Guys I Miss Him So Bad

guys i miss him so bad

Perspective

Perspective

pairing: TA!xu minghao x TA!reader

synopsis: Xu Minghao hates you. You've been sure of it ever since you met him. And when you find yourself working alongside him as a teaching assistant for your painting professor, you think you might hate him too. But one late night, two semesters, and three exhibits later, you find your perspective beginning to shift.

w.c: 17k (surprise surprise)

tags: non idol!au, uni!au, studio art majors, slowburnish, academic rivals to lovers, reader is a simp and it fails horribly i mean its hao what did we expect, academic rivals to lovers, aka mutual pining idiots who think they are e2l, some Anish Kapoor and other artists slander

warnings: i am not an art major or artist but im raw dogging it, profanity, making out, kissing (lmk if i missed anything)

a/n: itsa here and im blinking rn as i type. this is my first collab and im hoping i did well! This is for the Seventeen TA collab hosted by @camandemstudios ! Thank you @highvern, @gyuswhore, @waldau and @temptaetions <3 cam for all the research material and ideas, em for answering all my art related questions even the odd ones, ren for the ideas, listening to me scream and going through my work, and alta, i hope i did ur mans justice, thank you for always being available <3 thank u to those in the server for sprinting and being encouraging!

Please check out the wonderful fics from this collab by your favorite writers! Enjoy <3

collab masterlist || masterlist

No Age Indicator/Minors/Blank blogs/Serial Likers will be blocked!

The first time you fell in love with art was when you were ten, watching your grandfather finish an oil painting of peonies in a vase. It was custom for him to always present you with one from your grandmother’s garden each time you visited. Till your grandma’s passed on and the garden has wilted and dried. Now, his arthritis prevents him from walking too far down to the florist to get the real thing, but he doesn’t let it stop him from painting you one either. His fingers shake, it takes him about a week to finish, but he does it, slowly but surely. It's how he tells you he’d do anything for you despite his limitations, despite your mother’s protests. The painting itself was simple yet it captures every bit of detail that charms you about that flower. He forgets to tell you it needs to cure and dry for a while. So there's a little smudge at the edge from where it had brushed against your shirt as you threw your arms around him in a tight embrace. 

The second time was when you were twelve, nervous at the dentist’s waiting room. Your mom suggests that you look through the stacks of magazines to pass the time and get your mind off the daunting tooth extraction appointment. You doubt it will make it any easier but after a few minutes of falling into boredom, you reach for the magazines. They’re either Cosmo girl, Reader’s Digest, National Geographic or Avon. You browse through them, not truly reading or grasping whatever hot topic there was back then. But a certain print on the National Geographic catches your attention. They were textiles all over the world and varying patterns that are nearly hypnotic. The intricate lines and shapes lure you in that you barely hear your mother calling you for your appointment. 

The third time was when you were fourteen and officially sold to the beauty of art. Your father takes you with him to a work trip outside your city. There’s not much family catered entertainment while you were there but he decides that an art exhibit should be good. It was a simple kind, curated by four art students. You vaguely remember it being about the little things you overlook. And that stuck in your young mind. 

The halls were sectioned into photographs, paintings, and a few dioramas. They range from captured moments of a lady getting into the subway, a shot of a pigeon on top of a stop light, and some silly chalk drawings of children on the pavement. There were realistic paintings of light filtering through blinds, a ladybug on a houseplant, and a set of monochromatic images of lattes, coffee mugs and beans where the artist used coffee as paint. The dioramas were made from everyday materials and miniature people. A single soup ladle had been set up to reflect a swimming pool where the tiny people slid from the handle, some books turned over were arranged to look like mountains to be hiked, and lego blocks turned over and filled with soil and tiny clay grass and flowers. 

Your father had thought you’d quickly get bored but you stayed there for an hour, admiring each piece in detail and realizing how much you fail to enjoy by simply not looking and romanticizing all the things at present. 

And when you used your humble earnings from pet-sitting in the neighborhood to purchase your first art materials–you quickly discover, you have a natural talent for art- and you loved it. Your mother was happy about it, which surprised you as she wished for you to take up skills that were “practical” and could feed you. But you figure it must be nostalgic for her, knowing her own father was an artist himself. 

Growing up, your talents were acknowledged and praised.You had your family’s full support and encouragement. In school, you often found yourself being volunteered by your teachers and peers for murals, posters, t-shirt designs, and banners. 

By the time you were sixteen, competitive and driven, you entered art clubs and regional art contests. Then when you received your first win, you decided it was the validation needed to pursue this for the rest of your life.

You enjoyed art and your creativity was boundless, thrilled by the idea of recreating beauty at the tips of your fingers. The mere idea of capturing beauty with any means and materializing it to your own interpretation gives you a rose tinted perspective on life. It’s something you want your audience to see too–that there is endless beauty in life meant to be appreciated and monumented. It makes you a romantic, that you’re aware of but it's brought you through the many lows that come your way and that’s enough.

Everyone regarded your talents as something special, your high school teachers and later your art professors during your bachelors in fine arts. It had not been easy, because you were not really prepared for the vastness of creating art and the physical stress of submitting projects almost every two weeks. The exhibits left you burnt out and exhausted each time. But you figure it's okay—everyone seems to love your work. You’re well acquainted now with your limits and mediums you’re most comfortable with. You knew it wouldn’t be easy but once you’ve got your foundations laid, you can manage.

The way was paved for you and all you had to do was walk in it.

So you walk into your next step of taking up your masters degree.

It’s been two years since you’ve completed your undergraduate program and you moved away from your city into a bigger city to work as a highschool art teacher and freelancing from time to time so you could gain experience before getting into masters. It was nerve wracking but you had faith that you got what it takes to inspire the young minds into tapping into their inner artist. You spent the first half of the term joyously advocating the splendor of life that they had the ability to bring to life the feelings it evoked. 

You finished the term lackluster and spent that you never bring up that flowery philosophy again. All that mattered then was that they attended, got their basics down, created something they loved and  submitted on time.  It had been stressful, albeit a little chaotic dealing with hormonal teenagers who manage to include some cameo of a dick in their works. 

By your second year, you revamp your teaching pedagogy and approach, being more detailed with your expectations while they work within those guidelines. They’ve had more freedom of expression from there, and they discover their philosophies of art on their own. While the load is tiresome, it brings you deep satisfaction to see the joy and pride in their faces as their love for the craft grows. And even if they don’t pursue the same things as you do, you’re content to know they have a space like this to fall back to.

You decide, this isn’t something you don’t terribly mind doing once you’ve finished your graduate program.

The first time you saw Xu Minghao, you were absolutely floored. He showed up to your first day of class, dressed like he had a runway to walk in the next ten minutes. He was just in an all-black fit, a loose button up, tailored slacks, and a long coat. But you quickly learn that his sense of fashion was merely part of his charm. 

Minghao was gorgeous, regal, and had this genteel aura that lures you in—not too close, but close enough to marvel at his beauty. It was like he was created to be admired and valourized but not indulged in. 

His vulpine gaze is steady, posture sure as he scans the room for a vacant seat. You distantly wished the seat next to you was available but alas, all you could do was watch as he occupied the seat two rows away from you. 

You know, maybe it should embarrass you how quickly you had poeticized him in your head. You blame it on your romantic nature and that’s why it was no surprise to anyone that you chose the arts. There’s life and beauty in all the unsuspecting corners of this world. It would be a waste to live once and not bask in it. And that includes ogling your hot classmate for the first half of the semester.

So when one of his charcoal pencils falls off his desk, you’re quick–too quick–that you nearly launch yourself onto the floor to grab it and hand it to him. In your head, you think it’s a classic moment where you’d lock eyes and he’d finally look your way. But your chair lets out a loud screech, drawing unwanted attention from your peers. Minghao fixes you with a look. It was brief but you see him enough to notice the slight arch of his brow and a ghost of a scornful curve of his lips. With a slight nod, he takes the pencil from your hand and returns to his task without a word.

Really, you should have been embarrassed.

Because Xu Minghao hates you. 

You’re sure of it in those few seconds your eyes locked.

You linger on that one moment more than you’d like to admit. 

Because you’re in your second semester when you spot an opportunity for redemption during your Life Drawing class. A voice tells you one embarrassment is enough, that you’ll dig yourself a deeper hole when you stand up to walk over his seat to ask for spare pastels.

You’d like to believe there’s more than meets the eye. 

Minghao likes to keep to himself, that's what you’ve learned. He has some friends, mostly from different majors like Jun from Biology, Mingyu from Photography, and some others who are just as attractive as he is. 

Minghao, also, does not seem approachable. It wasn’t that he was unkind–he was polite, well-mannered, and soft spoken. He was just simply intimidating.

And you’re wondering if he’ll spare you the same courtesy he does your peers when you come to him for a favor.

“Hey,” you whisper with a gentle tap on his shoulder.

He turns to you with a passive glance, likely displeased that he had been pulled out from his zone. 

Your smile wobbles a little but your voice manages to stay steady, “I was wondering if you had spare oil pastels on you?”

He’s silent for a beat and suddenly it unnerves you that you stumble out an excuse, “It’s just…I-...I was late this morning so I forgot them. I didn’t grab my usual bag and–”

“You're using the same bag,” he deadpans and starts to turn away from you, “Life Drawing is every Thursday, be prepared next time.”

A hot flush of indignation and embarrassment runs through you. With a mumbled sorry, you promptly turn around to retreat to your seat. Your face burns by the time you’re sat and it doesn’t even occur to you that you don’t have anything to complete your task. You stare at your blank sketch pad mounted on your easel, mind running a mile per minute processing your shame and how you could excuse yourself from this class. 

Till something brushes along your arm and your eyes drift to the person seated beside you. Lifting your head you notice your seatmate (Vernon, was it?) extending his box of pastels towards you. 

“We can share.”

He looks at you expectantly with those big brown eyes. You’re a little surprised at the gesture because you were sure he didn’t even realize you existed. Vernon was always in his own little world, given that most of your classmates are eccentric in their own ways, but he always seemed–lost. 

Still, you’re grateful for his attentiveness and you whisper your thanks before getting to work. 

You think you’d get over your embarrassment until you realize how pitiful and desperate it must have seemed to have stood and walked over another seat to borrow supplies only to be rejected when you had a seatmate willing to share with you.

Your eyes quickly flicker over to Minghao, effortlessly recreating his own interpretation of the model in front and his open supply box abundant with pastels of different types and sizes.

The shame churns into something else entirely.

Xu Minghao hates you.

And now you hate him too.

You have avoided Xu Minghao since then, feeling an immense blow on your pride for having daydreamed about some fateful connection. It was an easy task, he liked to keep to himself anyway. You only see him during your shared classes and rarely do you bump into him in the halls. 

“Before we begin with the Fundamentals of Art, I would just like to quickly go around the room and ask: what does art mean to you?”

You watch the back of Minghao’s head once he answers and it falls through deaf ears when all you can think about is the twisting pit of rage in your gut. 

You may have avoided him but you can’t stop your growing childish resentment towards him when he simply speaks to the professor, asks questions, or carries casual conversations with whoever his seatmate may be. He’s gentle and polite and you feel your ears heat up in irritation when you hear his soft chuckles for the first time when he’s with his friends. Why was it natural for him to be cordial with others but you?

The thought stays in the backburner because you were here for a reason other than letting some cold bastard plant a seed of insecurity in you.

You finish your first year of your masters by the skin of your teeth. It’s tougher than you anticipated and you supposed that's because you’ve come from a community college where pressure and competition were less tense. The constant production of creativity and the competitive nature to be unique with every project drained you. It was physically exhausting most days, and on the tougher weeks you developed cramps on your hand and lower back. Physical stress was manageable—the humbling critique and grades did something to your spirit. 

It didn’t really help that your classmates, as outlandish as they were, had different degrees of obnoxiousness. (Your snobby crush being one of them). In comparison to your college friends, you expected a lively and closely knit community bonding over the intricacies and brevity of the world captured in diverse art forms. Yet here you were listening to your peers of varying ages argue over the interpretation of a two dimensional art work every first ten minutes of your classes while flaunting their experiences and achievements. There were contrasting understandings of beauty, what art meant, and the right and wrong ways to utilize your tools. Maybe your cohort was different, your seniors seemed pretty chill–but right now, you can’t be bothered to reconcile ideals to make one project work. It felt pretty alienating to actively avoid those discussions.

But that’s okay because you’ve made a friend—Chwe Hansol, Vernon. You sit together, share some breaks together, and pair up when given the task.

And you’ve come to learn that your elusive classmate who always seemed lost—was truly lost. 

You notice it with the lack of a certain finesse when holding a pencil or brush. You hear it with his fascinated ‘oh’s’ when your professor makes a brief comment on how acrylic dries into something akin to plastic. Or how he has certain misconceptions on some basic instructions. But he’s kind, and he really tries. So you ignore his palette of primary colors and dub it as his own art style. 

Only you discovered that wasn’t the case when you paired up for another Life Drawing project where the assignment was to simply sketch out a portrait of your partner using any medium from the draw lots. 

You both had pulled charcoal.

Imagine your surprise when he shows up to the studio with a literal bag of coals rather than compressed drawing charcoals. You wait for him to burst out laughing  and tell you it was a prank but he simply stands from across you, clapping his hands to rid the dust away from his palms. Patiently, you wait for him to explain but he doesn’t.

“Vernon…what did you bring?”

He tilts his head, expression steady as he tells you plainly, “Charcoal. Did you forget? I think this is more than enough for both of us. They wouldn’t sell it to me in singles so-”

“Vernon,” you swallow and sigh, “We don’t use literal coals…”

“We don’t?”

You reach for your collection of compressed charcoal. He stares at them without a word, blinking slowly as he is processing. 

“This is charcoal…we have different types like the willow charcoal, vine, nitram–you can use whichever you’re most comfortable with or what effect you want to achieve.”

“Oh,” he mutters, “I have never used them before.”

That was normal, it was okay because there are mediums you’re yet to discover but based on his track record–you have a feeling he’s never done any of these before.

Before you could even offer to teach him,Vernon  reveals something you were not prepared for. 

“Y’know, I’m not…supposed to be here. As an art major, I mean.”

Your jaw goes slack and your brows furrow when you realize you’re nearing the end of your first year when he tells you this. 

“Sorry?”

“I read the first half of the introduction to the course and signed up thinking it was for Film Production.”

You think he’s joking, especially not when your university had thorough screenings and a portfolio evaluation you had toiled over for months.

“Did you not at least ask yourself why you needed to submit a portfolio?”

“I figured they wanted a visual of my artistic expression, I guess,” he tells you plainly.

“And your supplies? What did your portfolio even look like?” your hand fumbles for a seat.

