a fever dream. Isack, your nerdy, stupid roommate, being Spiderman?

Sure, it aligned. With his gym incidents, and how The Daily Bugle keeps getting pictures of the hero, but…

He's Isack. He's your roommate! He's the guy who watches boxing in the middle of the night and accidentally wakes you up. He's the guy who buys every new volume of Hunter x Hunter when he can. He's…

He's the guy you have a crush on.

But you didn't forget. And the delirium from night time's worn off, and now you picture the image of Spiderman even clearer. That was definitely Isack. Or some secret twin that he'd forgotten to tell you about.

He's already awake (as always) when you flutter your eyes open. Sitting at his desk, phone resting on his pencil case as a makeshift stand.

"Mornin'," you murmur, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

"Gooood morning, mister," Isack sing-songs, "sleep well?"

"Could've been worse." You hum, rising out of your bed.

He nods in acknowledgement, returning his attention to his phone.

You linger there for a second, standing awkwardly by your bed. There’s something off about him—not obvious, not enough that you could point to it if asked, but still. His leg bounces slightly where he sits, heel tapping against the chair leg.

“Hey,” you say.

Isack tilts his head back to look at you, "hm?"

You open your mouth, as if to ask him, but close it. "Did you, uh, sleep well?"

"Yeah. Like a baby." He nods, though it came out too fast, like he'd practiced the answer.

You squint at him. “That wasn’t convincing.”

That earns you a quiet huff of a laugh. He finally looks up at you, one brow raised. “You’re one to talk. You look like you got hit by a bus.”

“Rude,” you mutter, but you don’t smile.

Silence stretches. Awkward, sure, but also almost loaded. Like there’s something sitting between you, unspoken but very much present.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other.

“Isack?"

He stills, clenching his jaw, but looks at you anyway.

You swallow. “Are you… Spiderman?”

His eyes flick up to yours, wide for half a second before he looks away again. He presses his lips together, jaw working like he’s deciding how much to give you.

"I dunno what you're talking about." He mumbles, but he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

That answers it for you. "It was you."

He nods once. Slow, tentative. “Yeah.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoes, glancing at you. “That’s it?”

“Well,” you muse weakly, “I did think I was hallucinating. This is kind of better.”

Isack laughs at that, careful and warm and marginally better than whatever tension held him moments ago.

“I’m sorry,” he smiles sadly at you. “I didn’t want you to find out like that. I didn’t want you involved at all.”

“I don't think you could've hidden it from me," you hum, fumbling with your thumbs, "I mean, honestly. We live together."

He winces. “I was trying to protect you.”

“Still," you shrug, "protecting is vastly different from whatever you thought it is. Coming back to our dorm injured is not nearly protecting me."

“I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles.

“I know.”

Silence intrudes again. Or, near silence. Chittering of birds, and the hum of noise from people or cars outside occupies it. Neither of you know who should speak first.

“So,” you say, quieter now, “you're actually Spiderman. Spiderman lives with me, and is a terrible liar."

“Don't be rude,” he huffs, but doesn't disagree.

"I'm just saying!" You chide, "besides, I wouldn't call you out if I didn't care."

Isack raises a brow at you, teasing grin growing, "you care?"

"I have cared! Is it not obvious?"

He blinks. "Oh. Wait, you—?"

"Yeah," you sigh, "I like you. You obviously don't have to… like, return my feelings, I just—"

He leans in. And it’s tentative, careful. Like he’s checking every inch of space between you before closing it. When his lips brush yours, it’s soft and a little clumsy. Not at all what you expected, but it's nice.

You kiss him back.

When you pull away, his forehead rests against yours, his smile small and disbelieving.

“So,” he murmurs, “you're not like, weirded out or anything?"

“I am,” you watch his smile fall into a frown, "not of you, obviously."

“Good,” he says softly. “Because I kind of like you, too.”

You give him a roll of your eyes, "okay, cheesy."

He snorts, a loud laugh escaping him. “Wooow. Betrayal!"

“Well I won't lie to you!” you reply.

And this time, when he kisses you again, it feels easy.

©lilliezzzzz: please don't copy or distribute my work on any platform

credits: @/cafekitsune for the dividers <3

author's note (again): happy birthday oli! thank u for being an awesome friend:) this has been planned 5ever ago (even when i didnt know ur birthdate) so i do hope it came out decenttt. love u to the moon & the stars & forevermore! <3 <3 <3