#misasprout

content:

profiles!

yns circle! || tōru and friends!

chapters:

(names + number of chapters are subject to change) written chapters are marked with a ✎ Prologue 00: off we go!

01: the arrival. ✎

03: a rocky start.

04: wait, what's your name? ✎ 05: the day, together.

06: what is grief, if not love persevering?

07: the boy from the train.

08: argentina. 09: what makes you, you?

10:  i’ll be seeing you. 11: oikawa tōru. ✎

a/n: after too much procrastination... here you go!!!!!!! yes it is very underwhelming for howlong the wait has been im so sorryhujndwebdhjn i am a FIRM believer that oikawa uses kaomojis

You stifle a laugh at his groan as he grabs at his throbbing foot for but a second before continuing to squeeze through the large sum of people. Feeling his fingers slip on your puffer jacket, he wastes no time in practically yanking you forward, determined to not lose his grip, causing you to let out a yelp as your forehead collides with his shoulder. 

Rubbing at your forehead, you look up at the brunette, expecting him to at least mumble an apology, but are met with him simply eyeing overtop the crowd—likely to view where the crowd was the most scattered, he could see above most people after all—as if he didn’t just send you crashing headfirst into his surprisingly hard shoulder.

“Excuse me?” 

“Hm?”

“Don’t ‘hm?’ me! You could at least apologise for giving me permanent brain damage.” You make a point to hyperbolize the pain, as though it wasn’t already fading away. Only to be met with Futakuchi's index finger flicking at your forehead, just once, just enough for you to feel the graze of his (now dried) blood around his fingernail as it striked you. When did that happen?

“Don’t be ungrateful, you were the one begging me to come and help you survive this evening rush.” He said, attempting to sound annoyed, but the smirk on his face—now turned away—gave him away. Almost as if he was amused with the fact you wanted his presence so bad.

Not bothering to dignify him with a response, you decide to keep your mouth shut. Only speaking up after a few minutes of him incessantly adjusting his grip around your arm. “Are you planning on stopping anytime soon?”

“Don’t get mad at me cause you wore something that's impossible to grab on.” He said, making a point to adjust his grip with a little more fervor, making you roll your eyes.

You just barely manage to stop yourself from hitting his back upon noticing him suddenly halt at an emptier part of the mall. Just as you’re about to question him, he turns to face you, holding his hand out expectedly. “This’ll be easier.” 

Lowering your gaze to his open palm, you struggle to miss the clear calluses and bruising stretched from his fingers, all the way down to the end of his palm. Making you wince instinctively, almost in pity.

Futakuchi, however, pays it little mind, already so used to seeing his hands dirtied up. He raises an eyebrow and holds his hand out a little closer to you. “Well? Let's get a move on.” He probes, letting out an exasperated sigh at your silence.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, though you’re unsure why. Probably out of discomfort, yeah, definitely. It’d be uncomfortable to hold his hands, probably.

As you shake your head, Futakuchi cocks his head to the side, confused. “What? Is there a problem?”

“Nope, but I just… don’t feel like holding hands.”

That makes him let out a heavy groan. “Well I don’t feel like grabbing on your arm for dear life and having to adjust my grip every two seconds, this’ll be easier.” 

“No thanks.” You smile innocently.

“You know we’re gonna lose each other in this crowd,” he says peremptorily, a deadpanned expression plastered across his face. “I’d also rather not have to file a lost child report so—”

His words get cut short—or perhaps you simply don’t get to hear them with how a stampede of people suddenly dart between the two of you, and while you don’t recall consciously moving your feet, the next moment you get a moment to breathe, you’re in a part of the mall you can safely say you don’t recognise. At all. Leaving you with just your phone.

It takes him a good fifteen minutes to find you based on your rather vague description of your surroundings, and a lecture that was hard to take seriously when coming from him.

The dried blood around his fingernail is still there.

You wonder if it hurts Futakuchi when he spikes a ball. Such force slamming against a hard surface can’t be beneficial to his already prevalently callused palm.

Though it’s only when you watch his hand gliding through the air to stick onto his hip as he regards you, do you realise you’ve stopped paying attention to your homework.

But as you swiftly lower your eyes to the textbook resting atop your knees, pages only still spread open by your non dominant hand splayed across the middle of it does your focus shift away once more.

Almost as if expecting something, you squeeze the aforementioned hand into a fist, releasing it after a moment. Nothing. Is that the case for Futakuchi too? Even with the new bruise you (shamefully) had instantly noticed blooming across his index finger the moment you walked into the gym today?

