#hyperpop rpf

You're sitting on her bedroom floor because she prefers it over the bed and that's the kind of thing you don't question with April because you just know that she always has a good reason, even if the reason doesn't make sense to anyone else. She's sitting cross-legged with her laptop open showing you photos of her cat doing normal cat things and she's narrating each one like it's the most important documentation in human history.

"This one's my favorite," she says, showing you an image of a blurry orange blob.

You have no idea what part of the cat you're looking at, but she's so pleased with herself that you just smile and nod. This is what the best part of being in love with April Harper Grey looks like: watching her get excited about things that don't matter to anyone except her. Well, and you, because they matter to her.

She closes the laptop. "Okay, your turn."

"My turn for what?"

"To talk about something boring that I have to pretend to care about."

You blink at her, unsure of if she's being serious or joking. You can never tell, which has been the biggest source of distress in your life as you do your best to decipher if she's flirting with you or if this is just how she is. You began attempting to solve this mystery three weeks ago, and frustratingly, you're no closer to knowing than you were at the start.

"I don't have anything boring to talk about," you say.

"Everyone has something boring to talk about."

"Not me."

"Liar."

Her hair falls in her face when she leans forward. She keeps pushing it back behind her ear, but within seconds, it falls again. You've been watching her do this without meaning to, counting how many times it happens (so far, seven in the last ten minutes). She's wearing your favorite hoodie. That has to mean something, right? She's been taking your clothes for weeks, justifying it by claiming yours are more comfortable than hers, but that doesn't explain why she keeps them for days on end.

"You're staring," she says.

"No, I'm not."

"You're definitely staring."

Your face heats up and you break eye contact to stare at the floor. "I was just— You're wearing my hoodie again. I just noticed."

She looks down at it and pulls the sleeves over her hands. "Do you want it back?"

"No."

"Then why are you staring at it?"

"I don't know."

She's still looking at you and you wish more than anything that she wasn't, or actually, you wish she would never look away. To be honest, you have no idea what you wish anymore.

"You're being weird," she says.

"I'm not being weird!"

"You've been weird literally all night."

Have you? Probably, but it isn't like it's your fault! You've been too busy having an internal crisis to care about monitoring your own behavior. After all, you're hopelessly in love with her and she has no idea and you're sitting on her floor trying to figure out if the way she looks at you means what you want it to mean or if you're making it all up. This is what your life has become; analyzing every interaction between the two of you, replaying every word she says, overthinking every time she touches your arm or sits too close or says something that maybe kinda sorta could be flirting.

Like last week, she randomly told you that you smell really good. People say that to their friends who they have no romantic feelings for, right? That's a normal thing to say, you think. Except you swear the way she said it was different, or maybe you're projecting simply because you want it to mean something.

"Are you mad at me?" she asks.

"What? No."

"Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"You're lying again." She says it so matter-of-factly, like she knows you better than you know yourself, which might be the case after all. "You refuse to look at me when something's wrong."

It takes every ounce of courage you have, but you manage to look at her, even forcing your lips into a fake smile. "There. See?"

She's quiet for a minute while she narrows her eyes, studying you. "Nope. You're still lying."

How on earth does she do that? How is she able to read you so much better than you're able to read her? It's not fair. You've been watching her for weeks trying to decode everything just to fail over and over, and then meanwhile, she can just look at you and know everything that's going on inside your head.

She sighs and stands up. "I'm getting water. You want some?"

"Sure."

She leaves and you stay on the floor trying to remember how to be normal, which is impossible because like, what the hell even is normal anymore? Before life got so complicated, being her friend was the easiest thing in the world. You knew how to sit in her room and listen to her talk and not feel like your heart was trying to claw its way through your chest, but that was before you realized you're in love with her. Now everything is so different. You find yourself noticing things you never noticed before, like the way she laughs at her own jokes before she tells them, or how when she's thinking too hard about something, her eyebrows furrow together and she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, or the fact that you've been hanging out for three hours already and she hasn't asked you to leave. It's agonizing not knowing what that means, but you're certain it has to mean something.

Or well, it could mean nothing, you suppose.

Actually, maybe it does mean nothing after all.

She comes back with two glasses and sits next to you, closer than before. In fact, she sits so close that now your shoulders are touching, but this is normal for her. She does this all the time; sitting too close and touching your arm too much and saying too many things that could be flirting or could be nothing at all. You've always assumed that none of it meant anything because that's just how April is. Except what if it's not? What if she's been flirting this whole time and you've been too stupid to realize it?

"Here," she says, handing you the water.

