#aone fluff

with a strange pressure in the air, it’s like the universe knows something loud is coming and is politely stepping aside.

you drop your bag first. then your shoes. then your dignity.

aone is already there.

he’s sitting at the small kitchen table like a gargoyle carved out of discipline and protein powder, back straight, hands folded, eyes calm. he looks like he’s guarding a national treasure instead of waiting for you to finish unlocking the door.

you don’t even greet him.

you inhale.

“okay so first of all—”

his head tilts exactly two degrees. engaged.

“—why does that guy from my stats class think it’s okay to chew like he’s auditioning to be a sound effect for a swamp monster? like, i swear he waits until the room is silent and then unleashes it. it’s personal. it has to be.”

aone nods once. solemn. respectful. as if you’ve just disclosed a war crime.

you pace. your hands are doing most of the talking now. your voice keeps climbing like it’s trying to escape your body.

“and then my professor assigns a group project. a group project. in a class where nobody talks. so now i’m paired with chewlord and a girl who types like she’s mad at the keyboard. and guess who ended up being the group leader without consenting to this role?”

aone’s eyes soften. his jaw tightens. a pen appears in his hand. you don’t remember him picking it up.

“also,” you continue, spinning dramatically, “someone took my seat. my seat. i’ve sat there since week one. i don’t care that seats aren’t assigned, that seat is emotionally bonded to me.”

another nod. slower this time. he hums, low in his chest, like a piece of heavy machinery acknowledging input.

you’re on a roll now.

“and then i get coffee, right? except it’s wrong. wrong milk, wrong syrup, wrong vibe. it tasted like disappointment with a foam top. i paid a thousand yen for emotional damage.”

aone blinks. once. twice.

you keep going. ten minutes pass. maybe fifteen. time is a concept for other people. your voice rises and falls, your grievances stack on top of each other like a poorly constructed jenga tower of irritation.

through it all, aone takanobu does not move.

he watches you like you’re the most compelling documentary he’s ever seen.

when you finally stop, breathless, leaning against the counter with one sock half off, you feel lighter. wrung out. like you’ve screamed into the void and the void nodded back.

silence settles.

then—

“the guy,” aone says slowly, carefully, as if each word needs permission to exist, “chews with his mouth open?”

you stare.

“…yes.”

he frowns. just a little. it’s devastating.

“does he sit two rows ahead. left side.”

“…yeah.”

aone’s grip on the pen tightens. imperceptibly. but you see it.

“and he laughs before speaking. like he’s pleased with himself.”

your mouth opens.

“…yeah.”

he nods again. writes something down. you do not know where the paper came from. or why this feels like a court transcript.

“your seat,” he continues, eyes lifting back to you, “third row. aisle. near the window. you like the draft.”

“…i do.”

“you tap your foot when you’re annoyed,” he adds. “you did it when you talked about the coffee.”

you look down. your foot is tapping.

he clears his throat.

“you didn’t eat lunch.”

that one hits.

“…how do you know that.”

aone’s ears turn pink.

“you rant faster when you’re hungry.”

you laugh. it slips out of you before you can stop it, soft and a little broken, like you weren’t expecting to be known this thoroughly.

“you’re insane,” you say fondly, not meaning it as an insult, more like an observation of the sky being blue.

it’s immediate. like a building deciding to relocate. he moves closer, steps careful, gaze never leaving you, like if he looks away you might evaporate.

“i listen,” he says simply.

then, quieter, “i want to listen.”

he reaches out, hesitates, then gently takes your wrist, thumb brushing the pulse there like he’s checking if you’re real. like he needs confirmation.

“did the girl with the loud typing upset you more than the seat situation.”

you snort.

“no, the seat thing was worse. that was personal.”

he nods. satisfied.

“i’ll make you dinner,” he says. not a question. a promise carved into stone.