“Yoohoo, anyone home?” You hadn’t even noticed his approach until he began flailing his uninjured hand in front of your face. Though, you’re not sure if you could call it uninjured, not with the calluses clearly visible on his palm, and with the gauze he’d applied yesterday after a nasty block binding his ring and middle finger together.

Snapping your eyes away from his fingers, you meet his gaze sharply. “What?”

He shrugs, crouching in front of you as his forearms lean on his knees. “Nothing, you were just staring off into space, and I’m gonna need your homework answers, so it benefits me if you get your work done.” He simpered.

You roll your eyes, flicking his forehead in the same manner you recalled him doing to you back at the mall a few days ago, only in this case, your index finger is completely fine. “Do your own work.”

“I’m kidding,” he drawled, mimicking the way you rolled your eyes in an overexaggerated manner. “You know I do my own work.” Not missing your raised eyebrow he sighed. “Most of the time.”

Giggling, your hand instinctively comes up to your mouth as you do, the textbook on your knees bouncing by the action as he laughs in tandem.

The two of you are only pulled away from the situation as Kogenegawa calls out ‘captain!’ in the endearing, lost puppy manner he’d always had. Causing Futakuchi to perk up, glancing back at the court as he stands up and jogs back on the court.

You don’t miss the way his bruised finger was tucked as he waved goodbye to you.

Similarly to how he doesn’t miss you mimic him, your index finger curling into the edge of the page of your textbook, though he found it hard to tell whether or not it was a conscious effort on your part.

As you approach the night market side by side with Aone, your eyes immediately find Futakuchi’s, and you can’t help but notice the way he almost instantly looked away, opting to breathe into his clasped hands.

He’s wearing gloves, leaving the state of his palms a total mystery, and you can’t help but frown as your fingers dig deeper into the pockets of your coat. You forgot your gloves, having left in such a hurry.

“You guys finally made it.” Futakuchi finally says as the two of you draw closer to the rest of the team, snow crunching beneath your guys’ feet. Straightening up, Futakuchi places his hands on his hips, though he only looks at Aone as he speaks. “Took you long enough.”

Aone simply bows his head silently as a way to apologise, the beanie on his head slipping into his eyes for a moment. But you don’t notice, eyes fixed on Futakuchi. Especially his gloved hands.

Eyes narrowing, you can’t help but wonder if he’d moisturised his hands that laid beneath the thick, knitted gloves on his hands. The cold weather could crack the many calluses atop them.

A crystallined snowflake landing on the bridge of your nose jolts you out of your thoughts, just enough to process the fact Sakunami was speaking to you, though his words barely reached you. As if he was underwater. 

Something about heading further into the festival, and the way he tilted his head to the side made it lucid that he was asking a question.

Not wanting to ask him to repeat himself, you simply nod—your frigid lips brushing against the inside of your scarf—and by a stroke of luck, you seem to have answered appropriately, with the way the others smile and begin making their way towards the bustle of the crowd.

Not wanting to be left behind, you quicken your steps, just enough to be close enough in the team's vicinity as you walk behind the rest of them, shrouded in your own thoughts.

You never noticed the way Futakuchi’s eyes would look back to get a glimpse of you and your lack of gloves, made apparent by the slither of your wrist sticking out from your pocket, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked away before anyone would spot him.

Were you really that interested in his hands?

That's the question that popped in your head as your feet absentmindedly carried you along the sides of the market, bathed in warm lighting and engulfed in lively chatter. Though those all slipped to the back of your mind when you lifted your head.

Breathing out, a small cloud of breath vapour fading into the air as quickly as it came. You find your eyes on the back of Futakuchi's head.

‘No, I’m not interested.’ You remind yourself, eyes squeezed shut as you shake your head hard enough for passersby to glance in your direction, puzzled. But you don’t notice, or care as you open your eyes once more, eyes trained on his brown hair, twinkling warmly as small snowflakes fall from it, his ears tinted red from what you presume to be the cold.

Lowering your stare, you stick a hand out from one of your pockets. Your fingers had gone red, and your nails brittle. It reminded you of him, admittedly. The mere comparison bringing a flush to your cheeks that hadn’t a thing to do with the cold weather.

Curious, you find yourself curling the trembling fingers into an experimental fist, at which you wince, biting your bottom lip just hard enough that a coppery taste floods into your mouth. How could he manage something like that on the daily?

You attempt to bring your eyes to his gloved hands, but your view is obstructed by the other guys walking between the two of you. But as your eyes land on one ungloved hand, you raise an eyebrow. 