Your fingers brush hers when you take it, which has to be intentional on her part. You don't just accidentally go brushing someone's fingers... except maybe you do. Maybe that's a completely normal thing that happens all the time and you're reading too far into it because you're that desperate for her to feel the same way you do.

"Can I ask you something?" she says.

Your stomach drops. This is it. She knows. She figured it out and now she's going to ask you about it and you're going to have to lie or tell the truth and either option you choose is absolutely, 100%, undoubtedly going to ruin everything. "Sure."

"Do you think I'm annoying?"

Wait. Huh? That's not what you expected at all. "What?"

"Like, do you think I talk too much?"

"No."

"You can be honest."

"I am being honest. In fact, I wish you'd talk even more."

She stared at her lap, picking at the the nail polish that's been chipping for the past few days. "My ex said I talked too much about stuff nobody cares about."

"Yeah well, your ex was an idiot."

"You didn't know them."

"I don't need to. They're automatically an idiot."

April smiles a little and it makes your body tingle all over. You'd call her ex an idiot every day for the rest of your life if it meant you'd always get to see her smile like that.

"I like talking to you," she says quietly. "You actually listen, unlike most people."

"It's easy to listen to you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Of course it is."

"Even when I'm rambling about my cat for twenty minutes?"

"Especially then."

She looks at you in a way that has you believing angels exist among the rest of humanity. You could drown in the way she's looking at you. No, you want to drown in that look. What a heavenly way to die, you think.

"You're just being nice," she says.

"I mean, sure, it might be a nice thing to say, but that's not why I'm saying it."

"So you honestly like listening to me talk about stupid stuff then?"

"Yes, April. Don't be ridiculous."

"You're definitely something," she says, so quiet you almost don't hear it. Then she looks away and stands up. "Do you want to watch something?"

She's already walking to her laptop and you're still sitting there on the floor trying to figure out what just happened, if there even is anything to figure out at all, that is.

"Sure," you say.

She sits on her bed and pats the space next to to her. When you get up, your legs feel weird, but you somehow manage to take the few steps to reach her. You sit down, very intentional about not getting too close. You decide you want to be close enough that you can at least smell her shampoo (is that super weird?), but definitely not close enough that you're touching.

Soon enough, she opens Netflix and starts to scroll, but you're more focused on watching her face than you are the screen. Your head gets fuzzy at the way she's frowning while chewing on her lip, clearly disappointed at the options. You've managed to memorize her face without even meaning to. Even if you closed your eyes, you'd be able to see the way her left eyebrow is slightly higher than her right, and the barely visible scar on her chin that she got falling off a bike when she was seven. You remember her telling you the story once forever ago and you instantly filed it away with all the other April facts you've been collecting over the course of your friendship.

"What do you want to watch?" she asks.

"I don't care."

"That's not helpful."

"You pick."

"But what if you hate it?"

"Trust me, I'll tell you," you say, but you're lying.

"But then I'll feel bad."

"Okay, so then I won't tell you."

"But then you'll be suffering in silence."

"April," you say, rolling your eyes. "Just pick something."

She sighs, but doesn't keep fighting.

About halfway through whatever you're watching, she leans her head on your shoulder, which naturally makes you forget how to breathe.

You feel your body tense up before you can stop it, which sends a flood of panic through your nervous system because there's no way she isn't going to notice, which means she'll realize that you're so not normal about this, or like, her in general. Fuck.

"This okay?" she asks, eyes still glued to the laptop screen.

"Yeah," you whisper.

"Then why'd you get all tense?"

"I have no clue what you're talking about."

"Damn, you're on a roll with the lies tonight, huh? You're definitely tense."

You clear your throat even though you absolutely don't need to. "I'm fine."

She lifts her head to look at you and you decide that death would be less terrifying than whatever is about to happen next. "I can move if—"

"Don't!" It comes out too fast. It makes you sound too desperate. "I mean, you're fine. It's fine. You can— your head, on my shoulder. That's fine. I don't care. It's cool."

Smooth. Very smooth. Definitely not suspicious at all. What the fuck is wrong with you?

"Oh. Okay. If you say so."

She puts her head back down and you try to relax, which is an impossible task when your whole body feels like it's on fire and your brain is spiraling in so many directions you didn't even know it could spiral.

You try to distract yourself by focusing on how her hair smells like coconut. That's new. Or maybe it's not new at all, and is instead, one of many things you just never noticed before, like the weight of her head as it rests against you, and the warmth of her body pressed against yours, and the way you can feel her breathing against your arm. All of it should be normal, but deep down in your heart, you know it's not. Nothing is normal anymore. How could it possibly be?