“My younger sister had some stuff,” he pulled out a chair for you, “Prof. Jeong later asked me if I was a fan of Anish Kapoor. And I just said, ‘The Chicago bean dude? Sure.’ “ 

You grimace a little, you were not a fan of his work so to you that would be an insult. But it worked out for Vernon and if there's anything you’ve learned about him at all, especially up to this point–it's that nothing he does has to make sense.

Since then it was given that whatever project you shared that would normally be done in an hour or two, would go on for another hour just walking him through the basics. You didn’t mind, it was comfortable working with Vernon.

By the beginning of your second year, it is clear to you that the odds were not in your favor.

you: ure not lost r u?? class starts in ten 

Vernon does not reply and it makes you worry he’s lost his way around the new campus building, or worse lost his way on the way to campus. Just before you think to call, a bag plops to your right where a vacant seat had been. Thank goodness you had reserved the one to your left with your bag for Vernon–

You look up to greet your new seatmate but it dies in your throat.

Xu Minghao

He’s bleached his hair over the break and he’s wearing a white tank and a denim jacket. You’ve never been this close to him and he’s still  breathtakingly gorgeous. You notice the mole at the corner of his pink lips and how much sharper his gaze is, framed by the platinum locks curling against his forehead.

“Minghao.”

You blink. 

His brow arches at your silence but he sits down and repeats himself, “My name—it’s Minghao.”

“I know…?” you say dumbly, a little dazed at the fresh fragrance that follows him.

His lips purse, “And yours is?”

It takes you a beat to realize he’s introducing himself and he doesn’t know your name. 

You shared more than half of your classes with the bastard for a year. You may not have paired up or worked on projects with him or a handful of your classmates but you know their names from being called up by the professor, during presentations, and their exhibits. A familiar hot flush of irritation runs through you but you compose yourself and tell him your name. He repeats it before nodding and turning away to prepare his materials.

You frown at the back of his head, “I studied with you for a year.”

He glances over his shoulder, pauses for a beat before he lets out an “Oh.”

There was this unspoken rule in any class you take that the first seat one takes will be their spot for the year. And now that Xu Minghao’s staked his claim on the seat next to you, he still manages to prove he’s an asshole—

bonon: hey srry not coming. I dont feel so good.

You just hope Vernon gets better soon not only for his sake but also for yours.

You want to curl up and cry when you’ve been paired up with the bane of your existence for an exercise in your drawing class. It would have been bearable if the task had been collaborative. But the task was to use your partner as a model and draw them in six different angles. 

That meant you had to look at his stupid self, and sketch out all the details of his stupid pretty face for two hours.

You’re gripping your pencil a little too hard as you map out his eyes and lips, doing your damned hardest not to look at him too much or squirm under his intense gaze. Your sketchpad is pulled up close to your face while Minghao has his resting on his lap, movements fluid as they glide over the surface.

It takes you about thirty minutes before you feel your shoulders ease and you forget all you’re feeling for Minghao outside of being your muse. You’re a little more comfortable glancing at him more, eyes tracing over how his wavy locks curl around his brows and the cut of his jaw. The soft color of his eyes framed by strong brows. But your gaze lingers on the fullness of his pink lips and how beautifully placed his mole is that you think of–

“You’re sure taking your sweet time on my face.”

—how much you’d love to shove your fist up his face.

You blink and realize he’s already starting on a second angle of your figure. You scoff and carry on shading his lips, “Trust me, I’m doing you a favor drawing you,”

He smirks, “I know I look perfect but it doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“Unlike you, I care about art and not simply submitting whatever I pull out of my ass though you could look like one.”

“The objective is about perspective and the right proportions in different angles. Professor Lee’s not expecting you to put out a Mona Lisa.”

You frown and ignore him, determined to show him that you can get both of them done. Like it hardly takes any effort.

But you unconsciously begin drawing your next angle more loosely, paying close attention to the lines of his figure and the shading rather than perfecting that one portion of the task.

“Hey, does this look, right?” Vernon nudges your elbow. 

You look over his station to find…a tangle of wires that was vaguely shaped like a pyramid. You squint at it a little. It was the basics of sculpture today and your class has moved on to wire sculptures. Given that the task was to produce a wire-sculpture of a well known monument, it could resemble a pyramid in Giza if he added a little more dimension to it.

“I think you made a great triangle, ” you snicker which earns him a sigh. You gotta hand it to him for sticking it out in a course he’s never done. “Look, I think you’ve got the base down but maybe…recheck your calculations. Pyramids are not two dimensional, after all they have–”

“It’s supposed to be the Eiffel Tower,” he deadpans. 

Oh. 

Now you mull over what to tell him because if it were you, you’d start all over again. Just as you open your mouth to suggest, another voice interrupts.

“Your base will work, just twist the rest of the wires in a spiral.”

You inhale deeply, recognizing that flat tone anywhere, ever since he’s decided to be your seatmate. Vernon glances behind you to nod at Minghao and turns back to his sculpture. Minghao moves around your table to demonstrate what he meant, giving Vernon pointers in the right direction. 

By the time they’re done, the sculpture was a lot more comprehensible and better than how it first started but looked more like an avant garde version of the Eiffel Tower. However, your friend seems to be happy with himself, nodding with that little ‘stank’ face he does when he’s impressed. 

“Thanks man,” Vernon brings his hand up in a fist bump. 

“Keep it up, you might be the next Anish Kapoor.”

“Chicago bean dude—nice.”

You don’t say a word and you grimace at the comparison, wondering whether you should have a little session with Vernon about real artists. But your friend looks so pleased, eyes shining with pride as he observes his sculpture like he couldn’t believe he did that. Then you find yourself smiling softly, feeling happy that he’s beginning to see the joy in creating.

Your third semester goes by smoothly though, the projects and assignments become increasingly difficult and challenging to keep up with. What stresses you out the most were the satisfactory grades and critique from your professors. You constantly felt like you never reached what it was exactly they were envisioning you to do. And you can never understand why either, you’ve used their techniques and followed each criteria to a T.  Yet you always leave their offices with an average grade, neutral reactions over your art and vague comments.

“Something’s not right.”

“No visible brush strokes. Nice.”

“It looks like something obscure I’ve only seen once in my life.”

It leaves you at a loss of where to go, how to make your art incite the same reactions and inspiration you once did years ago. You think maybe your art was not as beautiful anymore so in desperation, you learn different mediums, mixed media, and change up your art styles. It feels like a gamble each time, seeing which combination would win you the response and grades you favored.

On the other hand, Minghao does not annoy you anymore than he does when he opens his mouth. It was a nightmare to be paired with Minghao for a project–even more so on the very week you were down with a cold.

While he’s mostly quiet in class–when given a chance to speak on a topic, he speaks in that tone of his, forthright and a little acerbic. He always had the right words to say and he was not afraid to express his own critique over even the most accomplished artists. 

There was so little people knew about him that you wonder where he got the audacity. Because if Minghao opens his damn mouth one more time you’re stabbing your palette knives into his eyes.

“Reminds me of Liu Wei,” he comments on your half finished oil painting. Ah yes, yet another artist you hate.

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Not my fault.”

You grip your palette tightly, resisting the urge to whack it across his face. The bastard is smirking to himself as he carries on with his work, hands effortlessly gliding across the canvas. 

“Are comparisons to shitty artists the only way you can critique someone else’s work? I’d hate to have you as my instructor.”

“Well, maybe if you knew what kind of techniques those artists used, you’d actually learn something,” he says, unaffected by your glare.

“The techniques don’t matter when their work looks ass,” you grumble, turning back to your canvas.

He doesn’t say anything, but when you subtly glance his way, you see a sliver of a frown set on his lips. You consider it a win.

Halfway through your fourth semester, your painting professor senses that your class has been thoroughly exhausted off their creative departments. He decides to give you all a little  exercise to ‘refresh’ your basics and let loose with your canvas.

The task was to use broad brush strokes, no blending, just good ol’ impressionist painting of a fruit bowl in the middle of the studio. It’s a little nostalgic of your undergraduate days when you were just learning. 

It was supposed to be relaxing as your professor put it, and everyone else seems to be calmly working on their pieces. 

But you—you’re stressed and obsessing over the shape of the damn bowl. 

It doesn’t seem right or proportional. And you can’t bring yourself to move on until this one looks just right. You’ve been doing that a lot more lately, and somehow, it doesn’t feel like art anymore, it feels like an expectation you can’t meet, a task you need to keep consistent on.

“You spent one session on that damn bowl,” Minghao comments.

If you could hiss, you would, but that would be embarrassing. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking so you ignore him.

“You’re not doing it right,” he warns you calmly.

You feel a vein in your head throb, “See how I’m minding my own business? Very demure. Very mindful.”

This earns you a scoff.

“The technique is to use loose brush strokes,” he reminds you, all the while not taking his eyes off his canvas. You hate that he’s doing so well. 

“I can read the board.”

“Funny you do, but still miss the point.”

And it's funny how this man can make anything in your hand a potential murder weapon.

Minghao turns towards you and sometimes you hate how he looks because each time he does this, you get a little less pissed and a little more flustered that the bite in your tongue just retracts. He reaches over and grasps your wrist, fingers curling over yours and the brush. 

You’re too stunned at his touch. You try not to think about how gently he’s cradling your hand as he guides your brush towards the canvas. In a few wide, well placed strokes, he’s corrected your lopsided bowl, giving you a base to work on. You're filled with a mix of gratitude and anger. Thankful since your agony has ended and anger because he had corrected it in a few flicks of his wrist.

“Loose, broad strokes,” he murmurs before releasing your hand and returning to his own easel like it was nothing.

You fume and do the same, cheeks warm from an emotion you cannot pinpoint. You try not to think about how the skin in your hand tingles from his touch.

“Why do you hate Hao so much? He’s a pretty chill dude,” Vernon asks you over lunch when he notices your scowl the minute Minghao passes by. 

“Hao?” you raise your brow, “I didn’t know you guys were on nickname basis now.”

“Yeah, like I said, he’s pretty chill.”

“But that’s because you’re you.”

“Okay…” he rolls out the syllables, “But why do you hate him?”

“He hated me first.”

Vernon scrutinizes you, watching you absentmindedly play your food.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, he–” then you pause, trying to pinpoint and remember when it was that convinced you that he hated you. “Don’t you hear the way he talks to me? And looks at me? It’s so different from when he talks to you or anyone else!”

“He sounds the same when he talks to you,” your friend tilts his head, looking somewhat shocked at the conclusion you’ve drawn. “Besides, he chose to sit beside you in all our shared classes when there were other vacant seats.”

You huff and stab your fork through your lunch, “That’s cause he knows I hate him and he just wants to be infuriating. ”

He looks at you incredulously, like he’s confused why you can’t see it from his perspective, “But you literally get the best grades when you’re paired up.”

“Because there’s no way I’m letting that asshole drag my grades.”

There’s a pause long enough for you to be convinced Vernon’s already dropped the topic and you finish your lunch in silence. As you pack up and gather the containers to toss into the bin, Vernon looks you dead in the eyes and says,

“You like him.”

A strangled noise leaves your throat and you whack his arm, “I don’t!”

“He likes you.”

“If you don’t shut your damn-”

“It’s fine, girl,” he rubs where you’ve hit him, “You can like him, we’re not in highschool anymore and-”

You slap his arm again, “I do not. End of discussion.”

It was after school hours when you received an email from one of your admired professors, Professor Jeong. It’s addressed to your cohort about an opening to anyone who’d be interested in being his teaching assistant  for Painting in the coming new school year for the undergraduate program. He sends the basic requirements to apply and encourages the opportunity for you to build your resume or if you’d ever be interested in becoming an art teacher yourself.

You write up your cover letter, attach your CV, and portfolio without thinking about the possible repercussions on your final year.

You get an email back in two days and a request for an interview. You pass with flying colors and you’ll be starting in the next month.

But Professor Jeong never told you that he had been looking for two teaching assistants for his Painting Class. Not that you minded but if your co-teaching assistant is Xu Minghao—you minded a lot.

You’ve decided that your professors were conspiring against you.

“I was originally looking for just one,” your professor explains as he looks over the two of you sat in his office, “But with the number of freshmen enrolled, and well—” he gestures to his wrinkled hands, “I’m getting too old to keep up, and there will be frequent sessions where  I will be absent due to doctor’s appointments. So, I figured it would be best to have two. And what do you know, they happen to be my two most competent students.”

You try to keep the grimace off your face to be on par with the man beside you, but you nod and thank your professor.

“It’s fairly straightforward,” Professor Jeong explains as he lays out a few stacks of papers before you, “This is the yearly plan, syllabus and an outline of my lessons for the whole semester. Apart from the job description I’ve emailed you, I would also need you to assist with opening and setting up the classrooms 20 minutes before the students arrive. Each week, you’ll be assigned a corner of the class where you’ll pay extra attention to the students stationed there.”

Professor Jeong flips his table calendar towards the two of you, “However, I have an overlap of schedules from this week to till the end of the semester. I need you to teach a session every Friday, you guys can choose if you should alternate each week or teach in a monthly rotation. I hope that won’t be too much of a big deal for you since you both have teaching experiences.”

Your brows nearly raise as you glance over at Minghao. Nearly three years and there's still so little you know about him.

“I also understand this is your final year, which means you’ll have exhibits, some bigger projects, and a thesis to worry about.”

The realization makes dread settle in your stomach. So far you’ve managed the past two years, and you’d like to think you made better decisions now than when you were in your undergraduate study. 

“Do not hesitate to ask for my help, in case it gets too overwhelming. You’re free to use the studios after hours. Please share your duties responsibly,” the old man looks between the two of you, and smiles,  “Though I’ve seen how well your dynamics go in the classroom so I have nothing to worry about.”

You feel the muscle beneath your eyes twitch because you’re sure he means some other pair in class since all you’ve ever wanted to do was wrangle Minghao’s pretty little neck.

Xu Minghao hates you and you think maybe your professors do too.

“Ms. Y/N, what do you think about this?”

It feels like ten minutes when its only been three minutes since you’ve been staring at one of the student’s painting wondering how you could politely say that you don’t understand what the fuck he’s doing. Just three weeks into being a TA and you’re tested in every way. You tilt your head, like that makes any difference in helping you decipher the work in progress.

The task was to draw the same figure in three different moods that were similar in nature: ghostly, melancholic, and bored.

But you feel like you’re staring at three different blobs in three different colors.

You must be quiet for too long because the student begins to shift under your gaze, looking a little discouraged and antsy. You don’t mean for him to feel that way but you don’t know what to say other than ‘what are you trying to do?’ cause that would just further discourage him. If there was anything that frustrated you as an undergraduate, it was the vague critique of your instructors that didn't point you in the right direction.

“Is it that bad?” The students’ voice was much smaller now and guilt twists in your chest as you scramble for the right words in your head. 

“It is,” a stony voice responds from over your shoulder that you jump a little. “It lacks depth.”

You didn’t notice Minghao walking to your side when he noticed your struggle. You notice the little wince the freshman does that you sigh, and put on your best customer service smile, “What Minghao means is that you seem to have the general composition. You have this, and this is great, but we don't yet have a general idea about what you're trying to present.”