His is just as damaged as Futakuchi’s, bruises, cracked calluses, and gauze decorated his hand. In fact, his is even worse than you’ve ever seen Futakuchi’s.

The revelation hits you like a bucket of ice cold water, how come you’d never noticed? You were hanging around the team constantly, yet you only seemed to notice when Futakuchi had knuckles split and bloodied from some careless, sudden move, causing them to scab and bleed, scab again, healing in time, only for the cycle to repeat.

You find yourself incapable of looking anymore, instead you just watch your feet carry across the heavy snow, dipping gently under your steps as the warm lamps colouring it made it seem more like the glistening stars overhead.

You don’t notice how there are far less recognisable footsteps ahead of you, or the way you still hadn’t returned your hand to your pocket, the cold air biting at the skin slowly fading purple as it stayed by your side firmly. Quivering like an autumn leaf desperately clinging to a tree in the harshest of weathers.

Not until you feel a gloved hand grab at your shoulder from behind. Harsh, gentle, and recognisable all at once. Enough to make your head turn expectedly for a familiar face.

And what a familiar face it is when you crane your neck to find a familiar pair of brown eyes and sideswept hair, dusted with snow. “What’re you doing?” Futakuchi asks, an eyebrow cocked.

You blink, your hand pointing ahead, where the rest of the team was. “Following you guys.” You say, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world as you turn your head back around to look at the crowd, only to find the team gone. Wait, where did they go? When did Futakuchi even get behind you?

“We all wanted to go to different stalls, so we left in pairs. You dummy.” He flicks at your forehead again, the same finger from last time. Only this time the pain is minimised from his knitted gloves covering his hand. 

“Oh.” You say, batting his hand away as you look to the side, bashful at your own absentmindedness and you can already hear the croak in your voice before you even speak. “I didn’t re—” 

“—Realise? I can tell.” He sighs, pulling his hand away from your shoulder. 

“You’ve been so lost in thought ever since you got here,” he comments, of course he noticed. “And you’re the one who’s been looking forward to this the most.”

You huff, digging your hand back into your pocket now that you felt the biting air against it. “Didn’t realise you were such a worrywart.” You tease.

“Usually you’re always nagging when we take too long—reminding us about how we need to get a good spot for the fireworks before they’re all taken.” He states, a finger pointing at the sky.

“And my opinion still stands.”

“Well they’re starting in fifteen minutes.”

“Huh—?” You furrow your eyebrows, mouth agape. 

Were you really zoned out for that long?

As if suddenly immune to the cold, one of your hands flies up to your mouth, aghast. “Why didn’t you say something earlier! We’ll never get a good spot now!” You exclaim as you look over the surroundings, your other hand raising to grab his wrist. Not his hand. 

Hearing him snicker, you turn back to him with a frown. “This isn’t funny!”

He shook the wrist you held, your grasp loosening before soon enough falling to your side once more as he placed a hand on your head, mockingly. “Don’t worry, for I—the amazing, incredible, and devastatingly handsome Futakuchi—have already secured a spot. The rest of the team is waiting there.” 

Letting out a sigh of relief, you smack his chest lightly. “Gosh Futakuchi, you scared me!”

“I know.” He smiles.

You attempt to maintain your angry facade, but the way he’s smiling so boyishly at you makes you unable to stay angry at him. 

Acting as if he won a prize, his gaze softens before he begins to slip his gloves off of his fingers, making your eyebrows furrow. “What’re you doing? It’s cold—”

“Your fingers are turning purple.” He comments bluntly, a smirk on his face before slipping off the other one as well.

Your eyes widen at his statement, looking down at your tremoring fingers, the tips already dusted a faint violet. “Oh!” Your hands fly to return to your coat pockets, but his fingers curl around both of your wrists, stopping you.

His fingers are cracked and cold. You can tell just by the feeling.

Shaking your head, you giggle. “Come on Futakuchi, it's just ‘cause they’ve been out of my pockets so long.” You attempt to reason, but his unamused expression makes you shut up.

“Yeah, but do you want to have your hands in your pockets this whole time? Besides, you want to record the fireworks, don’t you?” He says, releasing one of your wrists to line a glove up with one of your hands.

Too cold—and impatient—to argue, you allow him to slip the glove over your hand with a heavy sigh. “What about you?” You ask, glancing down at his hands.

You find it weird to acknowledge, but it feels a lot more like him when you’re able to view the various damages littered over both of his hands as opposed to when they’re concealed.

