#soooooo

he’d never said he was moving in. yet, your apartment smelt faintly of his three-in-one shampoo. there were always two pairs of shoes by the door. half your fridge was stocked with the jelly drinks he had for breakfast. your laundry basket had his hoodies in it. and choki sat permanently on your windowsill

he never called your apartment ‘home’. but he stopped checking the train times. he stopped saying, “i should go soon”. stopped asking to stay the night. instead, he just did. he stayed, and like it was the most natural thing in the world, he never really left.

today is no different. he’s a little over twenty minutes late for soccer practice and you’re curled up on the couch together. his arm is slung over your waist. his legs are tangled loosely with yours. his phone is balanced precariously in his palm, brawl stars open and glowing faintly, but he’s not really playing anymore

he’s too warm, too comfortable. every now and then he shifts to tighten his hold on you, a feeble attempt to lull you to sleep before you remember where he’s really supposed to be.

you scroll through youtube aimlessly, until an intriguing thumbnail catches your eye. best of seishiro nagi — penalties, free kicks, goals. you click on it without even thinking.

the video starts off with a slow-motion penalty shot. commentary drifts through your phone’s speaker as seishiro stands alone on the edge of the box. hair falling in his eyes, a calm, unbothered look painted on the canvas of his face

“again?” he mumbles against your shoulder, “you’ve seen all of them in person”

“shh let me have this” you giggle. he hums noncommittally, but makes absolutely no attempt to stop you

you watch the first few clips in silence. he scores over and over again. top corner, bottom corner. penalty after penalty. and then you notice it. just before he took each shot, he knelt down and touched the ground, tracing something with his index finger.

you narrow your eyes, clicking ahead to another clip. it’s the same thing again. crouch. fingertip to the grass. over and over again.

“sei?” you angle the screen so he can see, “what’s that thing you do before every shot?”

“mm?” his voice was low and groggy, like he wasn’t fully awake

“look” you tap the screen, “you draw something on the ground in most of these clips”

he blinks at the video, barely interested, “oh, guess so”

“you’re not even gonna tell me why?” you frown, brows furrowing ever so slightly, “are you like . . secretly superstitious or something?”

he shrugs, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, “‘m not, it’s just a habit”

“it looks deliberate” you muse, scrutinizing the video once more, “look! look! you pause before you do it, every single time” you press a finger gently into the arm draped around your frame, “if you aren’t superstitious, and it clearly isn’t a habit, what is it?”

“‘s just for good luck” he says nonchalantly

“is it like a ‘w’, or a cross?” you ask, peering up at him curiously

“neither, don’t worry about it, ‘s not important”

“you’re lying” you say accusingly, “it does mean something”

he groans softly, tilting his head back against the armrest and closing his eyes to pretend he’s about to fall asleep. “so bothersome” he murmurs

“seishiro, tell me” you insist, turning to face him fully. sliding one leg over his and settling in his lap. your face is mere inches away from his, noses brushing against each others

he stays quiet for a few more moments. you brush his hair away from his eyes gently. he opens them finally, just barely “it’s your initial”

you blink. once, twice. brows furrowing in utter confusion. “huh?”

he sighs, wincing as if you’re torturing the information out of him, “i trace your initial in the ground before i shoot. happy?”

you sit there for a moment, just looking at him, arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders. his face has its signature unbothered look, but his ears are tinged a rosy pink. and he keeps his gaze fixed just to the side of you.

“really?” you can faintly hear some announcer yelling about a perfect finish. your hands are still resting on his shoulders.

he nods. still refusing to meet your eyes. “don’t make a big deal out of it.”

your voice softens, spilling from your lips like spun sugar, “since when?”

“dunno” his gray eyes reluctantly flick towards yours, “feels unlucky when i don’t”

“you’re so cute” you coo, leaning in and kissing him. it’s soft. slow. like time doesn’t exist between you. your lips press gently against his, familiar and sure.

his breath catches slightly and his hand finds your waist, fingers curling there like they always do, like muscle memory. like holding you is the sole thing he was made for

he kisses you back lazily, with slow, burning affection that doesn’t really need to be put into words. and when you pull away, his lips chase yours desperately for a split second before he settles back against the armrest.

“so you think about me during your matches?” you ask, cupping his face in your palms, “like twenty-four seven”

“mm” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut, “like twenty-five eight”

“so i’m your good luck charm? and you think about me all the time?” you grin, pressing a featherlight kiss to the corner of his lip, “little old me?”

“‘m never telling you anything again” he groans as you settle back against his chest. his arms curl around you without hesitation. he knows he should get up. but he’s too warm. too relaxed. too full of you, to think about soccer practice. not now. not yet.

he’d rather be here. with your weight against him and your bothersome teasing ringing in his ears. he’d rather be with you.