Minghao’s brows furrow, “I did not say that.”

Before you could abandon all professionalism and slam his face through the canvas, Minghao moves to the student’s side. 

“A big part of expression is contrast, don’t be afraid of using darker colors,” he starts picking out tubes of paint for the student to mix in his palette.

“What if I put it in the wrong places?” 

 “We’re using acrylics, they tend to be more forgiving,” Minghao offers, before gesturing to him to mix the colors. “If that happens, you can always go back over it once it's dry.”

The student nods, eager with the clarity of his next step. 

Minghao’s eyes meet yours, a honeyed brown with a vulpine edge that makes you squirm in spite of the heat in your glare. 

Your approaches towards students were evidently different. Most days, you think the freshmen were more terrified of Minghao than Professor Jeong himself. It’s exasperating sometimes when he’d come up behind you to give a more direct version of whatever you were trying to tell a student. 

“Ms. Y/N, I highlighted the areas you’ve suggested, can you come take a look?” a girl waves her hand over her easel. You shuffle towards her station with your customer service smile but once your eyes land on her canvas, the corners of your lips twitch. She highlighted the right places, you’d give her that, but they were the wrong shade and pressed heavily onto the areas. Others may dub it as artistic expression but it is not exactly ideal for realism. 

You hum, pausing and choosing your words carefully. You’re nearly tempted to call Professor Jeong to take this one but you feel he may be too harsh on the girl’s breaking spirit. Earlier, while you had assisted this girl, you could feel her frustration and doubts. It's her tired eyes, the confusion in them, and her hesitating hands. You pointed her in the right direction with all the grace and empathy  you could muster. 

The medium had been oil paints hence an easy clean up before it dries, but that would mean recreating the colors and strokes all over again. You don’t know if she has enough in her to do it again. 

You decide to do it over again for her instead, sensing she’s close to tipping over the edge. You pat her shoulder and tell her that you have a ‘trick’ to show her as you walk away to grab a paper towel and spray bottle up front. Just as you return with the damp paper towel, your heart literally sinks seeing your co-teaching assistant standing behind the student you left momentarily. 

“What made you think light hits this way when your source of light is up here?” Minghao points out. 

“I just thought that it made sense if I…” she sputters, unused to the weight of his hard gaze.

“Sometimes common sense is the guide that we need.”

Once again, he’s made the paper towel in your hand a potential murder weapon if you’d just shove it down his throat. The poor girl looks disheartened, her mouth opening and closing at a loss for words. You take a deep breath, intending to remain composed.

“Hao,” you call out sternly, which surprises you, that even Minghao looks mildly intrigued. “Soobin over there needs your assistance.”

You place a hand on the girl and lean over to begin wiping off the poorly placed highlights.

“Your comments are more welcome there,” you mutter with a bite, fully expecting him to leave with a snarky remark. But he doesn’t, he just leaves.

You’re relieved he does. Your ears are hot and your heart is racing as you gently walk the student through techniques of how she could fix her mistakes. 

Later, you pull aside Minghao as you finish gathering up the supplies and reports. Normally, it would intimidate you to confront him with something serious and outside your daily banter, but seeing that girl’s face crumple before him today had laid heavy in your chest.

“I don’t like the way you spoke to that girl earlier,” You turn to face him, arms crossed not in defiance but rather you feel naked each time he looks at you with such intensity. “Since last week, she hasn’t been at her best. It’s clear that something is wearing her down hence affecting her performance.”

Minghao scowls, “It is not our job to be babying these adults. They came here to learn the fundamentals of art and we give them that.”

“I know that you like to think everyone needs the no bullshit approach you use but it will not kill you to have a little more kindness and sensitivity,” your gaze hardens, nails digging into your arm, “You may care about them perfecting their techniques and craft but I-...”

Your mouth runs dry as you struggle to find the words to say. Minghao waits, he looks at you expectantly, guarded but not defensive. 

“I don’t want them to start hating themselves or their very hobbies,” you swallow.

There's a pause and silence that unnerves you. You’ve argued with Minghao before, insulted each other and you’ve given him your nastiest glare—but this was different. This wasn’t about the two of you anymore or how much you hate each other’s guts. 

You don’t know how you manage to handle his gaze but you do because ironically, you can see that you’ve been heard. He slowly nods, face neutral as he reaches for the folders from the desk behind you. 

“Okay, next time.”

Juggling your duties between your classes, projects, and teaching each week started off manageable until at the beginning of your fifth semester, your dean had begun discussions of your thesis and an exhibition seminar. The theme would be: The Art of Everyday. Thankfully, the exhibit would be done as a collective rather than on your own which meant that the instructor organizes the exhibition while the students deliver the execution. 

You feel sorry for Vernon that you couldn’t be as available to him as you were before when you’re rushing between classes to prepare for the undergraduates or you’re too exhausted working on a project late at night. But he assures you that he’d be fine. You trust he’d be, he always managed in the end.

The stress is catching up, you can feel it, and it manifests in ways that frustrates you–forgetting where you left your car keys, piles of take out, eyes half closing while you grade and worst of them all, staring at a blank canvas for more  than ten minutes at a loss of what to create.

Minghao, on the other hand, you have no idea how he’s managing well. Sure, there was a bit of a rush in his pace but he still kept up to his tasks. 

You see him nearly everyday and almost the whole day. Most days, he beats you to Professor Jeong’s class, having set up everything and every Monday, you would see three cups of steaming coffee on his desk. The second Monday you see this, you thank Professor Jeong for always thinking of you two on his morning coffee runs but he just smiles and says that it was all Minghao. 

You don’t mention it to him. But you do start to notice all the things he does in quiet. Opening doors for you even in the middle of your daily banter, a hand over the edge of the table when you duck to pick up a fallen brush, and his open tub of titanium white and blue between the two of you because you use those colors way too much. He takes over the students with an unbearable attitude, and somehow you’re thankful for his deadpan expression and withering comebacks because you might just cry if it were you. Sure, you still have to deliver a sugar coated version of whatever he had in mind for most but it works. You find yourself unconsciously challenged by his suggestions and strangely understanding how his mind works the more you have to…translate for him. 

Maybe Vernon and Professor Jeong did have a point when they mentioned the ‘dynamics’ you didn’t think existed all that well between the two of you.

You don’t know if it's your exhaustion, your confrontation, or new found appreciation for him, but he irritates you less.

It doesn’t mean you no longer hate him, you’re just affected a little less than before.

After all, you’re still sure he hates you.

Your drawing class had been kicking your ass as of late. It was the most fundamental form of art yet you end up feeling uninspired and pessimistic. You suppose your exhaustion and the vague feedback of your previous works had finally begun to eat away at your resolve. But inspiration or heart cannot matter at this point, especially when you have a huge final project due in two days. You’re never really a person who’d rush your things last minute but last minute panic is all you’ve been running on in your final year.

Ironically, the project had been using charcoal to draw a  self portrait in four different moods: robotic, despondent, listless, hopeful. 

It should be manageable, but  it's a terrifying feat to accomplish in black and white colors. Your perfectionism overrides your panic that you barely notice the nights prior were spent taking advantage of your TA privileges and staying till the wee hours in the studio. You don’t intend to but you’re light headed and starved by the time you notice how late it is. You can’t help it, you’ve already bought two packs of paper from how quickly you’ve gone through them only to be dissatisfied and scrap them.

Now you’re sitting back where you were four consecutive nights right after the 5PM class. 

meanhao: are you still there? I misplaced the keys to the studio and i forgot the papers prof left us

you: yeah i am. 

He shows up twenty minutes later, greeting you with a knock to the door and heading straight to the corner where he had dropped the folders. You don’t say a word to him, you don’t expect any conversation after all. So you carry on your fifth draft of your second expression. 

“You’re still on that?”

“Yup,” you hum, making it clear in your tone that you’re not in the mood for any of his snarky remarks. 

After a brief pause, you expect him to leave but he doesn’t, dragging a vacant stool to sit next to you with his body tilted towards you. Even without looking at him, you can feel the intensity of his stare flitting over your tired features and project. You spare him a questioning glance before you shake your head and get back on task. 

You see him open his mouth from your peripheral and you suck in a sharp sigh, “Stop, I’ve got to get this out before Thursday and I don’t have time for your bullshit remarks.”

Minghao tilts his head, “I was going to ask if you’ve already completed the first draft of your thesis for tomorrow’s mid-year meeting.”

His question feels like you’ve been hit by a truck then run over by a sixteen wheeler…and a family van for good measure. The charcoal falls from your hand in shock and you gape at him, wondering if you wish he hadn’t said it or thankful he did.

You had forgotten.

Of all the projects you could have forgotten to panic about, it was the most crucial of them all. And if you didn’t press your palms into your eyes, you think you’d be seeing Minghao’s smirk of satisfaction. Dragging your palms through your hair, your eyes are wide, derailed from the steadfast will to complete your current task at hand.

“That’s tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

You take in a shaky breath, feeling your fingers tremble. You can’t cry now, not with so much at stake and especially not in front of Xu Minghao. 

“Look, you still have a little more time,” he quietly offers, and it startles you how much softer he sounds, “It’s just the first draft after all, it doesn’t have to be perfect. In my opinion, you can get more helpful feedback when you submit work that you’re not completely satisfied with.”

You try to process the fact that this is his attempt to soothe you more than his reasoning behind it. It goes against your standards of constantly delivering your best still you can’t help but find that he does have a point.

Slowly, you glance at him to make sure he isn’t stifling his snide smirk or laugh. Instead, you find the mild concern in his eyes veiled by the nonchalance he holds. You take in a sharp breath when you realize that this expression is more familiar to you nowadays than the arrogance in them. You don’t want to wonder why, so you’re thankful and relieved instead because his aloof nature isn’t something you need at the moment.

You take a deep breath, calculating the amount of pages you have left to complete and the hours you need to complete your charcoal project.

You’d have to ditch your charcoal project for the first draft submission, you still have one more night to finish it, you should be alright, you should be okay-

A knock on the door interrupts your self spiral, followed by a familiar ring of your friend’s voice, “Delivery for Ms. Y/N. Oh, hey, Hao!”

You inhale before turning around to greet Vernon. You muster a smile but you figure it doesn’t show anyway with how he meets your expression with a frown. He sets a bag of take out on a table before reaching your side.

“And your project literally beat you up, huh?” he chuckles, roughly rubbing the stain of charcoal over your forehead and eyebrows that you hadn’t realized was there.

You groan and slump your head against his stomach. He hums, patting your back as you seek solace in his worn black t-shirt. You’re aware that each minute not spent on your pressing priorities meant a minute lost. But you were so relieved to see Vernon that you think you might cry. Just the familiarity of him and the mouthwatering smell of your favorite takeout brings you such a comfort of normalcy that you would otherwise have if it weren’t for the damn projects and gradings.

“C’mon, you need to take a break. You’ve been at it for days. There’s no way you can finish this on an empty stomach.”

You give out a muffled thanks, scared that if you look up you’ll actually start crying over the gesture.

“And how about you, man? You here for your projects too?”

You nearly forgot about the man who watches your exchange with Vernon with a hawklike gaze. You suppose that's what stress would do to you. 

“No, I’m done,” Minghao answers, your head perks up while your friend turns to unpack the boxes of take out. Minghao looks between the two of you with something familiar, like aversion but not quite.

“Already? How do you even manage to do that while grading the midterms?”

Then you see it—a coldness you’ve never seen from the man as he regards you with a stony glare. Your face visibly falls, stunned with how quickly you’re being reintroduced to this iciness he possesses just when you were getting acquainted how warm he truly is. 

“It's not that hard when you’re committed.”

You know that it's his usual sarcasm, the kind that’s meant to goad you into challenging him and yourself. 

But it doesn’t spark a fire of indignance in you like it usually does. Instead, you feel something inside you snuff out like a candle by the shutters during a thunderstorm. 

Was that it? You weren’t committed? Or…were you just fighting for something that wasn’t ever meant to be yours?

You shift your gaze over to the piece you’ve spent an hour on—it stares back at you, half done as it is, a reflection of you—despondent. And the crumpled pieces of paper overflowing from the bin stares back at you in mockery.

Did you even deserve to be here?

You say nothing…and Minghao frowns at your silence.

“Okay, food’s ready,” Vernon announces, “Will you be joining us, Hao?”

You remain despondent, staring at the dark strokes until they blur against the white page. 

“No,” Minghao answers quietly, getting up from his seat when you’ve locked him out. “I have to get going.”

You hold your tears long enough till the door clicks shut.

You thought you loved art and that your sheer passion would have been enough. But somewhere in between, you started to hate it.  You didn’t anticipate it–how the burnout slowly wound its veiny hands across your throat. Being on a constant loop of creating, receiving vague to dissatisfied feedback, and rushing through consecutive projects were taking the joy off it all.

Or maybe Minghao was right; it shouldn’t be hard when you’re committed.

That’s further cemented in your thoughts when you leave your two hour mid-year meeting with your thesis with your papers brightly marked with red more than the words you’ve tirelessly written. You left exhausted, already running on three hours of sleep and taking power naps between classes. You shove the papers into your bag, not particularly in the right headspace to review them without descending into the torment of your own thoughts.

A loud tear rips across the empty studio as you angrily pull off, crumple, and toss your third draft for your third expression. There’s soft music playing from your phone, a contrast to your exasperated sighs. It’s been three hours since you’ve locked yourself in, determined to finish this charcoal project for tomorrow’s submission. You’d have to be up early for a meeting with Professor Jeong,  assist in his class at 8AM, grade their midterms, then finally tackle the dreadful task of going through your first draft again. You had an exhibition seminar at 2PM and you’re tempted to skip it but you know you’ll miss a lot. If you ask Vernon to take notes for you, as much as you adored that guy, you’re not so sure he could provide nor ask the details you’d like.

Your charcoal scratches across the paper where you’re particularly stuck on mapping out a robotic ‘mood’ in your eyes. You moderate your movements, being intentional with the highlights of your eyes to emphasize a deadened, unempathetic gaze. It gradually comes together, relief fills you once you realize you can finally start working on your last piece for this project. 

Then you lift your hand off the paper to step back, and finally see it, the smudged lines from where your wrist had rested without a barrier. It would have been salvageable if it hadn’t been stubbornly stained with the sweat from your palms. 

You flop back onto your stool, slouching into your hands. Your arms, fingers and back are cramping and you know you’ll feel it for days. Quietly groaning, you release stuttered breaths and attempt to ground yourself. Last night's breakdown over boxes of takeout, your open laptop, and Vernon’s inept to give you any sound advice that wouldn’t push you to quit your major was enough to have disturbed your already tight schedules.