He shrugs at your question. “I’ll be fine.” He says before a warmth abruptly engulfs one of your hands as he moves to put the second glove on the other one. The frigidness melting out of your skin, the heat seemingly stretching to your cheeks while you watch his fingers flex as he rushes to put the other glove on.

Once both of your hands have been sufficiently covered, he smiles. “There you go.”

“Thanks.” You breathe, bringing your scarf up higher to hide your grin.

You don’t even realise how long you’ve been standing there until you notice his scarf swaying as he moves to step closer to you, his hand stretched out, palm up. Close enough for you to see the cracked calluses (so he didn’t moisturise them) and bruises covering it. “The fireworks are gonna start soon.” He reminds you. Though the words barely reach you as you scan the outlines of each blemish and injury on his open palm and splayed out fingers.

You wonder why your chest blooms with warmth as you look up at his face, breath vapour fanning from his mouth. Your silence causes a smirk to tug at his lips (and a blush he’d blame on the cold if asked about) as he gives you a onceover.

Flipping his hair with his spare hand dramatically, he chuckles. “Listen, I know I said I’m so very handsome and charming, not to mention way better than the mediocre fireworks you’re so eager for,” he drawls, looking down at you through his eyelashes, “but we should get going.”

Letting out an amused huff, you roll your eyes. “You never said you were charming.”

He blinks. “Yes I did.” 

“No you didn’t.”

“What did I say then?”

“You’re amazing, incredible, and devastatingly handsome.” You answer with ease, batting your eyelashes in an exaggerated manner as your voice raises an octave obnoxiously.

“Wow, how sweet of you. I know I am, but what an honour it is to hear from your lips.” Futakuchi teases, seemingly rejuvenated, making you realise you’d only fallen for his trap.

Just as you’re about to huff, he leans in a little closer, holding his hand out a little more insistingly. “In all seriousness, glad to know you pay so much attention to what I say.” He says, voice smooth as his pupils dance, looking within yours.

Your mouth falls open in an attempt to retort his ridiculous claim, but no words manage to escape as you come to the realisation that it really isn’t that ridiculous.

It’s completely, wholeheartedly true.

And that's the w̶o̶r̶s̶t̶ best part.

Moving his face away from yours, he raises his hand to take its place. A cheery smile on his face, “Come on.” He says, his voice so casual yet inviting all the same. You want to drown in it.

Suppressing a smile, you look back down at your own hand—specifically the glove layering it—with a curious glint in your eye. If you took his hand now, there’d be no direct contact. You wouldn’t feel the calluses, the roughness of his hand, his cold fingers between yours.

That would be good.

No, that should be good.

Right?

And yet, you can't help yourself from quickly taking it off of your hand, reintroducing your hand to the winter air once more, it’s freezing, painful, and aches for nothing more than to go back into the warm chasm it was trapped in before, and it's clear Futakuchi agrees with it, opening his mouth—likely to question your ridiculous action—before the sensation of your fingers, intertwining with his, befalls him.

And for once, he’s the one looking at your hand. A slow, genuine smile creeps onto his features as he looks back in your eyes and tugs you a little closer to him. “Well?”

“Let’s get going, then.” You smile, squeezing his hand, and you have to hold yourself back from giggling as he reciprocates the action.

His hands are callused, dry, and cracked. And they fit perfectly in yours.

[masterlist]

↪ oikawa tōru just moved to argentina to train under josé blanco to further pursue his volleyball career as well as distance himself from his past in japan regarding the sport, though he keeps in touch with his close friends.

oikawa's pov will be in light mode (had to adjust his profiles but i did not feel like screenshotting everyone else again just know this entire page is his pov)

↪ iwaizumi hajime tōru's closest friend since childhood, the two of them having grown up together through each of their phases (including the awkward ones), and have an unbreakable bond (that iwaizumi refuses to acknowledge).

↪ matsukawa issei a friend of tōru's since high school, matsukawa always being reliable, especially on the court when it'd come to blocking. now working at a funeral home (which no, you can not get discounts)

You find yourself running your tongue over your teeth, your stomach suddenly feeling queasy, the cafeteria sounds blending into white noise ringing in your ear, almost like an itch you could never quite scratch, the scrape of utensils against plates, obnoxious laughs, the scent of that one students lunch box that clearly is overdue for a clean.

Even the overly exposed white, luminescent lights overhead, the ones you had once recalled Shirabu often complaining about. Along with the suspicious stains on the ceiling, and the obnoxious patterns running across the wall behind him, the colours overbearing due to the school attempting to implement the school colours into one, 'cohesive' pattern.