“you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupts, voice firm but soft around the edges when it comes to you. “you didn’t eat. you’re tired. you were polite to people who didn’t deserve it.”

you watch him move around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, like a man built for battle choosing instead to wage war on a cutting board. he glances at you every few seconds. always checking. always making sure you’re still there.

it’s… a lot.

but it’s warm.

when he hands you a plate, he waits. doesn’t sit. just stands there like a knight awaiting approval.

you take a bite.

“…this is really good.”

his shoulders relax like you just told him the world is safe.

you eat. he watches. he always watches. not in a way that feels heavy—more like reverent. like you’re doing something holy by existing.

“you can sit,” you tell him.

he does. immediately. close enough that your knees touch.

silence stretches. comfortable. thick with things unsaid.

then aone speaks again.

“the coffee you told me about,” he says. “you like it?”

you blink.

“…yeah.”

“tomorrow,” he continues, eyes steady, “i’ll make it for you. before class.”

your chest does something weird. like it’s trying to fold in on itself.

“you don’t have to wake up early—”

“I will,” he says. no hesitation. “i want you to start the day correctly.”

there it is. that edge. that devotion that borders on alarming if you think too hard about it.

you smile anyway.

“you’re… really something.”

his lips twitch. almost a smile.

“you’re everything,” he says, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world. like gravity. like math. like breathing.

you choke on absolutely nothing.

he leans closer, forehead resting against yours, voice dropping to something only meant for you.

“when you talk,” he murmurs, “i remember it. all of it. because if something bothers you, it matters. if someone upsets you, i notice. i don’t like it when people make your day worse.”

there’s a flash of something dark there. protective. sharp.

then it softens.

“i like being the place you put it all down.”

your hands curl into his shirt.

“yeah?” you whisper.

he nods.

“always.”

and when you start complaining again—about tomorrow, about life, about the world being mildly annoying—he listens like it’s sacred. like it’s his purpose.

and honestly?

it might be.

n: oh to have someone like aone

takanobu’s taglist

@lsirria @the-bloopsters @highandalive @n-o-b-o-d-y123 @averys-place @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @nivabiva @whimsybloom @katzline @forgottensniper @fiannee @eri0-0 @immortalblazethief @pelicanpizza @keiob @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @suha-reads @mitzukita @poeticsorcery @windsblow @starzlytoetsie @bigdaddyyaoii @lov3shin @thinc0ck @lilith-dear @little-miss-existencialcrisis @insomniakeepsmeawake @slu77ym4nw415ts @lily-cheese-xoxo @iits-yueehuaa

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !

You set off, weaving through the crowd. His silence stretched between you, and after a few minutes, you tried to bridge the gap.

"So… rough injury?" you asked, keeping your tone light, careful not to pry too much. "What happened?"

A pause. His gaze stayed fixed ahead.

"Volleyball," he said at last, voice low and flat.

You perked up. "Oh! I used to play a little back in school. Are you a wing spiker? No, I guess middle blocker, right?"

He didn't answer. Just grunted. Could've been yes. Could've been no.

You tried again. "Are you traveling for recovery? Or..."

Nothing.

As you steered around a loud tour group, that same rogue strand of hair slipped free again and tickled the corner of your eye. You puffed upward to try and blow it out of your face, but it clung stubbornly to your temple. With one hand on the wheelchair, you tried tucking it back behind your ear, only for it to fall again seconds later.

You sighed under your breath. "Stupid thing…"

You wheeled him the rest of the way to his gate in silence. He didn't say much, didn't smile or joke like other passengers, but he wasn't rude. Just… reserved. Maybe shy. Still, it stung a little to feel like your attempts at conversation had fallen flat.

Another no-tip ride I guess, you thought.

Then, without warning, he startled you by sharply pointing to the side.

You followed the gesture to a nearby convenience stall. "Do you want to stop there?"

He nodded. And that was how you ended up parked outside the stall while he limped in. You watched him pick up a bottle of water. Then another. A can of iced tea. A protein bar. A pack of chocolate-covered almonds. A bag of salty rice crackers. A snap hair clip?

