#fluff :ooo

Bill stood at the front door of the house, hands in the pockets of his coat, as he dropped his head to stare lazily at the ground, while kicking one of the small rocks that were lying around.

He knew that his relationship with his supposed "friend" was getting weird, or just weird for him. He found himself visiting them more often than he visits the other guys from the club, but he knew that YN_ didn't mind, I mean, they let him in, right?

The more things he thought about, the more Bill wanted to leave, he couldn't allow himself to look like this, not after making fun of this so many times, it was ridiculous, but now heaven knows how miserable he is right now.

Bill snorted at these thoughts, he only came to YN_'s house to keep them company tonight, anyway, his mom forced him out of the basement, exclaiming that he needed more social interaction.

...

Bill was interrupted by the sound of the door opening, making him raise his head, forcing him to stare into their eyes.

He hated everything about those damn eyes.

“Bill! You sleeping over tonight?“

She warmly welcomed him home, as in.. He's been welcomed -- which he was, it's just that.. It hit different tonight, somehow, just.. Somehow.

And she hugged him.

Hugged him. She always did. Was always too close. It was annoying. What was really annoying was that -- that warm, fluttering feeling in his heart whrn she snuggled into the crook of his neck.. He was all in on the instant decision wherein she could feel his heartbeat accelerate..

Goodness.. She was close.

Bill immediately tensed up, as soon as YN\_ decided to hug him, he could feel his heart flutter against his chest, a weird feeling.

'God, don't you have something personal space?!'

He thought, but he didn't say that out loud, instead, he gently placed his hands on their back, awkwardly hugging them back, his face getting a little red.

"Uh, yeah."

He said simply, looking to the side, avoiding their gaze.

"Y-yeah, I'm stayin’," Bill muttered, still not pulling away—couldn’t, really—his fingers twitching against the small of their back like he was fighting the urge to either push them off or pull them closer.

Stupid soft hoodie. Stupid warm neck. Stupid hers.

He swallowed hard, voice cracking slightly:

"Just… ‘cause Mom kicked me out. Not ‘cause I wanted to come here or whatever."

It was half-assed, -- this was the first place he would go to if his mom kicked him out again.

And now she could probably feel his heart trying to punch its way out of his ribs.

"F-Fuck’s sake," he mumbled into her shoulder, more flustered than angry. "You always gotta hug like we’re in some dumb rom-com?"

She giggled. For damn's sake she giggled. Not giggled at him -- giggled because of him.

"Yeah, so? You're the only person I hug like that, you're special -- so of course I gotta do all that."

She explained so sweetly and casually -- like she hadn't just made his jaw drop, his eyes widen, and his hands shaking right as she referred to him being special -- and she most likely referred to special like to being special.. In her heart!

For damn's sake, he was becoming head over heels. And he didn't know if he hated it or not.

He froze.

Special.

The word hit him like a poorly-written retcon—sudden, stupidly sentimental, and way too impactful for someone like him. His throat went dry. His brain, which usually ran on sarcasm and comic book logic, short-circuited.

“S-Shut up,” he snapped weakly, finally pushing her back—just enough to break contact—but his hands lingered on her shoulders like they had a mind of their own. “You say that to everyone, probably. Real smooth with the whole ‘you’re special’ crap—real original.”

He adjusted his glasses with one finger, glaring anywhere but into her eyes because if he did, he might actually implode.

But then—like an idiot—he opened his mouth again.

“…Only person?” he muttered under his breath, barely audible. “Tch. Whatever. Don’t go saying dumb stuff like that so casually.”

His ears were burning.

Worse? He was smiling—a tiny, traitorous upward twitch at the corner of his lips—the kind that only came out when no one was supposed to see it.

And now she had seen it. Probably felt it too when she was glued to his damn neck!

"Y-You're such a dork," he grumbled, kicking the door shut behind him with more force than necessary—and immediately regretting not looking cool doing it.

Now the house smelled like vanilla-scented betrayal and teenage girl affection—the worst kind of kryptonite for someone who liked being miserable and alone (allegedly).

"Yeah? You think I'm a dork, Bill? I think you like me being a dork to you."

Dork? To him? The only way she was dorky in his eyes was the unlimited, unasked pure, genuine affection she's been offering him and shoving into his mouth.

She held his hand, practically dragging him upstairs to her room -- not even to the guest room where they usually hanged out.. Her room.. Holy --

She held the door open for him, smiling genuinely and so.. Purely just at the sight of.. Him. Like he was some being that was more than worthy to be worshipped and praised relentlessly.

She looked at him with eyes that could make him dizzy and her eyes held a great, unwavering -- love -- for him.