All of it fades.

Except for him.

Never him.

You sink ever so slightly into your seat, just a fraction, barely even an inch, not enough so that the average person would notice. 

But Shirabu did.

He always noticed.

The way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, or when you cover your mouth with the back of your hand while trying to gulp down the remainder of your food, typically when you have something to add to the conversation.

Or when your lips purse when you lie.

Realising you weren’t planning on giving him a genuine answer anytime soon, he lets out a heavy sigh before placing his chopsticks down, his gaze boring into yours. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

He watches as your shoulders tighten upon hearing his words before continuing. “I’m not a dense idiot, you need to stop thinking that I am.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Sure.” He scoffs out, shaking his head.

Your eyes finally meet his, his eyes slightly dilated from how harshly he’s been looking at yours. Almost as if he wants to peel back the layers and see the soul resting within, raw, unfiltered, to understand the person before him under a new light, where you couldn’t hide behind a cacophony of vague excuses and lies any longer.

Sighing, you lower your steam bun back onto the tray placed in front of you. “I guess I just wanted to hang out with my other friends a bit more, is that wrong?”

He frowns. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I’m just saying—“

“Stop.” 

That has you zip your mouth shut. Usually you can squirm your way out of awkward situations like these by pure annoyance alone, it wasn’t hard to get on Shirabus nerves, after all.

You know you’re being difficult, more so than usual. But it’s less painful than being honest.

He leans back in his seat, his arms crossing as he clicks his tongue. “Don’t bother lying to me, you practically bolted when you saw me the other day, and if I’m right… you’re only sitting with me today cause I asked you in front of your friends.”

He’s right about that, too.

Screw him, the guy sat in front of you who somehow knew you better than you knew yourself. You knew you were avoiding him, for reasons that made your mouth somehow dry and water all the same.

Your lips purse, your gaze dropping to your lap. “I’m sorry.” Are the only words that can escape your lips, to which he answers with a click of his tongue.

His teeth grit as he swallows thickly, his gaze no longer on you, rather he’s mimicked you, his eyes trained in his lap. “I’m not looking for apologies.”

That makes you look up. 

“I want the truth, that’s it.” 

You remain quiet.

“Well?” He probes, his head tilting forward as if to hear you better.

Nothing, the tension in the air unnoticed by everyone else in the cafeteria, scarfing down the rest of the food on their trays while they still had the chance.

Upon hearing the bell ring, Shirabu rose to his feet and began packing away, slinging his bag over his shoulder while his lunch tray was held between his palms, the food atop it remaining untouched.

His steps faltered when he turned away from the table, almost as if he was waiting for you to say something, anything. But was met with silence upon seeing you stare at the table with wide eyes.

Frowning, he lets out a huff as his grip tightens around the tray in his hands. “Forget it.” 

Having uttered those words, his jaw clenched before he walked off, not even as much as a glance in your direction. His footsteps echoed down the hall long after he’d left, the faint clatter of his tray fading into the hum of conversation.

You stayed seated, staring at the empty chair across from your own.

The food on your tray had gone cold.

Even trying to listen to the teacher was pointless, whatever he'd say would go in one of Shirabus ears and out the other. His face morphed into a scowl, his grip on his pen tightening as his eyebrows pinched together. You were a waste of time after all, an unhealthy distraction, like that of a siren.

So why did his heart and mind ache for you, even when he couldn’t hear your song?

Shirabu couldn’t recall the moment where his pen left his textbook and met his refill paper, but regardless, he couldn’t stop himself from drowning in the sorrows of writing.

By the time he had finished writing, his neat kanji you’d often compliment became scrawled, tilted, with ink stains littering the page and his fingertips alike.

He stared at the mess for a long time, his breathing shallow as if the words themselves had betrayed him as well. 

He quickly crumpled the messy letter until it was nothing more than a puny paper ball in his palm, only a mere signoff remaining visible and untouched.

Forever yours, Kenjirō

The rest of the day passes in fragments.

A blur of classes you’d barely listened to, pen scribbles you don’t recall writing, along with that faint ringing in your ears that refuses to leave. You think about following him to practice once schools out, think about ripping off the mask you’d held onto for far too long and lay your soul bare in front of him, think about apologising properly. 

But once you see him in the corridor after having left class, his back is already turned.

So you don’t.