There is not a single doubt in your mind that it's only a matter of time before you inevitably fuck everything up. You're going to say something stupid or do something stupid and she's going to realize you have these messy, complicated feelings for her, and then everything will be ruined. She'll stop coming over, stop stealing your clothes, stop putting her head on your shoulder, and you'll have to live with the fact that it's all your fault.

"Hey," she says.

Your heart skips a bit as you're pulled out of your head. "Hey."

"Can I tell you something?"

Fuck. This is it. This is where she tells you she knows and she thinks you're a weird freak and she wants nothing to do with you ever again. You brace yourself for impact. "Sure."

"I don't really care about this show."

You wait for her to continue with the fact she knows how you feel and she doesn't feel the same way and you should probably go home now.

"I just wanted an excuse for you to stay longer," she says.

Wait. Did she just— Huh? What does that mean? What does any of this mean?

"Oh," you say, because your vocabulary has apparently shrunk to one word.

"Is that weird?"

"No."

"It sorta feels weird."

"It's not weird, I promise."

She doesn't say anything else as you sit there, dying. No one just tells someone they made up an excuse for them to stay longer if there wasn't something deeper going on.

The logical side of you knows you should just ask her. The worst that could happen is she says no and you have to move to a different state and change your name and never speak to her again. That's not that bad! People do that all the time... most likely.

"April."

"Hm?"

Do it. Just do it. You can fucking do it! "Can I ask you something?"

"You're already asking something by asking if you can ask something."

Even now, as she's being impossibly and authentically difficult, all you want is to just kiss her. "I'm serious."

She lifts her head and looks at you, smile falling slowly. "Okay."

Your mouth is so dry. Your hands are shaking. This is the worst idea you've ever had and it isn't even close. "Are you—" Try again. "Do you—" One more time. "What are we doing?"

"We're... watching... Netflix?"

"That's not what I mean."

"Uh, okay. Then what do you mean?"

"I mean this. Us. The—" You gesture vaguely between the two of you. "Everything."

She's quiet for so long you think maybe she's not going to answer. Is she pretending she didn't hear you? God, fuck, damn it, ugh! You should definitely just leave and never, ever come back. Maybe even like, die, you know, just to be safe.

"I don't know what you're asking," she finally says.

Is she seriously going to make you say it? Wow. She's way eviler than you thought. If you have to actually say the words out loud, everything will be different and you will never be able to take it back, which is undoubtedly terrifying, but then again, you've managed to come this far, so like, you sort of don't really have a choice, do you? You have to finish it.

"I can't tell if you're flirting with me or if we're just friends."

You feel her body go very, very still. "Oh."

...oh? That's it? Just 'oh'?

"I'm not good at this," she adds.

"Good at what?"

"Talking about... uh... this, I guess. Like, feelings or whatever. I don't know how to do it, which probably sounds stupid, but uh... yeah."

"What? No, you're fine. There's no right way."

"You don't have to lie to me. I'm not stupid. There definitely is a right way and I'm definitely not doing it." She's picking at the hoodie strings, refusing to make eye contact, but not in the usual way. This time it feels much more intentional, which means this is bad. This is really, really fucking bad.

"I thought maybe you liked me," she says, so quiet you almost don't hear her. "But I wasn't entirely sure, so I kept doing stuff to see if you'd react, but then you never did, so I just thought... well, I don't know what I thought, actually."

"You were trying to see if I liked you?"

"Yeah..."

You can't help but burst out in a fit of giggles, painfully aware of just how inappropriate that is, yet unable to stop. "I've been trying to see if you liked me!"

She finally meets your eyes. "Are you serious?"

"Yes!"

"Oh my god." She starts laughing too and you have to do a double take because for a second you swear there's an angel in her place. "We're so fucking stupid."

She's 100% right too. You're both so fucking stupid. All this time you were both trying to figure out the same thing and neither of you could seem to just ask.

"This is so stupid," she says again.

"The stupidest."

"So—" She takes a breath, the laughter subsiding, and with it, a teeny, tiny piece of your heart. "Do you? Like me, I mean?"

"Yes," you admit, and it feels like 10,000 tons of cement have been taken off your shoulders.

"Okay. Yeah. Uh, yeah that's good!"

"Good?"

"Yeah. Because I—" She looks at her hands, scratching at the flecks of nail polish again. "I like you too."

You can't breathe, or think, or do anything really except stare at her., eyes wide as you try to figure out if this is real life. "You do?"

"I mean, duh. Obviously. It's just... I mean, well, you know I'm not a very romantic person. I don't exactly know how to do the whole relationship thing. If I'm being honest, I'm really fucking scared that I'm probably going to fuck everything up."