You peek at the wall clock: 10:44 PM. You’ve been here for four hours and you had your meeting at 7AM. If you still had to head home for a quick shut eye and shower, it would take you thirty minutes to commute and another thirty back. This would probably mean you’d only have an hour of sleep. It’s dreadful but you’ll take whatever at this point.

Before you could switch to a blank canvas, a soft knock startled you. 

You frantically glance around you, terrified at the sound when you expect the building to be empty. Reaching for your phone, you lower the volume and cautiously reach for the closest thing to fend yourself–which happened to be a glass pencil holder. 

The knock comes again and you finally recognize a silhouette from the frosted glass. The knob carefully twists open and you’re surprised to see Minghao enter with a paper bag in his hand. He’s dressed in a much ‘casual’ manner–grey hoodie and jeans. Still, you find it so unfair how incredible he looks in any outfit.

“Hao?”

You wonder what he could possibly be needing at this time, much less come back hours after classes are over. You don’t get to ask. He offers you a tightlipped customary smile before standing a few feet away from you. 

“Still here?”

Frowning, you twist back in your seat.

You know he means that as a greeting but yesterday’s meeting left a sour taste in your mouth and you feel acid rise up your throat. Everything that came from his mouth just sounded condescending now. 

Minghao sighs, dropping the bag on the table before stepping back. You think he would leave but when you don’t hear any footsteps retreating, you spare a stony glance over your shoulder.

“What?”

His expression doesn’t give way to any emotion apart from how his eyes are firmly fixated on yours. 

“You need to eat.”

Your eyes dart over the paperbag, noting the label from your local convenience store. 

An olive branch. 

Minghao knew he had done something wrong.

You huff, turning to your stack of paper, “Already ate.”

That was a lie but you refuse to let him think this was sufficient  to count as an apology. 

“Then,” Minghao pauses, and you think you heard a slight stammer, “You need a break.”

“I can’t afford to.”

“Just go for a walk.”

“Not at this hour.”

“You won’t be alone. I’ll go with you.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“But I am.”

You halt your movements, feeling a sharp surge of irritation shoot through you. Shaking it off, you begin mapping out your portrait and simply tell him, “No.”

You think Minghao was incapable of ever admitting his own flaws without being indirect with making amends. There was no way you were going to let him think that it was okay. If he knew he messed up, the next step was to just say he did. He’s never had any problem with honesty. But instead he’s here at nearly 11PM with a peace offering and a demand for you to leave pressing matters for a walk as a means to assure him nothing’s changed.

It’s silent but the sound of your pencil scratching the surface and the soft music you resumed playing. The tension is thick and you’re waiting for him to accept your rejection and just go.

Then he softly calls out your name in a way that sounds foreign to you.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he finally says. 

Even if you expected him to know he’s hurt you, you didn’t actually think he would admit it. However, if it was your fatigue, ill mood, or pride, you’re not sure but you snap, “What about last night?”

You hear him inhale quietly, “I know I hurt you. You probably felt like this wasn’t the place for you.”

Now that you think about it, why was he apologizing for that? 

Your eyes widen and you whip around to look at him, “Vernon told you!” 

Minghao owlishly blinks at you, “No…you did. Just now.”

You groan, completely forgetting that this man, as unapologetic and aloof as he could be, had such a  deep understanding for people. That’s why his critiques are precise and catered to whoever asked, but that also meant his dry insults were just as lethal.

“It wasn’t my intention to make you feel like you weren't committed or doing enough but it still hurt you,” he continues and it gives you a whiplash that he would still elaborate. “I said that because…Vernon was there.”

You frown to yourself, feeling like he meant something else other than keeping his cold facade.

“I think you’re the most committed person I’ve met when it comes to doing what you do. But well, this–” he vaguely gestures to your art and the clock, “--is unhealthy, but I believe you’re trying.”

Minghao had no problems being honest, it was his strong suit–but you didn’t expect him to be vulnerable either. You’re gaping at him, like he’s grown a second head. He remains unfazed at your stare but you do notice the tips of his ears turn pink.

“And someone once told me that she wouldn’t want anyone to start hating themselves and their very hobbies, so I’d like to take her on a walk.” 

The corner of his lips tilt a little when he catches the shift in your expression. You chew on your lip, already tired and too confused with how to navigate this territory of your relationship. 

“Why would you think a walk would help?” 

Minghao shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets, “It helps when we stop creating for a while and just do something else.”

You contemplate on it awhile, recalculating the time you would need to come back quickly and finish your work. Glancing over at your piles of crumpled paper, you figure, you’ll only be stuck in the same cycle if you don’t take a break.

The night air is cool around the school campus while you walk side by side. You have no idea what it would be like being with Minghao outside of your school responsibilities and teaching assistant tasks. You think that between the two of you, you’d have to be the one to draw out a conversation to fight off whatever awkwardness might settle. But it doesn’t happen.

You’re surprised to learn that Minghao is a natural with leading conversations and asking a good balance of questions and thought provoking statements. Even in nearly three years you’ve known each other, there’s a lot you didn’t know about him. 

He tells you he originally planned on majoring in fashion, given that it was part of his interests, but he figured he could do more with this major. He grew up learning martial arts and that he enjoys dancing. That surprised you as he didn’t strike you as someone who’d express his art through movement. Still, the image of him dancing so beautifully and powerfully puts a smile on your face.

He talks about his hometown, about the busy ports and quiet pockets of the shore. Later, you find out his apartment now wasn’t too far from here, a good five minute bus ride or a fifteen minute walk if he feels like it. Minghao had been a private art tutor for some time, to which earns him a raised brow because that could only mean he tutored some rich kids. But you figure that's why he speaks so eloquently and is quick to provide advice that best fits a student. The experience, much like yours, makes him consider teaching art so he plans to get a certification come graduation.

He asks about you, and you find it funny how you’re just getting to know each other after having studied and taught together. So you do; you tell him about your own hobbies outside of art, about your family, and how your grandfather had been a big influence with your art. Your eyes visibly light up when you talk about the peonies, how they used to overflow through the picket fence, and you’d pick them with your grandmother.

You tell him about your experience teaching art in highschool, that earns him a fond smile and you, a warm flush. You begin exchanging stories about your students from there–their shenanigans, their difficulties, and the art that has stuck with you. 

An hour has passed by the time you’re making your way back to the studio. It was short but those minutes had changed two years worth of whatever you both had. It didn’t count as a friendship but it is something. 

You wonder why he’s going back with you when he could go home. There was no more bad blood and he wasn’t obligated to stay but he said nothing about it. 

“What is art to you?” he suddenly asks, visibly more comfortable.

“Why do you ask?” you ask, peering up at him curiously and you don’t comment on how close you are to each other that your shoulders brush and you can smell the faint powdery scent of his fabric conditioner. 

Minghao glances at you and it doesn’t intimidate you anymore, knowing him the way you know him now. 

“I was just wondering if your answer would still be the same.”

Huh?

Seeing your confusion, he further elaborates, “During our first year, Professor Lee asked us the same question.”

Your brows furrow, “If I don’t remember that question then I most likely can’t remember my answer.”

He shakes his head with an amused smile and you decide that you don’t mind seeing it more often than his infuriating smirk and glower.

“You said something like ‘to create something beautiful,’” then his nose scrunched.

You bump his shoulder, “What? It’s a good answer!”

“No, you don’t get it,” he nudges you back, “Art isn’t about just beauty.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll find it yourself,” he answers simply and you groan.

The art building comes into view and Minghao still doesn’t turn to leave. You’re feeling your earlier dread creep into your forefront but it's less daunting as it was an hour ago. You want to thank him but you’re tongue tied, still navigating in this new dynamic between you. And you wonder how everything changes from here.

Minghao insists on staying. Not verbally, but he asks you where your thesis draft was and while you hesitate, you have a feeling you can trust him. He sits on a table beside you, going through the embarrassing amount of red marks and revising what he could on your laptop. You would stubbornly protest and insist he could go home at this point, but you’re a little desperate to get some things off your plate.

The sounds of your pencil gliding across paper, the soft music, the clicking across the keyboard and shuffling of papers were all that filled the silence of the room. There are occasional questions about your papers from Minghao, and in turn you ask for his opinion on your progress. You’re mildly shocked he doesn’t make any passing comment on your mistakes. Perhaps, you villainized him a little too hard.

It’s 2:56 AM by the time you’re done. Your body feels like shit but you’re happy with how everything turned out. You’re finished, Minghao has done some revisions on your thesis, and you’re packing up and ready to go. 

Letting out a loud groan, you reach your arms over your head, feeling the strain on your lower back, arms, and fingers. Minghao does the same, albeit with more grace than you possess. He looks tired too, but he doesn’t show it. 

“Thank you, Hao,” you offer him a tired smile, “I’d probably have curled up and cried if you hadn’t come here.”

He gives you a nod and a soft smile, tucking your laptop away.

You tilt your head, suddenly remembering, “By the way, I should have probably asked earlier, but why did you come here? I mean, you could have talked to me right after class. Instead, you came here at such a late hour.”

It must be the fatigue or the lighting but you swear you saw the tips of his ears turn pink.

He doesn’t answer, just waves his hand and reaches for you to usher you through the door. You quickly realize, Minghao may not be capable of lying but he sure can avoid telling you the truth. 

“You should go home and rest,” he tells you and you faintly feel his palms running up and down your back, “You don’t have to go to the meeting, or attend class.”

“But I have to!” you interject, “The meeting with Professor Jeong has to do with the midterms, and we have to be there in his class. Also I have to submit my charcoal project then attend the exhibition seminar.”

Minghao sighs in exasperation but he also understands that he can’t convince you otherwise. 

“At least get three hours of sleep. How far is your place?”

You tell him your address and he frowns, holding your wrist before you could reach the main entrance, “That will take you almost an hour to go and back.”

“Uh, yeah,” and you realize that would mean you’ll only get an hour of sleep at most before you can freshen up and eat so you can pretend to be a sane person to get through the day. But it is preferable than the idea of sleeping here and carrying on the day in yesterday’s clothes and makeup does not appeal to you at all.

Minghao pauses for a while, regarding you with a thoughtful gaze that takes everything in you to not squirm. 

“How do you feel about going back to my place instead?” he suggests, “It’s much closer, you can get at least three hours of sleep in a proper place before we have to come back here. You can freshen up there and I don’t have a dryer but I know I have some clothes that might fit you–”

Your wide eyes make him stutter to a halt and even in the warm lighting of the building, it’s unmistakable that you see how he turns red at his suggestion. 

“If you don’t mind, of course,” he finishes, releasing his fingers that were curled on your wrist so you don’t feel like he was particularly pressuring you. 

You give it some thought, and you just know you’d be freaking out about everything that transpired tonight if it weren’t for how bone tired you were. 

“Okay, Hao.”

Minghao’s small apartment was neat and homey with all his personal pieces mounted on the walls or stacked by the doorway. He apologizes for the mess since he didn’t expect anyone to be over but you just scoff and wonder what his home looks like if he did clean. Your exhaustion barely takes it all the tiny details that make his home. So you both move swiftly, chucking your shoes off, putting away your things while Minghao asks you to wait for fifteen minutes so he could prepare his bed and get changed. You tell him that the couch, hell even the floor was fine. You’ll only be sleeping for a few hours anyway. But he leaves you no room to argue as he disappears down the hall to his room. 

You nearly doze off where you had waited for him but you wake to the gentle shake on your shoulder and his gentle whisper that you could move to his bed. He’s in a tank sweats, and he leaves his own blanket and pillow on the couch. You groggily follow after him to find freshly changed sheets, a worn shirt and basketball shorts folded at the edge with a towel and makeup wipes. 

That suddenly alarms you and before you wonder out loud if he had a girl. He regards you with an incredulous frown, “I use them.”

You blink and recall the times he did wear mild makeup and how you had particularly drooled over him when he showed up to class wearing a smoked out eyeliner.

Minghao gives you a brief rundown of where things were and if you ever needed anything you could just call him. You nod, feeling yourself get a little too lightheaded. He bids you goodnight, and leaves. 

You’re barely under the covers when you’re knocked out of exhaustion, eased by the scent of him that surrounds you.

The next morning, you’re both too tired to talk the fifteen walk to university so you take the morning bus.

Physically, you both are tired.

But there’s new energy thrumming between the both of you. You look up at Minghao from where you’re seated. The bus was full this morning, and he offered his seat to an elderly woman. The gesture alone solidified your recent realization that you did indeed, villainize Xu Minghao too harshly. 

Well that and the way he woke up earlier than you to make you breakfast and coffee then help you fit into his sweater and sweatpants. They don’t fit like they should but you’re tickled pink at the thought of wearing his clothes. He took one look at you, and returned with some jewelry pieces and accessories that he felt would pull the outfit together. It felt like you had your own personal stylist. You felt prettier than you did in your own clothes and you call the fluttering in your stomach an acid reflux from how much coffee you consumed…which grows ten times worse when Minghao gets ready and shows up in an outfit with the same color palette as yours.

The sun was just rising, filling the bus in its golden hue. Minghao was standing over you, hand on the rails above while he looked out the window behind you. The sunlight flashes over his eyes each time you pass through a building, the grown out platinum locks are flat and curled loosely around his face, and even with the evident exhaustion, he was so beautiful. Were his eyes always this brown?

Sensing your stare, he glances down and this time, you don’t squirm or look away. You’re content to just look at him, admire his features up close and finally notice the mole at the corner of his eye that was barely noticeable from the length of his hair. Unconsciously, your lips stretch into a fond smile. 

Minghao smiles back.

There’s an evident change in your gait, in the way you enter a room, and hold yourself. It startles you how at ease you were the entire morning even running on three hours of sleep. It might be your body running on sheer willpower alone but your heart tells you it had something to do with how much closer Minghao is now. 

Everything runs smoothly as you accompany the students in finalizing mid term projects that were centered around the theme of identity and their self portraits.

Up until you hear a loud clatter and a surprised gasp.

You flip your head over to one of the stations where you had seen a student prepping her canvas for varnishing. It was the same girl from a few weeks ago that had pushed you to confront Minghao’s tactless statement. Her hands are over her mouth as she gapes at the knocked over paint over her canvas. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t fallen over half of the face on the canvas. She quickly reaches for a rag and starts rubbing which disturbs the paint underneath. You walk over noticing the frustration and anxiety in her eyes, knowing that she had to submit this within the hour. 

Minghao reaches her before you could and that makes her panic more. 

“Hey, don’t, this could work,” he tells her calmly before reaching for the same paint that had spilled over. 

“No, it’s ruined,” she croaks, hands shaking at her sides.

“I like to believe that mistakes are fixable,” he assures. You stare at him, and find yourself wondering when did he become ten times more attractive in the last twelve hours. 

You attend to the other students who call for your attention all the while sparing glances over to Minghao and the distressed girl. He shows her a sample of what he’s envisioning and she’s quick to nod and follow with newfound hope.