Your feet barely carry you, students rushing past you in a hurry, chatter spilling out the doors and down the stairs, laughter echoing by the horse stables. Yet you can’t say you fully processed any of that, barely even realising you’d stopped at the front of the school gates a long time ago.

By the time you’ve processed just how long you’ve been loitering around, the sky is an uneven gradient – streaks of dying orange barely grasping on as it fades into an inky black. He’s there.

Just a few meters in front of you, hands shoved into his pockets, but not deep enough to hide the gauze bandages adorning a few of his fingers. His bag is lazily slung over his shoulder, and his hair is a mess, likely from practice. Or how often his fingers run through them when he’s stressed. Maybe both.

You freeze at the sight of him.

He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, just keeps looking at the ground like it's the dirt's fault. Then, upon feeling your eyes on him, he finally lifts his head. 

For a moment, neither of you speak, burdened by the weight of too many words and not enough words to describe your emotions all at once. 

All you hear is the soft wind, and the rolling of a few pebbles carried by it.

“Thought you’d sneak out the side again.” He finally says, his tone light but his expression anything but. To that, you open your mouth in hopes to respond with a snarky comment, like usual.

But nothing comes out.

He scoffs under his breath, rolling his eyes as his hands dig a little further into his pockets. “Figures.” 

“Shirabu–”

“No,” He sharply cuts you off, taking a cautionary, almost hesitant step forward. “You don’t get to do that, to look at me like nothing happened.”

Those words strike you harder than you could’ve expected them to. Not because of the anger his tone and words carry, but because you can hear it, him. The emotion he’s spent all too long burying underneath his own shadow of feigned disinterest. The hurt, exhaustion, longing that he keeps pretending doesn’t exist.

It all makes your throat tighten, “I wasn’t trying to–”

“Yes you were.” He corrects, his voice trembling. “You started pulling away, and I told myself it didn’t matter–that I didn’t care as much as I actually do. But then you look at me and I–” He exhales, biting down on his lip just hard enough to draw the colour back into it. “I can’t even pretend anymore.” 

You take a step forward before you can stop yourself, “You think I want to pull away?” That makes his breath hitch. “That it doesn’t tear me up every time I do?” Your hands ball into fists at your side.

That does it. Shirabus head snaps up at your words, eyes flicking over your face. “Then why do it?” He breathes out, his tone quiet yet heavier than before. “Why make it so hard for both of us?”

“I was scared,” you admit, the words slipping out from your throat before you have the opportunity to swallow them back down. “When I’m around you, I don’t know how to act okay. You make it–” You stop for a moment, breath catching as you consider just fleeing then and there.

Shoulders tensing, you narrow your eyes at him. No, you wouldn’t run, not again, not for as long as he’s in your life. “You make it real.”

His jaw loosens, then clenches once more. “Real?” he says, blinking almost like he didn’t hear you correctly. 

Slowly nodding, you cross your arms, almost as if to shield yourself from the impending rejection that you’ve always feared. “I didn’t know if you felt the same.” 

A silence follows your words, one so sharp it almost hurts to have to stand in it. Then finally, unexpectedly, Shirabu laughs. A laugh so soft and disbelieving that you almost can’t hear the bitterness lying within it. 

“You think I’d get this angry if I didn’t?” 

Your heart thrums in your chest as your eyes widen, arms loosening in front of you in response to his words.

He steps forward, close enough for you to be able to see the rosacea tinting his cheeks, the faint crease between his brows, and the mist escaping from his mouth as he breathes. His voice drops to a whisper, one so quiet you almost can’t tell whether he’s talking to you or himself.

“I hate how much I notice you. Every stupid thing you do, the way you laugh, the way you chew on the tip of your pencil when deep in thought, the way you…” He trails off, swallowing thickly. 

You don’t quite realise you’re smiling until you blink and feel the sting. “Then why are you saying it like it’s a bad thing?” You ask, your voice dropping to be just as quiet as his is.

To your question, he shakes his head, an almost broken smile tugging at his lips desperately. “Because it shouldn’t hurt so much to want someone.” His voices cracks as he speaks.

You breathe out, your body trembling, and you’re not even sure if it's from the cold or not anymore. “Then maybe we should stop pretending it does.”

Those words hang between the two of you, trembling on the edge of a confession and something suspiciously similar to surrender.

a/n: my first fic on here!! I love Shirabu so much but the community is DRY when it comes to him so I decided to take matters into my own hands hehehueheu, please feel free to give me any advice in the comments! esp if he feels ooc or something about the writing feels off! P.S. Constructive criticism only please!! Hate is just going to demotivate me :,)