You tilted your head. Maybe he's visiting someone?

When he returned, arms full of snacks, you chuckled. "Got enough for your travel buddies?"

He didn't respond. Just handed you the bag as he sat back down.

But you noticed the ears again—tinged with soft pink.

You turned the last corner and saw the gate.

"Finally," you whispered, then let out a long sigh as you checked the screen. 

Delayed.

Your shoulders slumped.

Aone looked up at you, his expression calm but curious.

Without a word, he patted the seat beside him—big hand gentle, deliberate. An unspoken offer.

It wasn't until then that you realized how much you'd been shifting from foot to foot—your thighs were aching, your calves tight from standing for so long.

You blinked. "You sure?"

He patted again. Once. Firm.

So you sat, sighing again as you rolled your ankles beneath you.

Without a word, he reached into the plastic bag and handed you the water bottle. Then the iced tea.

You looked at him, surprised. "For me? Really?"

He didn't look back, just nodded once. You watched as he swallowed, jaw flexing as if embarrassed.

"…Thanks," you said softly.

Your fingers brushed his as you took the bottle.

Both of you froze for a second.

Then blushed, looking away from eachother.

The silence between you changed. It wasn't awkward anymore—it was warm. Tentative.

When you let out a third sigh, he shifted in his seat and finally spoke again.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Was I too heavy?"

You shook your head fast enough to feel your bun bounce. "Not at all! Just… long day. You were the nicest person I've had to assist today."

He looked at you, brows gently drawing in and tilting his head, as if asking you to elaborate.

That look made you talk. Maybe it was the honesty in his eyes. Maybe it was the way he truly listened as you talked about cranky passengers, impossible schedules, and a micromanaging supervisor who barked more than he spoke.

He nodded occasionally, eyes never leaving your face.

You tried once more to tuck the stubborn strand of hair behind your ear. It slipped loose again, falling right back into your face.

You sighed, a quiet groan slipping out. "Stupid thing won't stay put…"

Before you could fuss with it again, Aone leaned in.

His movement was slow, deliberate—but gentle. His large hand came up, and with surprising care, he brushed the strand from your cheek. You barely had time to process the warmth of his fingers before he clicked something into place.

The snap of the hair clip was soft, but the breath you held was loud in your ears.

Your fingers went to your temple, brushing over the little accessory, still warm from his touch. "You… got this for me?"

He nodded. Slowly. Earnestly.

Your chest tightened.

"Why...?"

Then, just as you were starting to breathe again, you caught it—barely a shift, but enough to see. A soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Fleeting. Gentle. Real.

And somehow, in a cold metal chair at a delayed gate in the middle of a noisy airport, the world narrowed to that smile, that gesture—and the quiet flutter of your heart skipping a beat.

Maybe he didn't say much.

But he didn't need to.

The sound of rowdy footsteps echoed before you saw them—four or five tall figures in matching jackets, lugging duffel bags and speaking loud enough to turn heads in the terminal.

Aone looked up.

"Aone? Dude, what the hell?" one of them called. "How'd you beat us here?!"

Another stepped forward, gaping. "Your assistant must have been lightning fast!"

Then they saw you.

There was a beat.

"Oh." The first one grinned. "She's pretty too."

Your face lit up in a blush. You gave a small, awkward wave. Aone's own face was suddenly pink to the ears, eyes locking on the floor like it might save him from spontaneous combustion.

The team filed into the seating area, slumping into the chairs around you both. You stayed seated beside Aone, hands folded in your lap, trying not to look too overwhelmed. It was hard, surrounded by giants and the buzz of conversation.

Most of them talked around Aone, as though used to his quiet presence. He offered only the occasional nod, sometimes a soft grunt. You noticed his hand subtly opening one of the snack bags—the chocolate almonds.

One of his teammates reached to grab a few.

Without a word, Aone jerked the bag away from him.