"I don't care."

"You say that now."

"Yeah, because it's the truth."

She's gone back to not looking at you, but you aren't able to focus your attention on anything besides her. "I'm going to be bad at this."

"So will I."

"That's not very reassuring," she says, though you let yourself believe you can hear a smile in her voice.

"We can be bad at it together."

"Are you asking me out?" she questions, glancing up at you through the curtain her hair has created around her face.

"Yes! I mean... um... I... I think so. Okay, no. Yeah. Yes, I'm asking you at."

"Okay then," she says, nodding over and over in a way that seems more like she's doing it for herself than for you. "Let's try it and just see what happens."

"So we're doing this?"

"I literally just said yes."

"I know! I'm just making sure."

"I'm sure. Are you sure?"

"Yes. Holy shit, yes, I'm so fucking sure."

"Okay. Good." She's quiet for a second. "What do people usually do next?"

Your brain helpfully supplies about fifteen different answers, most of which involve kissing her, which is almost certainly self-indulgent, but fuck it. You've earned it after the anxiety you've endured tonight. "I think they usually kiss each other... or something like that...."

"Oh.... Um, well, do you want to?"

"Do you?"

"I asked first."

You nod, probably too eagerly, too busy staring at her lips to worry about forming words.

She nods in return. "Okay, cool. I just, uh... I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

"Any of it; dating, kissing, all of it, I guess."

"OH. I mean, to be honest, me neither."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Okay." She closes her eyes as she takes a deep breath. "On three?"

"On three."

"One—"

She kisses you before you even think about getting to two.

It's a lot quicker than you've been fantasizing about, over before you can fully process it. When she pulls back, she looks terrified and you can't think about anything except the fact that April Harper Grey just kissed you. April. Kissed you. Holy shit.

"Was that okay?" she asks, biting on her bottom lip.

Instead of answering, you kiss her again because the fact of the matter is that if you don't kiss her right this very second, you might actually die.

This one lasts longer. Her hand finds yours and you can feel her shaking. Or actually, maybe you're the one shaking. Honestly, it's probably both. After all, this is April, objectively the most beautiful, perfect, magnificent girl in the whole wide world, and you're getting to kiss her, and even better, she's kissing you back.

When you break apart, she's looking at you and you don't know what you're supposed to say. Is there something you're supposed to say after you kiss someone for the first time? Literally what even are the rules?

"Hi," you say, so aware of how stupid you sound that you nearly get sick.

"Hi."

"That was—"

"Weird?"

"I mean... me personally, I was gonna say good."

"Oh." She smiles. "Yeah. It was good! I agree. Definitely."

You look at where your hands are intertwined think about just how badly you've been wanting this for weeks, and now she's here, and she likes you, and you don't know what to do with that information, but that part doesn't matter because what's important is that it's the truth.

"Can we do it again?" she asks, so silly, such a dumb question, like asking if the sky is blue.

After the fourth kiss, she's smiling against your mouth, and all you can think is that maybe you've never been happier than you are right now, like ever.

"Okay. We should stop," she says after reluctantly pulling herself away.

"Why?" you ask, making no attempt at hiding your pout.

"Because I'm going to have a mental breakdown over the fact I just seriously kissed some, kissed you in particular, so I think maybe I just need a second to process that, if that's okay."

"How long do you need?" you ask.

"I don't know. Ten minutes? Twenty? I'm sure I'll be fine. Just, if it isn't asking too much, can you hold my hand while I process?"

"Of course."

So you sit there on her bed holding her hand while she does what she needs to do to do what it is she's trying to do. Every couple minutes she looks at you like she's making sure you're still there, which you find adorably ridiculous because of course you're still there. There's nowhere in the entire universe you can imagine you'd rather be.

"Hey," she says after a while.

"Hey."

"Thank you for telling me how you felt. It's so humiliating, but I really don't think I would've ever admitted my feelings, but you know that already, don't you?"

"I mean, I didn't want to be the one to say it," you tease.

"I'm really bad at being vulnerable."

"I know that too."

"And I'm probably going to be weird about this for a while."

"That's okay."

She squeezes your hand. "Okay. Cool."

It's not this life-changing moment of cavity-inducing romance like you'd seen in all the movies growing up. There's no dramatic music or perfect lighting. It's just April being April; begrudgingly honest and helplessly weird and a little bit too scared. Somehow, that makes it more perfect than anything you could have ever imagined.

You're in love with her and she likes you back and she's holding your hand and wearing your hoodie and maybe that's enough, or maybe it's more than enough.