By the time there’s ten minutes left till they had to scurry to their next class, you approach the two and take a look at the final product. You’re impressed at Minghao’s creativity and how quickly the student had worked to make it look like it took days. The stain over the half of her face had been shaped and improvised to look like it had been a silhouette of a mask. 

“See, fixable,” Minghao points out while the student lays her brush down.

“Happy accidents?” you offer giving her a pat on the back. Your co-teaching assistant rolls his eyes before shaking his head with a smile.

The student gives you both a fulfilled grin, “Happy accidents.”

The interaction sticks with you and you find yourself suppressing a giddy smile as you stack up the individual student folders with their rubrics and grade. You had four more things on your checklist today, attend your drawing class, submit your project, head over to the exhibition seminar before going home to go over Minghao’s notes on your thesis.

Just as you turn around to bring the papers over to Professor Jeong’s office, Minghao takes them off your hands and blocks the doorway. Confused, you look up at him to find his figure looming over you. It feels like a stern warning coupled with his next words, 

“Listen, I know the next class is important and you’re too stubborn to ask Professor Jeong’s help with your schedules…but why don’t you skip the exhibition seminar and just head home to rest?” 

You shake your head softly, “I can’t, you know how important that seminar is for our final exhibit.”

“I’ll take notes and send them to you. And if that isn’t enough for your detailed oriented ass, I’ll record the whole thing,” he offers, firmly planted at the door until you agree with him. Your heart does a little backflip at that and honestly, you’d prefer Minghao taking notes for you than Vernon any day.

“Hao, you’re tired too. You stayed up with me, worked on my thesis, and took care of me at your own home.”

Now that you say it out loud, it hits you just how quickly everything escalated between the two of you and how you’re both not at each other’s throats.

Was Minghao truly mean this whole time? Or did you have a wrong perspective?

“But I wasn’t the one basically living in Professor Jeong’s studio for the past two weeks,” Minghao pressed and you ignored the fact that he noticed, “You need to sleep it off.”

“But-”

He sternly says your name, “You’re not going to be of any use running on three to four hours of sleep, take outs, and coffee.”

There it was, the straightforward, cutting nature of Minghao that would piss you off before he even speaks. But this time, it doesn’t and you listen to him.

He walks you to the bus stop after class, and gives you a small wave from where he stood as you pull away.

Xu Minghao hates you, you stood on that for the longest time.

And now, you’re not so sure if he ever did in the first place.

The weeks that follow are less stressful than the last but when graduation season closes in the calendar, the stress and the tight schedules amp right back up to newer heights. While you vowed that you would never fall back into that routine of staying late in the studio, you couldn’t help it when you’re between attending classes, seminars,assisting in them, and preparing your own corner of the exhibit all the while finishing your thesis.

You’re sick of staring at blank canvases, half finished ones, empty tubs of paint, and crumpled paper towels.

Your projects and graduation are all that occupy the forefront of your mind that you barely find time to reflect on the shift in your relationship with Minghao. He’s close enough for you to call him a friend but friends don’t do what he does for you. Friends don’t pack lunches for you on your busy days. Friends don’t call you on the weekends just so they could simply talk to you. Friends don’t offer to stay in the studio with you till the late hours. Friends don’t carry your bag or hold your hand with an excuse that it's gotten too cold. Friends don’t leave you their spare keys or pick you up when you stay out too late. Friends don’t tell you to keep their burrowed clothes when you crash into their place and attempt to return them.

And when Vernon had obliviously called Minghao your boyfriend in front of him—he doesn’t even deny it. 

Friends don’t do that.

You push that in the backburner, you had too much on your plate to think about that.

Xu Minghao doesn’t hate you like you thought he did.

You settle for that.

You’re back to where you were again a few months back, despondent, lackluster for your art whenever you had to create just for the sake of meeting a deadline and expectation. You’re at the homestretch but you told Minghao how much you’ve been feeling nauseous anytime you enter a studio. He had hummed sympathetically, suggesting that maybe you needed to learn a new medium so you could have an experience without any pressure of meeting an instructor’s expectation and consequence.

“Your clay is tilting,” Minghao says. "Your pressure’s unsteady.”

You carefully adjust your palms to even out the balance but one corner ends up being thinner than the other. You hear him click his tongue and there’s a momentary hot flush that fills you.

This was supposed to make you love art again.

But you hate it.

You hate that his critique has an effect on you. You hate that you listened to him once he suggested you try your hand at something you’ve rarely done. You hate that even in a practice without a rubric or expectation, you’re still harshly scrutinizing your creation. You hate that you’re feeding into your self loathing because you hate what’s becoming of your clay. You hate that you feel something in your chest ebb and flow in overwhelming waves. You hate that you’re losing your composure over your failing art.

Your frustration reflects, the clay starts twisting unevenly beneath your unsteady palms.

“Like this.”

Warmth covers your back and your arms are braced by Minghao as he cups your hands under his own. You feel his thigh nudge yours away from the pedal as he takes over. He’s gentle just like he always was when touching you. There wasn’t a lot of times to begin with, but enough for you to still feel the burn of his skin against yours. 

The pressure of his palms slowly right the tilt of your clay, and slowly, as you let him guide your movements, it starts to take shape. He stays there, sure and steady.

“There you go,” he murmurs, warm breath brushing against your ear. 

He’s quiet for a while, just letting you feel the right pressure and motions. The silence and his proximity should have made you jump, flustered, and tense. But you don’t. Instead you find yourself releasing a deep breath, unconsciously leaning into his frame while you let his motions ease you.

“It's not just about the result,” he mutters, “It’s also the process.”

You can’t find it in you to disagree with him. You don’t know when or where you got the instinct to constantly defy him. 

Minghao is right. 

Maybe you rushed further ahead with a vision of perfection that you thought you had to meet. And set standards for yourself that you didn’t realize might not withstand the test of time.

“See, not bad for a first timer,” he huffs out a quiet laugh, and it ghosts along your neck.

The wheel slows to stop and you feel like your breathing stops too. Minghao doesn’t let go of your hands, they settle on the wheel, his clay covered fingers curled loosely over your own. 

He was so close, close enough to feel his warmth, feel his heartbeat against your back, and the way  his grown out blonde locks tickle the skin of your jaw. You’ve never been this close before. He doesn’t move away and you don’t want him to. 

You feel him turn his face towards you and you tilt your head to look at him. Minghao was always intense, yet he’s gazing at you gently but with raw want. His forehead nearly touches yours and you can’t find the words to say, unwilling to break whatever fragile tension flows between the two of you.

You don’t know who moves first. But he’s dipped his head to press his lips against yours. It’s gentle, slow, but hesitant at first, almost as if testing the waters. Your eyes flutter close, savoring the tenderness he holds you in. He pulls away, just barely, his eyes half lidded, breathes mingling as if asking if that was okay.

You nudge your nose against his and he dips down once more to capture your lips in a heated kiss. You gasp, pressing even closer. He releases your hands to clasp your waist while you twist your body to throw your arms around his neck. His lips are soft against your own but a complete contradiction to the frantic way he’s pulling you even closer. You sigh against his mouth when he licks at the seam of your lips. He groans when your tongue brushes his and his hand reaches up to cradle your neck. You whimper at the cold sensation of the clay but you couldn’t care less, as your hands come down to caress his shoulders. 

He can’t seem to get enough. Each time you part, he dives right back in till you’re breathless and panting against each other’s mouths, hands grasping where they could.

You try turn your body to comfortably face him but you lose balance on your stool nearly pushing him off. His hands fly to the wheel to balance you both but his hand smacks your wet vase in the process. 

Startled, you pull away from each other and look over the wheel where the vase had been smashed in on one side. There’s a brief pause, you both blink owlishly before slowly turning towards each other. You both burst into a fit of giggles when you see the smears of drying clay on each other’s necks, jaw, and hair. Lightness fills your chest as you watch his grin reach his eyes, crinkling in mirth and cheeks red with what had transpired between you.

Friends don’t messily makeout—literally.

“Sorry,” he murmurs softly, rubbing his nose against yours.

“For what?” you whisper smiling into this tender affection.

“For your vase…your hair…and hm, your shirt,” he chuckles sheepishly. It gives you a whiplash to see him this way, especially when you’ve conditioned yourself to see him as some cold hearted bastard. 

Perhaps, you did have the wrong perspective.

“I’m not,” you smile, sweetly kissing the corner of his mouth, “I’m not sorry at all.”

The first time Xu Minghao saw you, he thought he had never met someone so determined and passionate about their art. He finds himself listening to your every word in Fundamentals of Art, while he didn’t agree with your ideals, it didn’t mean he couldn’t admire you. There was an intense passion in your eyes as you worked and you had always been careful and intentional to perform your best. 

But passionate people burn themselves quickly. 

Hence, he always felt the need to  push you in the right direction even if you had gotten off on an awkward foot.

 That one Thursday in Life Drawing, you had tapped his shoulder, shyly asking if he had any oil pastels to spare. 

“You’re using the same bag. Life Drawing is every Thursday, be prepared next time.”

That’s what he had told you. He meant well, meant to say you shouldn’t be so careless. But when he reaches for his bag to hand you his treasured set of oil pastels from his homeland, he’s confused to see you walking away.

He supposes that isn’t so bad because you befriend that lost cause of an artist, Vernon because of his poor choice of words. But something amazing happens as he watches the dynamic between you push Vernon into the right direction. Minghao sees how Vernon slowly adapts your interests and enthusiasm. Sure, he had an eccentric grasp completely different from what you expect of him but he’s making decent marks in class for someone who had wandered into the wrong major.

Minghao knows it's too late to switch his seat so he makes it a point to come early the next year to sit next to you. And once he’s within your space, he’s suddenly at a loss of what to say. So instead, he chose to introduce himself knowing full well after that it was stupid. You looked at him in offense, and he just stared. He knew you more than your name. He knew your art style, he knew you were not fond of contemporary artists, and he knew you didn’t cook often with how much you do take outs with Vernon. 

Still, he managed to offend you in three words.

But he learns more about you just by being your seatmate and observing. He learned that you like creating peonies when it comes to a session of free drawing. He reads your mood from the lilt of your voice when you speak. He learned that when you’re particularly relaxed and painting, you sometimes hum. He learned that you were a caring friend with how often you’d check in on Vernon’s progress and patiently answer his questions. He learned about your perfectionism and how it both maximizes and hinders your potential.

He also learned that you hated it when he spoke to you, especially when it came to your art. But he figured that he’d settle for your irritated glare and acerbic tone if it meant that you were being challenged.

Because Xu Minghao learned early on that you tend to obsess over the result of your art, perfecting it rather than counting the process as part of art itself. Besides, watching you slowly fall prey to your perfectionism and burnout was also watching you fall away from what art means to you—which was to monumentalize the beauty of living.

Not something that resonates with himself, but if it mattered to you, then he wouldn’t take that away from you.

Over the course of the two years he’s within your orbit, he’s content with the dynamic he’s established with you. It was fun for him most days and he doesn’t truly wonder why he’s adamant in being in your world. If his interest in you meant more than just friendly rivalry, he wasn’t afraid of whatever it would mean.

And the warmth overflowing in his chest as he watches you get ready in his bathroom is undeniably there to stay for the long run.

It’s been nearly three months since that fateful night you kissed. He still blushes at the thought of how desperate he was he hadn’t been careful with his clay covered hands. Now the smashed-in vase and your stained clothes had been immortalized as trinkets. You insisted on having the vase fired and glazed for your exhibit, and to keep your stained shirt as your go-to shirt when throwing clay since you developed a new found love for ceramics.

“Hi,” you grin, giving him a sweet kiss on the cheek when he welcomes you into his embrace. You had stayed the night after another late night to finish setting up your respective exhibits. You’ve done that more often the past month. While Minghao insists you could still wear his clothes, he’s not opposed to the idea of having to clear out the bottom of his dresser for your clothes and keeping a set of your toiletries in the bathroom.

You asked him once if he felt you were both going too fast or if he’d one day regret you. You’ve hated him longer than you realized you didn’t. On the other hand, Minghao was never afraid of whatever would become of his feelings towards you. 

“I feel like I know you in a way that my soul had found home in you before you even knew it was yours.”

You had turned bright red, punched his arm and called him cheesy because he hadn’t even told you he loved you yet he easily spoke poetry of how he felt. He chuckles and kisses your forehead, 

“But isn’t that better than I love you?”

Minghao holds you in a loose embrace, tucking a hair behind your ear with a tender smile, “Are you ready for today?”

You hum, resting your chin on his collarbone, “Are you?”

He nods, leaning down to kiss you softly, “You did so well, baobei. Your grandfather would be so proud of you.”

“Ah,” you quietly squeal and slap his chest, “Stop, you’ll make me cry.”

Minghao giggles, pressing an apologetic kiss to your cheek, “Alright, alright.”

“I’m excited to see yours,” you tell him, winding your arms tighter around his lithe waist, “I can’t believe you banned me from looking. I don’t even know how you managed to hide it from me.”

“It’s not that hard when your girlfriend is too busy with her own exhibit.”

“Fair.” 

And he tries not to tease the way you’re visibly glowing when he refers to you as his girlfriend.

With fifteen minutes to spare before the gallery would be open to the public, you immediately find Vernon after the exhibition briefing

“Vernon!” 

“Hey, guys,” he shoots you both a boyish grin, “It’s finally here, huh? We’re nearly done!”

“I mean, Hao and I still have our thesis to worry about but this is something huge to check off the list,” you chuckle. 

Vernon nods, looking between the two of you with a pleased grin, “I called it first.”

Minghao raises a brow, “Huh?”

You huff, feeling heat creep up your neck as you shove your friend, “Shut up, you were right okay.”

Vernon raises his hand in surrender before you shift the topic, “I’m really sorry I couldn’t help you out for your exhibit.”

He waves his hand, “Hey, I told you I got it, okay? I had to eventually be independent from my art parents and make you proud.”

You scrunch your nose at the term and Vernon teases Minghao that he should stop rubbing off on you which earns him a laugh. 

“Besides, I did get really great advice from a friend,” Vernon continues, “I think you’ll be proud.”

Raising a brow, you spare a quick glance towards your boyfriend, “By friend, do you mean Jeonghan?”

“Yup!”

“Is that why we found you both crouched at the parking lot, picking through the gravel a few weeks ago?”

“Yeah,” Vernon doesn’t even seem fazed at how odd and concerning they had seemed. “C’mon, I’ll show you!”

The times you’ve seen your friend this enthusiastic were few and far between so you both follow him to his corner of the gallery. He tells you both to close your eyes once you’re close and he leads you both by your hands. You’re curious to see what he’s come up with. You feel like it has nothing to do with painting because he gets a little too bored with it. Your guess was it had to be some sculpture or something of the like. 

“Okay, in three…two…one!”

You open your eyes to find a glass case of four rows of…rocks. They were off all different sizes, some had a natural grain and crack to them that looked like faces while some had googly eyes. But what really made them stand out was the fact that each of the rocks had their own clothes and accessories from little straw hats, poorly sewn suits, dresses, and track suits.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you…The Ore of Everyday.”