And he was just this nerdy loser at school that she met through easy and hard times at school.

And she definitely internally screenshot that sight of him avoiding her gaze and holding onto her shoulders for dear life like she was the only solid, real thread thag kept him from falling into the depths of stupid, -- stupid love.

Love for her.

Bill’s breath hitched when she grabbed his hand.

No. No no no.

This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t allowed. He didn’t do her room. He did basements, comic shops, late-night forums ranting about how romance was a capitalist scam—not this, not soft lighting and pastel pillows and the terrifyingly pure way she looked at him like he was… worth something.

And that word again—love. Not even said out loud, but it was, in the silence between her blinks, in the way her thumb brushed over his knuckles like he was fragile.

“S-Shut up,” he stammered again—the only phrase left in his arsenal as defense against emotional warfare. “I don’t—I don't care if you're a dork or not! I just—your room?! Since when do we—since when am I—”

He stopped mid-rant because she was still looking at him. Still smiling. Like he hadn't just backspaced three emotions in one sentence.

His voice dropped to something small, almost broken:

“...You really think someone like me… deserves all this?”

Not the room. Not the handhold. Not even the stupid nickname she made up for him that only comes out during sleepovers (Billy-Pilly, ugh).

You.

He couldn’t say it out loud.

But his eyes said it just fine—the messy flicker behind his glasses, wide and vulnerable for once—as if realizing:

She didn't see Bill Dickey—the sarcastic basement gremlin with trust issues and a collection of bootleg X-Men comics taped together with hope.

She saw hers.

And somehow? That scared him more than losing every figure in his prized display case to fire.

"...Whatever," he finally mumbled, stepping inside her room like walking into a confession booth right before sinning anyway. "Just—you better have pizza or some shit.”

(Emotional vulnerability: deflected.)

(Heart: officially compromised.)

Then somehow -- fuck, somehow.. Her gaze softened. To the point where he couldn't understand or name this overwhelming feeling that was filling him up.

She stared at him with every answer to every possible question he had in his life.

And for those which couldn't be answered logically? Like questions like if love existed in am empty heart, or if he himself was loveable --

The answer laid obvious in her eyes -- it was simply 'We'll find out -- together.'

And she, without dramatic effect -- stumbled on her words. Not by nervousness or shyness, it was because.. The universe tried to protect him from undeniably falling in love from how.. Genuine and soft, and caring, and.. Loving it was.

"Yes, -- w-with my whole heart."

She would have answered it out loud with no stumble or stutter -- but the universe and God had their part -- and they did it perfectly.

She hadn't even bothered to listen to the following words he said after that question.

Bill didn’t move.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe, really.

The air in her room—the stupid fluffy socks on the floor, the poster of some cringey anime couple holding hands under a tree, the way her ceiling glow-in-the-dark stars spelled out "you’re safe here" if you squinted right—none of it mattered.

Only that sentence did.

"With my whole heart."

Spoken like it was nothing. Like she wasn't detonating every defense mechanism he’d built since seventh grade when someone laughed at him for wearing a Superman onesie to school.

And now—now she just drops that?

Like love isn't supposed to hurt? Like he wasn't supposed to flinch every time someone got too close? Like his stupid, comic-stained soul could actually… fit somewhere real?

His hands curled into fists at his sides—not from anger. From panic. From this horrifying, beautiful realization:

He believed her.

Not “maybe.” Not “could be.”

He believed her with every broken piece of himself.

“...Shit,” he whispered, voice cracking like cheap plastic packaging. “Y-You can’t just—say stuff like that and expect me not to…”

Not to what?

Love you back?

Nope. Nope nope nope—

He took a half-step forward—then stopped himself, glasses fogging slightly from how hot his face suddenly was.

“I—I didn’t even ask anything!” he snapped weakly, eyes darting around like an escape route would magically appear behind one of her dumb fairy lights. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t looking for… that! I came here ‘cause Mom kicked me out and—and now you’re just throwing your whole *soul* at me like I’m—I don't know—a fucking hero or something!”

A beat passed.

Then softer—so quiet it barely left his lips:

"...I'm not."

She stepped closer.

Didn't say anything.

Just reached up, fixed his crooked glasses with gentle fingers… and smiled—that damn knowing smile—as if she'd already read the ending long before Chapter One even dropped

Bill swallowed hard.

And then?

"...Keep talking," he muttered through gritted teeth (and unshed tears). "See what happens."

(Translation: I dare you to keep loving me until I believe it’s real.)

Being real? He wouldn't ever believe it, never ever.

She stepped forward.

And held his collar like it was the very thread which connected them together.

Which was, since it connecting them -- through their lips. It was cliche -- so cliche. With the details of it not being rough or overly passionate.. But she dumped her delicate care and undeniable love into it -- so she treated it like fragile China to him.