The teammate blinked.

Aone turned to you instead, holding out the snack bag in your direction.

You paused, looked up at him for a second.

He nodded, eyes careful but full of quiet intent.

You smiled softly and took a few. "Thanks."

The teammate who'd been reaching blinked again. Then grinned.

"Oh I see how it is."

Aone's ears turned an even deeper red.

The rest of the team took the hint, leaning back and chatting among themselves as you and Aone sat a little closer, quietly sharing the snack bag between you.

Your hands brushed occasionally whenever you reached for the almonds at the same time. At first, he would pull back quickly, but each time, a little less so—lingering, as if savoring the brief contact. You found yourself doing the same, fingers slowing just enough to meet his halfway.

A few minutes passed before Aone shifted beside you. He pulled out his phone—huge in his hand—and opened the contact screen. Then, without looking directly at you, he held it out, thumb hovering nervously at the corner.

"If you…" He paused. Swallowed. "If you don't mind."

His face was tomato red.

You blinked, then smiled. "Of course not."

Your hands brushed as you took the phone. You typed in your name and number, heart skipping when you saved it. When you handed it back, his fingers curled around it like it was the most important thing in the world.

Before either of you could say more, the overhead speaker crackled.

"Flight 1308 to Sendai, now boarding through Gate B07."

You stood and turned to Aone. "Ready?"

He nodded, and his teammates stood too, stretching and adjusting their bags.

You moved behind his chair, beginning to push him toward the gate. The boarding bridge connected to the jetway, but you knew from experience—there was a small dent in the ramp. Enough to require a lift over the lip.

"Here, we'll help," one of the guys offered, already stepping forward.

You just smiled. "Thanks. I got it."

Then, in one smooth motion, you felt the muscles in your back and legs strain a little, but you angled the chair just right and lifted Aone over the dent like he weighed nothing more than a duffel bag.

Aone's teammates blinked.

"Dude."

"Did she just—?"

You only laughed under your breath and kept pushing forward. Aone glanced back at you, stunned, and maybe—maybe—a little impressed.

You escorted him all the way to the aircraft door. The flight attendants gave you a nod of thanks as you came to a stop. Aone looked up at you, then quietly reached into his hoodie pocket.

He pulled out a bill and placed it gently in your palm, but didn't let go right away. His hands—warm, massive, careful—curled around yours for a moment longer than necessary.

You looked up at him.

"Text me," you said softly, smiling.

He nodded once, firm and sincere. "I will."

His hands lingered—a silent promise—before he finally turned and limped toward the plane. His teammates closed in around him, offering support.

You could already hear their voices drifting back through the jetway.

"Yo, was that a smile?"

"Since when does Aone smile?"

"Dude, we just witnessed an origin story."

There was a low, muffled grumble—definitely him.

You stayed where you were. The plane door began to close.

But just before it sealed shut, Aone turned back.

He looked right at you.

And smiled—a real, bright, breathtaking smile that softened all the sharp lines of his face.

Then, as if he'd rehearsed it a thousand times in his head, he lifted one large hand—

—and gave you a shy, careful wave goodbye.

Your breath caught. You bit your lip, smiling back so hard your cheeks hurt.

God. You were so in trouble.

★ aone finds it really cute tbh. he'll always bend down for you wordlessly, knowing the drill. but you like to catch him off guard sometimes to be cute, hopping up to barely get a peck on his cheek. he blushes like crazy, which you think is the cutest.

★ tsukishima is an ass. this man will stay standing tall, even tilting his head up and looking down at you, with a tiny smirk on his face. he enjoys seeing the struggle. when you get annoyed and angrily pout though, he bends down for you, muttering a small "cute" under his breath.

★ ushijima smiles whenever you do it, telling you sweetly "there's no need for that, sweetheart," placing his hands on your waist and holding you still so he can bend down and kiss your cheek. sometimes he'll just pick you up so you can kiss his cheek though, like it's nothing.