You're in between bursting both in tears and in laughter because this was truly very Vernon of him. It was endearing how his imagination and interpretation exceeds yours. The look on his face tells you he's happy and content. And all the opinions and happiness that mattered to him was his own. That was special. That was Vernon as an artist. If he was to be the next Anish Kapoor as everyone says he would be, you just know he'd be even better.

“Oh Vernon,” you sigh with a proud smile. “This looks amazing. I love the tiny little hats.”

“Right?” he lifts his fingers to your faces to show the scratches and miniscule pokes littered along them, “I think that was the most stressful part but it was worth it.”

“I like how you utilized the natural cracks in them, they really do look like faces,” Minghao commends, carefully examining each one.

“Thanks!” Vernon grins, “Compared to all our other projects, I really enjoyed doing this one.”

You smile softly, a sense of fulfillment and contentment washing over you seeing how far Vernon had come just by being himself.

“Can I see yours now?” you ask Minghao while you leisurely make your way through the gallery with linked hands.

He hums, pretending to think and you pout, already antsy and excited to see what he was so adamant on keeping from you. He laughs before squeezing your hand, “Of course, you can.”

Minghao leads you to his own corner of the exhibition with an unhurried pace. 

“I want you to look at each piece alright, baobei? Don’t take it all in at once.” he tells you just before you round the corner.

You nod, smiling and bouncing on your heels. With a quick glance at your surroundings, he dips his head to kiss your forehead. 

“Okay, let's go.”

He takes you to the first piece, a minimalist and simple approach to what you could recognize as a spiral staircase of your university.  The second piece was a little trippy. The canvas had been painted like a crumpled piece of paper stuck on the wall. Three-dimensional art was something you had been thoroughly intrigued with but  not something you were fond of creating. You praise your boyfriend for his understanding of  texture and the precision of his light and shadow placements. He just smiles, quietly taking in how your eyes become doe like as you look through the rest of his work. 

The next piece you see had been a painting of a woman, back turned towards you as she works on her art. You realize it had been a painting of you, and as you take in the details–the crumpled pieces of paper at the corner, an inconspicuous paper bag and an open case of charcoal at your side. You tilt your head towards him to find that he’s just content with watching you admire his work. You reach for his hand and he takes it. Giving him a grateful squeeze, you lean into his shoulder as you proceed to the next. 

This time, it's clearly a portrait of you in oil pastel and you recognize it was on the morning bus after the first time you had spent the night. The perspective was from a bird’s eye view so you’re looking up and you wonder if this is how Minghao looked at you back then. Draped in pretty warm hues and eyes bright and colorful from how the sun had hit your face. 

You giggle at the next one: a disfigured clay pot with two hand prints you recognize as yours. You may have the original smashed vase over at your exhibit but Minghao wanted to have his own too. You just didn’t think he would have it displayed in the exhibit. You want to know why he’d think this would fit the theme but you suppose that's the beauty of art, you get to decide what it meant even if it wouldn’t make sense.

The last one is the bigger piece and you bring a hand up to your mouth.

It was an oil painting of peonies spilling over the picket fence and a loosely painted child crouched next to her grandmother as they picked them—exactly how you had described your fond childhood memory to him…once. And you weren’t even dating at that time. 

“Hao…” you turn to him, at a loss for words.

“That’s how you fell in love with art, right?” he tells you softly, “You saw it in the everyday.”

You glance back at the canvas, hit with a heavy wave of nostalgia and clarity of why you loved doing what you do. You liked capturing and immortalizing moments like these with your own hands like your grandfather had. You loved looking at the world in detail, making the most mundane things romantic in your eyes, expressing them through art. 

You feel a pair of arms wrap around you, “And this is me falling in love with you.”

Minghao tenderly cups your jaw, tilting your face towards him. It’s just you and him and it reflects in the warmth of his eyes. You meet the soft plush of his lips in a loving kiss, and you stay there, at home in his embrace.

You had been sure that Xu Minghao hates you. That felt like a long time ago, before both of your perspectives shift.

Now, you’re even more sure that he loves you.

And you love him too.

tagging @najaeminluvbot @tusswrites @welcometomyoasis @christinewithluv @riceandshy

@snowcake666 @beananacake

---

you noticed me ⚾︎

{mlb!megumi fushiguro x f!reader}

summary: megumi fushiguro is one of the best players on the major league baseball team, and when you finally spot him on the big screen after practically dozing off at every game you went to with your girl friend? you were absolutely IN LOVE, but IN DENIAL that he could ever like you back… but he does, and bad.

warnings: MDNI. afab!reader, NASTY NASTY MEGUMI, oral sex, SMUT, pussy eating in locker rooms HEH, mentions of drinking but like tiny just once, reader is oblivious to the way megumi wants her, DOMINANT AF MEGUMI PHEWW, cursing, flufffff!!, barely any angst, DIRTY TALK, pet names, aged up characters.

word count: 12.1k (IK IM SORRY ITS A CUTE ONE THO)

authors note: you GUYSSSS i love megumi fushiguro i want him so bad and i LOOVEEE this fic!! i worked like a little worker bee for days and i really hope it makes you guys happy :] MWAH!!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・

megumi fushiguro was the hottest baseball player you had ever seen in your life.

and you didn’t even like baseball to begin with, dozing off at every game your girl friend dragged you to because her boyfriend was on the major league team— but the one time you decided to open your eyes and pay attention to the big giant screen in front of you?

there he was in all of his emo glory.

number eighteen.

focused, half lidded eyes resembling borderline boredom as he waited for the pitcher to throw, his forehead glistening with sweat, flushed red cheeks, and his jet black hair slightly peeking over his forehead from underneath his baseball cap.

“my god—” your hand flew and you gripped your girl friends arm tightly, your jaw to the fucking floor as your eyes were gorilla glued to the screen, her quirking a curious eyebrow at you as she matched your frantic nature.

“what? what is it? who did you see? whats happ—”

you pointed your finger up at the screen, him swinging and hitting a fucking grand slam as he proceeded to get four runs with one hit, the one thing you knew about baseball besides a home run.

“that’s a— that’s a grand slam!” you pointed frantically, probably looking absolutely insane as you stood and screamed your fucking head off.

your girl friend laughed loudly, “you like fushiguro? megumi fushiguro?”

you jumped up and down, your girlfriend astonished and laughing as this was the first time she’d ever seen you energetic at a baseball game.

“he’s friends with yuji!” she yelled over the hollering of the crowd. “we can go to their locker room after and you can say hi! i heard he’s kind of mean though—”

“no!” you spun around, eyes wide and terrified. “i already know he’ll eat me alive then! i’m a loser, i can’t talk to him i don’t have game i—”

she rolled her eyes. “you’ll be fine—”

“no i can’t!” you shook your head frantically. “please he looks like the type to love bomb me and then leave me i don’t think i can handle that—”

she snorted. “are you sure?!”

you hesitated for a moment, biting your bottom lip as your eyes trailed back over to the screen, seeing megumi breathing a little heavy from running the field, his hands on his hips as he scanned the arena.

you sighed through your nose. “yeah i’m sure!”

“suit yourself!”

a year. a year you spent continuing to tag along with your girl friend to their games, staring lovesick and sad at the big screen over megumi, and standing outside far far away from the locker room once they scored another big win and not going in like you used to, waiting for your girl friend to finish up speaking to her boyfriend as you tried your best to avoid the chance of running into megumi.

she finally emerged from the locker rooms one day, a knowing smirk on her face.

“i told yuji.”

you blinked. “told him what?”

“that you like fushiguro.”

“no!” you gasped, a hand flying and smacking over your mouth. “please no im about to experience the biggest heartbreak of my life—”

“oh relax!” she grabbed your arm and practically dragged you towards the locker room doors. “he’s not even here megumi already left, but yuji wants to talk to you.”

“why?!” you exclaimed. “to let me down easy? to tell me he’s sorry on his behalf—”

your girl friend just about threw you in and went in after you as you stumbled, eyes blown wide as the air became humid and heavy, several of the players lounging about and refreshing themselves as the sound of lockers slamming shut echoed through the space— deep, broad voices laughing filling the room as yuji spotted you, his eyes friendly and polite. “y/n!”

you relaxed and smiled, “hi! you guys played really well today!”

“megumi also played really well today.”

“oh my god—” you groaned, throwing your head back as you spun around, heading straight for the exit.

“wait wait!” he laughed loudly, jogging up to you. “sorry sorry.”

“what do you want with me..” you mumbled.

he gave you a half smile. “i wanted to tell you that megumi’s weird.”

you snorted, “elaborate please.”

yuji threw an arm around your girl friend before continuing.

“you know we support your feelings and what you want…” he began.

your eyes narrowed. “why are you guys talking to me like you’re my parents—”

“but—” yuji cut you off. “i’m just gonna be straight with you. i’ve never ever seen megumi interact with anyone, let alone another woman, besides the team.”

“i don’t think i’ve ever seen him have a proper conversation with anyone on the team besides you actually…” your girl friend muttered to yuji.

yuji winced. “yeah…” he turned back to you. “back when megumi and i first got signed, he was really popular and a lot of girls would come up to him after games for his number or just to talk to him.”

“well obviously he’s a greek god,” you grumbled. “this is hurting me man get to the point.”

he sighed. “he basically scared all of them off. didn’t give a single one a chance and was kinda mean... he would either ignore them or straight up just tell them he wasn’t interested without them even being able to get a word in.”

you stared blankly.

“i tried to tell him that he needs to be nicer but he’s just not interested.”

you kept staring.

“that’s why i’m telling you this because we don’t want you to get hurt and i feel like if you try and talk to him he’s gonna be a dick and it might…” yuji looked at you sadly. “it might be a lost cause.”

you blinked.

“y/n?”

“that’s fine!” you squeaked, hands tight at your sides. “a part of me already knew. i read about it in an article, and i’ve seen his interviews.”

your girl friend looked at you with concern filled eyes. “are you okay?”

“yeah!” you waved them off. “why wouldn’t i be?”

“because your eyes are red.”

“ppffttt!” you blew out. “i’m fine! seriously. i never intended to talk to him anyways, i’m too much of a scaredy cat.”

you extended your arms out and engulfed the both of them, squeezing tight. “thank you guys for telling me though, i appreciate it.”

“y/n…” yuji trailed off.

“i’m gonna take off though, i’ll see you guys later, okay?” you waved and opened the door. “love you!”

and you scrammed, your heart in a million pieces.

it’s not like you didn’t already know. you knew, so why were you sad? why did you feel like you just got ran over by a double decker bus? why did you pathetically feel so sad?

this was the reality. you never stood a chance.

so why were you crying?

you continued walking down the hall and towards the main exit, utterly embarrassed at your sobbing and trying your best to hide it as you navigated through several groups of people, your vision entirely blurry as you were basically drowning in your tears.

you had barely escaped the crowd when you spotted a little secluded area in the lobby, trudging over pathetically and plopping down on the coushy seat as you wiped your cheeks, staring at the wall in front of you— a huge glass casing proudly decorated with the teams trophies and awards, gigantic portraits of the players on the team adorning the walls with megumi’s serious beautiful framed face right in front of you just making you feel worse.

you already knew, but regardless of megumi’s stand off ish personality, you liked it. you had curiously browsed his interviews and quotes in articles, and you always laughed at his responses, him almost every time offending the staff without even trying or knowing, and you found it so so funny, it only making you admire him and want to get to know him even more, even if it was just a friendship.

megumi fushiguro was one of the best players on the team in history, and as you closed your eyes, silent pathetic tears still slipping down your cheeks?

he never felt so out of reach.

“here.”

your eyes opened, but you literally could not see jack shit as your tears were still blurring your line of sight, you completely and utterly mortified that a stranger caught you sobbing as you wiped your face quickly in response.

“put on my sunglasses if you don’t want people to see you crying.”

the voice was gruff and lazy, but you could not care less as you took the sunglasses and settled them over your eyes, the lenses so freaking dark that you couldn’t see a single thing— your sight worse than before.

but it relieved you, as you figured no one could see your bloodshot eyes and therefore thankfully not notice you losing your mind over something so stupid.

“thank you,” you mumbled. “sorry.”

“for what.”

you felt the plush of the bench shift next to you, figuring that the stranger man sat beside you as you refused to look in their direction out of embarrassment.

not that you could even see in the first place.

“for looking like a loser.”

the stranger man snorted. “s’fine.”

you wiped your nose with your sleeve, sniffling.

“how do you see in these?” you muttered softly. “they’re making me claustrophobic i can’t see a thing.”

“that’s the point,” he hums.

“how come?”

“i get migraines everyday. they help.”

“oh i see.” you responded softly. “have you ever run into a wall because of them?”

you hear him huff out through his nose. “i did once, when i first got them.”

you giggled gently. “did you bleed?”

“no,” he spoke calmly. “i got a bump on my forehead.”

you snickered, “what? loserrr.”

you stood up and carefully tried to walk around a little, testing out how to guide yourself through the dark lenses and trying to be careful and not bump into a wall (which was literally impossible), your hands out, feeling around.

“jesus christ i’m just kidding now i feel bad. i think im gonna bump myself into a wall too so we can call it even.”

you couldn’t see, but the stranger man’s lips twitched at your comment.

“don’t do that.” he murmured. “sit back down.”

you listened and started making your way over, feeling him reach out and wrap his fingers around your wrist carefully and guide you to the bench, you plopping down on it once you felt it.

“thank you!” you responded sweetly. “…i’m actually glad i can’t see a thing right now.” you perked up, pushing the sunglasses back up over the bridge of your nose.

“why is that.”

“so i don’t have to look at megumi fushiguro’s big portrait in front of my face.”

the stranger man stopped.

“…why?”

“because he indirectly broke my heart.”

you heard a little audible laugh, and you smiled to yourself.

at least someone is having fun right now.

“how did he indirectly break your heart?”

“my girl friend’s boyfriend is yuji itadori. she spilled the beans against my will about how i have a crush on him, and yuji told me that he’s mean and he’ll basically bite my head off and tell me to scram.”

“did he?”

“uh huh,” you nodded. “they were trying to let me down easy, but it’s not like i was gonna try and talk to him anyways. i’ve gone a year without saying anything i can go on and on and on.”

the stranger man hummed.

“he’s so cool though…” you murmured, dazed. “he’s gonna be a hard one to forget about.”

“why do you like him?”

“i feel like im being interrogated,” you giggled.

you felt the stranger man lean back against the wall. “sorry, just curious.”

you copied him and crossed your arms, “mmm… because he’s really good at what he does. i admire that most of all.”

you tilted your head. “everyone berates him for being mean but i like that he’s supposedly mean for some reason…. he’s just serious about his profession and he doesn’t want to waste time. he’s also the hottest man i’ve ever seen so that definitely helps.”

the stranger man laughed a little.

“i don’t know,” you sighed sadly. “maybe i’m just demented. i am demented.”

“if yuji itadori told you the exact opposite about him, would that have encouraged you to go up to him?”

you sat in thought for a moment, but ultimately shook your head. “no. it’s too embarrassing for me and i’m also a big fat wuss so…”

you slid your fingers underneath the lenses and rubbed your stinging sore eyes. “maybe in the next life if i’m lucky, ill be reincarnated as a cool baseball man too and i won’t have to deal with this shit.”

“cool baseball man.” he repeated, tone seemingly amused.

“yup.”

the stranger man sighed. “is this why i found you crying?”

“maayybeee?” you dragged out shyly, your cheeks flushing.

it was silent for a moment, your vision completely black but his on your rosy cheeks, oddly staring that if you could see right now, you’d probably call him a creep.

“i’m sorry i made you cry.”

you jumped back.

“no not you!” you huffed. “have you not been paying attention? catch up man—”

you felt a shadow reach up and tug the sunglasses slightly away from your face, your eyes constricting against the bright lights of the hall as they tried to adjust.

and when they did?

megumi fushiguro was sitting right next to you, a tiny smile on his face dressed in all black with his teams baseball cap on.

your eyes widened dramatically and you slapped both hands over your mouth, beyond horrified as everything you had thought you were telling a stranger about him, you were telling him directly, your brain short circuiting and your body heating up like a fucking hot flash.

“oh my god i’m so sorry!” your voice was muffled, you shaking your head in absolute denial.

you immediately sprung up and grabbed your purse, slowly backing up further and further away from him.

his smile widened.

oh my god.

megumi fushiguro was smiling, a sight you’ve never ever seen during his games, practices, interviews, articles, or magazines as your cheeks increased in shade— wanting to mentally take a picture and remember forever as you knew you’d probably never see him smile like that again.

but he was smiling.

“pretend i don’t exist!” you stammered, “pretend this never happened i’m sorry this is so embarrassing keep winning your games okay and i’ll keep being an idiot far far away from you—”

“where are you going?” he chuckled lowly.

“—you’ll never see me again i’m going home and i’m going on lockdown—”

he laughed through his nose, his lips in an amused smile.

“you don’t have to do that.”

“yes i do—”

“you don’t have to forget me either.”

“that i definitely do—”

you were halfway out of the main entrance doors.

“hold on y/n—”

megumi stood, his long legs walking over to you and you froze.

y/n?

you slowly turned around, your face pale and afraid.

“how do you know my name?” you asked softly.

“your best friend is dating yuji, is she not.”

you nodded, eyes blank.

“i’ve been seeing you inside the locker room after our games for like… two years.” megumi mumbled.

oh.

oh that’s right.

you didn’t actually notice megumi until last year, when you decided to finally open your eyes for once during a game and that’s how you spotted him for the first time on the big screen in front of you, in all of his gorgeous handsome entity.

“oh.”

he raised a hand and pressed his index finger to your forehead, nudging you softly.

“dummy.”

“s-sorry..” you gave him a wobbly bashful smile, your cheeks pinky as you rubbed your red eyes.

his eyes slightly softened and he shook his head. “s’fine.”

megumi continued to stare at you, a stone cold face that always seemed to scare off the teams entire fan base, but only made you feel numb and giddy all over every single time.

you smiled wider then, and megumi’s lips twitched.

cute.

“i’m— i’m gonna go now.”

“do you have a ride home?”

you stopped. “no i was just gonna call an uber—”

he shook his head and walked past you, his shoulder brushing gently with yours with his hands stuffed in his pockets as you turned and stared at him.

he paused and looked over his shoulder.

“you coming?”

your eyes widened. “coming? w—where?”

he rolled his eyes. “i’m taking you home.”

“no!” you shot your hands out. “it’s okay! really! thank you thank you i appreciate it but—”

he stared lazily.

“come.”

you pressed your lips into a thin line and tipped your head down, taking tiny painful steps as you followed after him to the parking lot.

megumi led you from the public parking area to a secluded section around the back of the arena, one you assumed was for players and crew members only as you nervously gnawed on your bottom lip, feeling absolutely sick.

you both continued to walk down until you arrived to a private parking garage, megumi slipping out his keys from the pocket of his hoodie as you approached a shiny black luxurious car sitting neatly in a spot.

his car was really fucking nice, and you figured so being as he was one of the most popular players and probably had more than enough money in the bank— your fingers trembling as you gripped the passenger side door, settling yourself inside his plush cool leather seats and all black interior.

megumi pressed the ‘start’ button and his engine roared to life, the motor echoing through the structure as you clumsily tried to put on your seatbelt, your cheeks growing pinker with each passing second that you just couldn’t get the stupid damn thing to— click—

he reached over across the console and took the seatbelt from you, pulling it over your body and clicking it secure without a word.

“thank you.” you said softly, eyes trained to your lap.

megumi gave you a small nod and backed out of his parking space, driving around a couple of rows before making his way out with the night air softly breezing through your hair as he drove, his dash illuminated with blue lines that ran smoothly across.

“can you put your address in—”

“oh yeah!” you jumped. “sorry—”

you reached over and tapped in your address on his big touch screen, watching the way the gps registered the location and gave him the estimated time of arrival.

forty fucking minutes.

“megumi..”

his eyes looked over at you for a second before turning back to the road.

“hm?”

“i live kinda far from here and i don’t want you to drive the opposite way from where you live.”

you leaned a little, eyebrows pinched. “i can take an uber seriously, this is too much trouble i—”

“you’re already in my car.” he deadpanned.

“i’ll jump out.”

he pursed his lips, trying to suppress a smile.

“i have child lock on.”

“child lock?!” you gawked. “is this what you think of me?”

“you’re a little helpless… and you’re a crybaby.” he mumbled. “child lock stays on.”

you giggled after, your eyes shining and filled with mushy feelings for him as you nodded. “you’re probably right.”

he looked over at you then, and he smiled, softly.

“what do you do?”

you fidgeted. “h—huh?”

“do you um…” he ran his thumb over the top of his gear shift. “do you work? do you go to school?”

he’s asking you?

“i go to school!” you responded shyly but kind. “i go to a college that’s about fifteen minutes from your stadium. i usually go and meet up with my best friend after class if there’s a game.”

he hummed. “are you a big baseball person?”

you grimaced.

do you lie? do you tell the truth? do you roll down his window and attempt to jump out of the car that way?

you played with a strand of your hair. “i— i um—”

he raised an eyebrow.

“i— don’t?”

he cocked his head. “you don’t?”

you shook your head no, completely ashamed of who you are as a person as you covered your eyes.

“i knoww i suuucckkk,” you whined. “the only things i know about baseball are home runs and grand slams— which you did!”

you pointed at him excitedly. “last year! i remember you hit a grand slam! i got so excited that for once i knew what the fuck was going on and why everyone was going crazy…”

you fiddled with your fingers nervously, your eyes trained to the road. “i felt so included.”

he chuckled, and unexpectedly, reached over and gently ruffled your hair.

you then stared at him as he did so, doe eyes wide and cheeks pink.

megumi was truly just beautiful— his smooth face that didn’t have a single blemish on his skin shining under the moonlight, his black spiky hair peeking from under his cap that you had no doubt in your mind was soft and velvety.

you hated that you’d probably do anything for that man.

“i’m sorry i made you cry,” he repeated, you recognizing his words from before.

your eyebrows furrowed.

he was still thinking about that?

you shook your head furiously, “you didn’t! i swear it’s okay. i’m just crazy.”

he huffed out a laugh.

megumi thought you were odd, but in a good way. he thought everything you did was a little funny, as you were jumpy and clumsy and a crybaby and helpless, but he also took note of how polite you were. he noticed how considerate you were of him even though you were really upset, and you were kind of sweet… really sweet actually, your personality something that was totally different from the usual girls that came up to him.

well, the usual girls that used to come up to him back when he first started.

megumi pulled into your driveway and shifted the gear into park, the doors automatically unlocking.

you opened the door and stepped out before leaning down and peeking your head in.

“thank you for the ride!” you said sweetly, a cute smile on your face. “i’m sorry you had to listen to my confession against your will.”

he shook his head. “it’s alright.”

you went in to close the door.

“y/n.”

you leaned back down, “yeah?”

“are you gonna stop coming to our games?”

you gnawed at the inside of your cheek, your eyes darting around the interior of his car nervously.

“i— i don’t think so.”

“good.”

megumi watched you close his door and walk back a bit, him shifting his gear into reverse as the corners of his lips turned a tiny bit upwards.

“i’ll see you then.”

as you watched him pull out and drive away, his engine roaring down the street, you could not stop or simmer down the way your heart raced against your chest, so much so that you were afraid it was going to burst through your chest and literally kill you.

the next time you went to a game, you hadn’t told your close girl friend yet as she led you through the crowd and down to the v.i.p. lower level seats like always, a kind courtesy of yuji’s that he did whenever he could.

as you watched, you embarrassingly spotted megumi almost the minute you arrived, stars and hearts in your eyes as you watched him do his thing and work magic through the field with his absolutely insane batting, strong and purposeful as he barked orders or observed the opposing team for leads.

once his and the opposing team switched sides, megumi looked up as he jogged, his eyes seemingly scanning the v.i.p. front sections until he spotted you.

he raised a hand and gave you a little wave, and your eyes widened as you timidly, hesitantly, gave him one in return— your cheeks turning pink.

“who are you waving at?”

your girl friend pressed a cheek against yours and looked.

“who is- fushiguro?!”

you looked at her sheepishly.

as you recounted the story to her, her eyes bulging out of her sockets and screaming her head off every two seconds, her head snapped to the field.

“i have to tell yuji—”

“no!” you gripped her shoulders. “it’s literally nothing! he drove me home and he probably just feels bad for me.”

“megumi isn’t the type to make a crying girl feel better or drive her home.”

“it’s because he knows that we know yuji.”

“mm i don’t think so..” she scowled, crossing her arms in eventual defeat as she stared straight ahead.

that’s how it went for about a month.

you would come to their games, megumi would wave at you from the field or you would catch his attention and wave at him, and you would briefly speak to him casually just after his games, your conversations with him usually lasting no more than three minutes as he was often pulled by his coach or a crew member.

but even though the conversations were short, they were really nice, and the both of you never seemed to notice the people around you wanting his attention until he physically had to get pulled away.

but you still refused to go inside the locker room, knowing that was surely the place where you had to talk to him for longer than three minutes. you were too scared, embarrassingly so as you bid your girl friend and yuji goodbye from just outside the door before leaving every time, completely unaware of the way megumi would stare expressionless at you from inside.

when your girl friend invited you to the team’s yearly banquet, you flat out said no, decision firm and unmoving as she begged you over and over and over again.

“please please you have to go! you can’t avoid megumi forever!”

“what is the purpose of me going though?” you sighed, shaking your head with a smile at the sight of her dramatically on her knees over you. “for you it makes sense because you’re with yuji but what’s the excuse for me? i’m not anybody’s plus one.”

“yes you are,” she got back up on her feet and wiggled her eyebrows, “you’re megumi’s plus one.”

“bye i wish,” you mumbled, plopping down on your bed.

“okay you’re my plus one, or yuji’s! so he has two plus ones!”

she walked over and sat down next to you, resting her head against your shoulder as she sighed. “please come. you don’t have to talk to megumi okay? fine. but just come with me, i’ll have a better time if you do.”

you gave her a silly smile and thought for a moment, her sad tone swaying you as you finally gave in.

“only if you swear you won’t force me to talk to him.”

she nodded eagerly.

“i swear!”

so you stood there, nervous and biting your thumb as you frantically looked around, dressed in a pretty black off the shoulder mermaid style gown with a high slit exposing your leg— fiddling with your styled hair as you waited and waited and waited for your girl friend to come back from the dessert table with yuji.

you hadn’t seen megumi yet as you were trying to keep on a look out, because the moment you did see him all dressed up? you were sure you were going to start pathetically bowing for him on your knees in front of all these people and end your social life forever.

finally, she came back and handed you a little pastry, you thanking her kindly and taking a small bite.

“wait no!” she gasped, turning her pastry around. “fuck, i got the wrong one. i meant to get the vanilla one this is coconut.”

“i can get it for you this time.” you smiled kindly, her looking at you gratefully as you patted her shoulder, making your way over to the dessert table.

your eyes lit up like stars at the sight of it, grand and luxurious as any kind of pastry you could ever possibly think of was present— neat and gourmet-like, each adorned with elegant toppings as multiple huge chocolate fountain stations ran from the sides.

“hi.”

you jumped and looked to your right, megumi standing there beside you with a bored expression, clad in a polished black button up and slacks, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

you gulped.

“h—hi.”

“i didn’t think you’d come.”

he lazily picked up a tiny slice of chocolate mousse cake and looked at it.

“i was dragged by my best friend,” you puffed out a laugh. “she said i was her and yuji’s plus one or something like that.”

he nodded, biting his cake slice and swallowing.

“you stopped coming inside the locker rooms.”

you faltered.

he noticed that?

“oh yeah! i just—” you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “i’ve been really busy with school so i study right after…”

for some reason megumi eyed you carefully, and your cheeks grew pinker the more he blatantly stared at you as you fidgeted.

“are you—”

“fushiguro!”

you both turned your heads to the source, and you spotted an unfamiliar guy, one who you assumed was on the team with them, smiling enthusiastically and throwing a heavy arm around megumi’s shoulder.

“who’s this? i’ve never seen you talk to anyone besides us!”

megumi only spared him a nonchalant glance before he looked back over at the dessert table.

the unknown man extended a hand out to you, and megumi’s eyes snapped to it.

“hi! i’m takuma!”

you cheerfully took his hand. “y/n!”

“are you megumi’s girlfriend?”

you gawked, guilt and embarrassment already filling your body at the thought of megumi finding that comment uncomfortable and being uncomfortable because of you.

at his own banquet.

“n—no!” you shook your head, eyebrows pinched. “i came with my best friend and yuji.”

takuma unhooked his arm and let it rest beside him. “oh nice! you know yuji as well?”

you nodded, “mhm!”

the rest of the crowd began to take their seats for the awards ceremony segment, and the three of you walked over to your designated table by yuji and your best friend, who’s eyes widened at the sight of you next to megumi.

you all sat, and takuma pointed to the empty seat next to you.

“is anyone sitting here?”

“oh no!” you smiled politely. “it’s empty you can—”

“take mine ino.”

megumi pulled out the chair next to you and plopped down on it, scooting up. “it’s closer to the front.”

huh?

“o—oh!” takuma scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “okay! thanks fushiguro.”

he only nodded in response and stuck his face in his champagne glass, sipping.

and he was right. you watched as takuma navigated through the circular tables before sitting in a seat that was right smack dab in the front.

“that’s really nice of you megumi!” you chirped. “he has such a good view now!”