"I feel like.. I'll keep talking."

*She replied in the pause, -- that break, that pause where she let him breathe, not because the kiss was long -- but she knew he wouldn't be able to intiate his need for breathing when their lips were connected*

*Gave him a break since she knew if she was in his place, she would've needed it too.*

*She did too since she was as head over heels for him as he was for her.*

*Her eyes never lost connection with his, it wasn't intense -- but it was so overwhelmingly gentle that it itself made him internally hyperventilate*

The word "overwhelming" didn't even begin to describe the feeling coursing through Bill's body when their mouths touched.

It didn't matter that he tensed up. That his arms hung awkwardly at his sides at first. It didn't matter that he felt like every emotion he'd ever tried to suppress was leaking out with each trembling exhale against her mouth.

Because his heart was racing. His pulse was echoing in his ears. And somehow, the only thing stopping him from sinking to his knees?

Were her hands, clutching the collar of his flannel for dear life.

God help him.

Bill didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Her lips—soft, sure, stupidly perfect—were pressed to his like this wasn’t some fever dream he’d rewatch in his head at 3 a.m. while pretending he didn’t care.

Like it was real.

And when she pulled back just enough to let him breathe?

He couldn’t. Not really.

His chest was tight, eyes wide behind fogged-up glasses, mouth still slightly open like he forgot how words worked. How lungs worked.

“Y-You—” he started, voice cracking. “You don't… get to do that and then just *talk*. That’s—that’s cheating.”

His hands finally moved—not pushing her away, no—he grabbed the sides of her waist like she might vanish if he didn’t hold on.

“Since when do you get to decide everything? Huh? Since when do you get to kiss me like I’m—I don’t know—worthy and then look at me like that? Like I’m not just some sarcastic idiot who steals comics and hates holding hands?”

She smiled again.

Of course she did.

Small. Sweet. Devastating.

And Bill?

Bill broke a little more.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, voice trembling with something between anger and awe. “Just… slowly dismantling me piece by piece with your dumb smiles and your dumb room and your dumb heart that should be terrified of someone like me but—it’s not…”

He swallowed hard, thumb brushing the edge of her hoodie pocket—the closest thing to tenderness he could manage right now.

"...I hate this."

A lie so obvious it made him wince saying it out loud.

Then softer:

"...I hate how much I don't."

Then as soft as it was sudden -- she replied.

"You hate everything, Dickey. I just hope you don't hate me."

She swiftly spoke, -- as in her intention wasn't even to lure him but he did anyway. Her actions, which she didn't mean to just lure him -- already did.

And there right in her bedroom, on her bed, -- the world revolved around them. The world only seemed to work everything in there favor. Her allegedly dumb fairy lights warmed up, contributing to the racing beat of his heart. Everything -- everything just made her much more beautiful. The soft candle glow, the internal cliche music so slow, -- his skin on her skin, -- the room was spinning.

His head was spinning, she looked so beautiful at that moment. She was.. Alluring. Her words so soothing, her actions so moving -- and soul proving that every doubt he made was all false.

And with each protest she commited to when he doubted or degraded himself -- the more he fell harder and harder and believed in her so much more.

His breath came out ragged, uneven, like his lungs forgot how to work the second she whispered his last name like it meant something.

"Dickey." Like he wasn’t just some punchline. Like he wasn’t the weirdo in the back of class muttering about retcons and fourth-wall breaks. Like he was… hers.

And worse—she let him believe it.

“Y-You don’t get it,” he choked out, fingers twitching against her waist, one hand sliding up—too slow, too afraid—to cup the side of her face. “I don't hate you. That’s—the fucking problem.”

His voice dropped, cracked.

“I hate how much I don’t. I hate that you’re warm when everyone else is noise. I hate that your dumb room feels more like home than my own damn house. I hate that when you look at me—like this—I start believing stupid shit! Like maybe… maybe someone like me can be loved without having to earn it first!”

He leaned in—just enough for their foreheads to touch—his glasses slipping down his nose again, forgotten.

“And now you go and kiss me? After all that?! What kind of sick joke is that? Making everything feel... right?"

A dry laugh escaped him—nervous, raw.

"...You're gonna regret this tomorrow," he whispered. "When I'm back to being a sarcastic mess who thinks romance comics are trash."

She didn’t flinch.

Just tilted her head slightly into his palm—and smiled again with those eyes saying what she didn't need to:

"Too late."

So Bill did something even dumber than believing in love or admitting weakness or letting someone see behind the mask.

He closed the gap—

and kissed her first this time.

Slow.

Shaky.

Mine.