#phantasmesque

It’s been a couple weeks since you’ve seen Nico. You know he’s been sleeping in his room; you can see his stuff is disturbed and hear him shuffling around at night. Still, you haven’t caught sight of him, and the two of you haven’t had a conversation.

You’re afraid to say anything. You blew up on him last time the two of you talked, and while you feel like your reaction was explicable, it was still way out of proportion. You’re embarrassed and ashamed and you wish you could just take back everything you said, but you can’t. 

He doesn’t text you back, so you’ve taken to whispering his name into shadows, hoping he’ll materialize. He never does.

Finally, you give up. You fall back onto the couch and stare at the ceiling, shades pushed back to the top of your head. You heave a sigh.

     Oh. Fuck.

You walk into your apartment with a bag of groceries slung over one arm and a popsicle half-sticking out of your mouth, and you’re about to awkwardly call for Nico when you notice he’s sitting at the table. It’s hot, and he’s got his hair pulled back so you can see the pale expanse of his neck, and it’s...more attractive than it should be. Like, way more. He turns and catches you staring, and you blurt,

           ❝hot.❞ Wait, shit, that wasn’t what you were supposed to say. ❝uh. you hot.❞ More like a question, jackass. ❝you hot?❞

6. making and hiding in a pillow fort

     [ phantasmesque ]

           Turns out, this place is all about pairing && fates and shit.

You’re kind of surprised. After all, you pretty much assumed this was just a dope little getaway from your regular (shitty) life. You didn’t expect there’d be a Bachelor-style matchmaking ceremony. Roses and wine and fancy dresses and all. You hope you have the opportunity to wear a suit, even if the whole “making-girls-cry” thing doesn’t appeal to you in the slightest. Not cool to make ladies shed tears. Not cool in the slightest.

Still, you figure out pretty quickly that you’re actually paired with someone already, which is pretty okay, you guess. The girl’s name is Nico, which sounds Japanese, and di Angelo, which is definitely Italian. You’re really hoping she’s got black hair. You always have been partial to brunettes.

You’re figuring with a Japanese Italian your odds of a dark-haired girl are pretty high when you reach your front door and freeze. Do you want this? You’re not really sure you’re over all the stuff that happened with Terezi, and the last thing you remember is being stabbed over the corpse of the girl you’ve liked for as long as you can remember (who dated your own feathery self, to add weird insult to injury). Are you really interested in dating someone? Let alone someone you’ve never met?

You figure, fuck it; it’s time to nut up or shut up. There’s no hard and fast rule that says you’ve gotta be totally devoted to this Nico chick right off the bat, right? You can start as friends and roomies and see where it goes. Cool.

          ( you turn the doorknob and walk into your new apartment. )

You want to say something cool. Something nice. Something politically fucking correct, at the very least. But the first thing that comes out of your mouth when you see Nico di Angelo is, instead:

           ❝no.❞

It’s horrible, and rude, and plain nasty, and you regret the word the instant it’s slipped past your lips -- but you can’t help it. You’d filled your own head with so many expectations as usual, and the problem with the reality you’ve been hit with is this: