It’s something you’re expected to just…pick up, it seems, like you’ll get ahold of it if you keep going. Or it’s something that people assume is easy, the same way people describe riding a bike to little kids who are really fucking scared of screwing up.

Guys like you, in relationships like these? They don’t last long, you’re pretty sure. You once described it to KK as like being the fall guy at the start of one of his romcoms.

“You know. I smile, I nod along, but I don’t really get them, I’m nice enough—or, that guy is, I’m a fucking phenomenal douchebag—but I’m not meant for them—”

He hadn’t dignified your two AM ramblings with any kind of reply but “Eat a fucking dick, Captor.”

Fair enough.

No one ever taught you how to date pure sunshine, but they kept coming back around. 

Aradia and Tavros, all that brilliant laughter and light, cutting wit that no one expected to come from two such cheerful people—god they were even bigger sarcastic bitches than you—and you loved it about them. Love a lot of things about them, maybe even, kind of, loved them. A lot.

And you wanted them to know that. You tried, goddamn did you try, but no one ever taught you how to date sunshine.

They told you about their new projects, their new ideas, their best and worst thoughts. They gave you stories, paid you compliments, brought you books to read on your favorite subjects and theirs—and it was much too much, way more sunshine than a man like you can handle—

“I can’t keep doing this,” you insisted, to the mirror.

Aradia slips up behind you. Tavros leans your head against his shoulder.

“I can’t—”

“Finish that and we’re going to haul you into a cold shower,” Aradia says, altogether too cheerfully.

Tavros smirks, presses a kiss to the top of your head. “We’re not expecting anything. Just keep coming over, keep trying. C’mon.”