“mhm.”

your best friend smacked a hand to her forehead with a shake of her head, and you looked at her quizzically.

the awards ceremony was the most fun you’ve ever had, as you were over the moon for all of the players that were awarded prestigious titles and recognitions, and even more excited for yuji and megumi, the both of them combined taking award after award that by the time the event was done, your table was filled to the brim with frames, medals, and trophies.

your doe eyes glowed over megumi’s earnings, pride and admiration bubbling in your chest as you took in the result of his hard work, feeling like he was the most talented person you ever had the privilege of knowing.

he stared at your enamored look.

“you’re so cool, gumi..” you gushed, not even noticing the little nickname you gave him.

but he did.

“cool baseball man?” he responded softly, referencing your words from when you first met.

your eyes snapped to his and you gave him the shiniest smile, nodding quickly. “yeah! cool baseball man.”

megumi looked down at his awards, and after a couple of seconds, picked up a shiny gold medal hung on a baby blue striped lanyard, holding it out for you.

“here.”

your eyes traveled down.

“what?”

“for you.” he pushed the medal forward.

shock crossed your face, and you frantically shook your head, pushing the medal back to him. “no! no megumi that’s yours you earned it—”

megumi rolled his eyes and held on to the edges of the lanyard, effortlessly setting it over your head and around your neck, the medal clinking and twinkling against your chest.

“i have four others. it’s fine.”

“no but—”

he carded his thumbs underneath your hair and gently slid your hair out from beneath the lanyard, setting it delicately over your bare shoulders.

yuji and your best friends jaws were on the floor, but you didn’t notice, too busy ogling over the fact that megumi fushiguro was the kindest person you had ever met, utterly amazed that he selflessly gave you something so precious. you.

your gaze trailed down to the medal, and you softly touched it with the pads of your fingers.

“t—thank you gumi…”

his lips twitched.

you realized then that the music had started and the crowd had already dispersed to celebrate, some dancing in the center while others mingled on the sidelines or hogged the dessert table.

and you spotted your best friend with yuji, the both of them smiling adoringly at each other, laughing and dancing— something bashfully wished for yourself as you grinned softly at them.

megumi followed your gaze, and he huffed an amused small laugh through his nose.

“they met at a party didn’t they?”

you looked to him and nodded, “uh huh! i was with her. she was so scared to talk to him and i literally had to throw her in.”

he scratched his cheek. “i remember. i was there.”

your jaw dropped. “you were?!”

he nodded. “and i remember you too.”

you sat there in silence.

how long had megumi been around in your life without you knowing? how didn’t you ever freaking notice?

before you could press any further, megumi squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers to his forehead in pain, groaning softly.

you jumped, “are you okay? what’s wrong?”

he shook his head. “migraine. the lights are fucking with me a little.”

“oh!” you frantically looked around the table and around him. “where are your sunglasses? the dark ones the ones you ran into a wall with!”

megumi snorted and shook his head again, eyes peeking at you a bit. “it’s fine. i left them at home.”

your eyebrows rose, “you left them?”

he nodded and dropped his hand, sitting up straight and trying to open his eyes fully to seem normal, but his lids only dropped again and his forehead fell to rest against the table.

“i’m sorry,” he mumbled. “just give me a minute.”

“don’t be sorry gumi…”

you figured the rest of the night was going to be like this, and if megumi stayed, he was going to end up dealing with the dull ache in his head for hours on end and not enjoy his banquet.

but you wanted him to enjoy it. this was his night, and you didn’t want him to spend it pissed off and writhing in pain.

“do you want to leave?”

he turned his head to the side and looked at you.

“we can um—” you fiddled with the medal around your neck. “we can go outside? or we can go for ice cream…”

you tilted your head to the side cutely, and you were oblivious to the way megumi’s cheeks went a little pink at the sight.

“ill pay though!” you smiled sweetly. “it’s the least i can do for the medal you gave me.”

he gave you an endearing half smile and nodded.

your eyes lit up. “really?! okay!— wait let me just say bye to my best friend and let her know—”

you quickly stood and walked over to the dance floor, megumi watching after you before picking up his black blazer and holding it underneath an arm, wondering how the fuck he was gonna pick up all of his awards himself.

“y/n!” your best friend gushed. “you’ve been talking to megumi for hours what the fuck is going on—”

you laughed. “nothing! it was nothing but i’m gonna go get ice cream with him!”

“what?!” her and yuji said in unison.

“did he ask you?” yuji pushed.

“no!” your eyes narrowed. “of course not i’m a big fat loser why would he? i invited him because he has a migraine so—”

your best friend hummed, a smirk on her face. “oh i see... use protection.”

“huh?!” your jaw dropped. “no! that’s not—”

“y/n!”

you turned and saw takuma walk over to you, a big smile on his face. “you enjoying the banquet?”

“oh yes! it’s really great!” you smiled kindly. “the dessert table is absolutely insane.”

“right?!” takuma stepped closer to you. “they go all out every year, it’s what everyone looks forward to.”

“i can definitely see why!”

he chuckled and nodded but then turned to you, speaking quieter. “listen um… i was wondering if you were uh— well if you wanted to dance? with me? y’know… maybe get to know each other better and then—”

yuji shoved his lips to your best friends ear.

“he’s stealing megumi’s girl.”

“i know!” she whispered harshly. “what the fuck do we do—”

“i don’t know!”

“well call megumi over—”

suddenly, a tall broad figure walked in between you and takuma, your vision blocked by his back.

“sorry ino,” megumi stepped to the side a little and placed a hand on the small of your back, ushering you towards the exit. “we were just leaving.”

yuji and your best friend gave each other a low high five before their eyes darted around, putting on false ignorance.

“sorry!— it was nice meeting you takuma!” you called from over your shoulder before the both of you stepped out of the venue and into the cool night air.

megumi’s car was parked right out front, him unlocking the doors with a button just like he had done the last time, you noticing how all of his awards were set neatly in the back seat.

“oh i’m sorry gumi! did you carry these over by yourself? i was gonna help you—”

you sat yourself on his passenger side seat, the leather creaking with every movement you made.

he shook his head. “i had my publicist team do it. it’s fine.”

“oh okay…” you mumbled, still feeling a little guilty that you didn’t help him.

you went to reach for your seatbelt when megumi’s arm flew in front of you and grabbed the strap, pulling it over your frame and clicking it securely before his hands wrapped back around the steering wheel, just like he had done a month prior.

you couldn’t make out his expression, as it was blank and stone-like and not a word was coming out of his mouth as he backed out from the parking space, but you smiled at him cutely nonetheless and thanked him.

the nearest ice cream shop was literally down the road from the venue, and the drive took less than three minutes before megumi pulled in and parallel parked on the side of the street.

you both stepped out and walked inside, the shop colorful and vibrant as what looked like twenty different assortments of ice cream were on display, your eyes launching across each flavor excitedly.

“i haven’t had ice cream in a fat minute…” you murmured as you pressed your hands against the glass.

“me neither.”

“which flavor do you want megumi?” you asked him sweetly, your eyes still glued to the flavors that it made him chuckle.

“um…” he stepped forward and scanned the different colors. “i’ll take whatever you get.”

you looked at him and your eyebrows softened, “are you sure? what if you don’t like it?”

the corner’s of his lips turned upward, the sight making your heart skip a beat.

“it’s okay. i trust you.”

you ended up getting your all time favorite flavor that you never skip— cake batter, one that tastes different depending on who’s palette it is, and something you anxiously thought over as you gnawed on your bottom lip and stared, waiting for him to try it as you both sat on a park bench not too far from the shop.

“why do you look like you’re about to cry.” he snickered lowly.

your eyes snapped to his and you giggled. “i might if you don’t like what i picked out.” you plopped a little spoonful in your mouth, the cold ice cream melting and spreading over your tongue as you swallowed. “cake batter is a hit or miss for different people…”

he hummed, “how come?”

“it’s either too sweet or just nasty.”

“i have a sweet tooth.”

your eyes lit up, “so do i! i’m a big sweets person. i love love desserts and chocolate and ice cream… but i’m not the biggest fan of candy.”

“you’re not?”

“i love candy but not how i love sweets… and i wouldn’t randomly pick it out like at the store because i wanted to. most likely i would get a cookie.”

megumi liked how much you talked.

“have you always had a sweet tooth?” he pressed on, looking at his ice cream cup.

you nodded. “have you?”

“not really,” he shook his head. “i didn’t pick it up until i met—” he stopped. “…my dad.”

met his dad?

megumi spotted your confusion and continued.

“my actual dad disappeared. dunno where he’s at. all i’ve heard is that he had a bad gambling addiction so i’m guessing it had something to do with that.”

your eyes softened.

“gojo is kind of like my dad…” he mumbled. “he’s supported my sister and i financially ever since i was maybe five or six.”

“you have a sister?” you murmured, eyes big.

he nodded. “i do.”

he scooped a bit of cake batter ice cream up with his spoon and plopped it into his mouth, smiling softly. “gojo gave me a sweet tooth. he can’t go a day without it.”

you’d never heard megumi open up so much before, and you felt incredibly lucky and special to be the one to hear about his family and share a precious moment with him over eating ice cream, something you wanted to treat delicately and remember for as long as you lived.

“do you like it?” you asked softly, gesturing to his cup.

“i love it.”

you beamed, and he took in your cute smile for a minute as you ate some more on your end.

“i’m sorry about your actual dad… but i’m glad you and your sister got the support you needed when you were young.”

he nodded.

“did he encourage you to do baseball? or was it you?”

“he did initially.” he shook his head. “he was annoying at first, was a cheerleader at every game and was so loud.”

you giggled.

“but i grew to like it… and that’s what i wanted to do for a career. if it wasn’t for gojo’s funding i wouldn’t have been able to.”

you hummed, savoring the ice cream a bit before swallowing. “that’s really nice, gumi. i’m really happy you got the opportunity to grow your skill out like that…” you swirled the ice cream around your cup with your spoon. “what you have is a solid gift, and i would hate to see it not get the recognition it deserves when you’ve worked so hard to make it what it is now.”

you looked at him. “so i’m really, really glad that it does get it.”

megumi stared at you, face blank and a scoop of yet to be eaten ice cream on his spoon, his cheeks growing hot.

“i don’t know why you think so highly of me.” he murmured.

everyone thinks he’s rude.

your eyebrows furrowed. “i don’t think megumi, i know. you’re not a mean person, you’re honest and serious about the important things in your life. and if the medal around my neck that you gave me selflessly doesn’t tell you otherwise? i might have to kill you.”

he laughed, loud, his eyes sparkling. “you might?”

you bit your lip to refrain yourself from freaking out over his smooth laughter. “i might.”

you subconsciously rubbed your hands over your chilling arms then and megumi eyed it before he put his cup down, reaching next to him for his blazer and opening it up as he gently placed it over your shoulders.

you looked at him like he was the world then, doe eyes big and round and shimmering, and megumi felt like he could do anything with that look as long as it came from you— a permanent red tint on his cheeks that was entirely your doing.

“thank you..” you mumbled shyly, your eyes glued to your now empty cup of ice cream on the bench as you clutched the sides of his blazer, the smell of him wafting in your nose that made you absolutely weak.

megumi timidly, slowly, reached up and moved a strand of hair from your eyes then, and you looked up.

“pretty…” he murmured, dazed even.

his hand fell and landed gently on your exposed thigh from the slit of your dress, but instead of moving it, he let it stay there, his hand smoothing over your plush soft skin as he was completely entranced by your heavenly face, his body pulling his lips closer to yours as megumi’s breath quickened with absolute need the higher up his hand trailed up your yummy thigh.

you couldn’t say a word, he practically didn’t let you as his lips pressed delicately and timidly against your plush ones, his mouth moving so slowly and his tongue parting your wet lips for the purpose of devouring more of you, all while his fingertips reached and felt the side straps of your panties— the material alone making him erratic and desperate while his other hand gripped your waist tightly.

your mouths moved faster now, the sounds of wet smacking and lips separating to reconnect with more greed than before muffling your ears as he breathed heavily through his nose, his eyebrows pinched together in pent up everything as he finally had you with him after months of you avoiding him.

and then you pulled away with a wet pop.

“i—i’m sorry!” you covered your mouth. “i didn’t mean to kiss you!—”

what?

megumi’s eyebrows furrowed, both of your chests heaving as his cheeks and lips were blushed red.

he shook his head, “no i kissed you—”

“don’t cover for me gumiii,” your shoulders slumped, your brain so in denial that he could ever like you back that it tricked you into thinking you were the one kissing and all over him. “fuck i’m sorry… that was so disrespectful and— and weird of me and i—”

megumi’s hands slipped away from your body and he shook his head, his eyes dead locked on yours with his eyebrows pinched together. “y/n no you’re not understanding—”

“i’m the biggest creep on the planet man i understand if you don’t ever want to speak to me again—” you covered your face and leaned forward.

megumi stared at you astonishingly as he listened to you ramble apologies and dramatic insults for yourself continuously, his shoulders slowly relaxing and his lips turning into a soft knowing smile, your random speech starting to make absolutely no sense at all and his heart aching at the fact of how naive you were.

“y/n.”

you stopped. “what.”

he reached over and pulled your hands away from your face. “you’re helpless, you know that?”

“helpless and a creep.”

he laughed and shook his head. “stop it.”

he stood and offered his hand out for you.

“it’s getting late, i’m driving you home.”

megumi decided he would properly speak to you about it the next time he saw you… except he didn’t.

you started avoiding him like the plague again, horrendously horrified about what you believed you had done, thinking that it was better if you stayed away from him and fulfilled your initial task of forgetting him, no matter how much it hurt you.

you didn’t want megumi to ever be uncomfortable or experience what you believed he experienced with you. he didn’t deserve that. he didn’t deserve a pathetic little fan girl that never left him alone and hindered his work on the field, even though you wished so badly you could see him again, as the taste of his lips and mouth never left your fuzzy mind.

you kissed megumi fushiguro.

“oh my god y/n, you’re so stupid.”

“no i’m not! do you really believe megumi could ever like me back? no! absolutely not. i kissed him and i fucked up and that’s it. i’m staying away from him.”

your best friend ran her fingers through her hair and almost tore a chunk out in frustration. “it sounds like he kissed you! he had his hand on your thigh—”

“that was for stability! he—”

“no it was to feel you up!”

you shook your head side to side with your arms crossed. “nope nope nope nope—”

“y/nnnn!”

as for megumi, the next game he had he looked for you while on the field like he always did, looking forward to seeing your precious face and giving you a little wave… except he couldn’t find you. after the game, he went around the stadium and towards the locker room, inside and back out, the parking lot, his parking lot—

and he couldn’t find you.

this went on for a full three weeks of game after game nearly every day him doing the same exact thing— him getting increasingly more confused and a bit upset at your disappearance, going as far as to staying hours after his games still in his sweaty baseball uniform and cap with hopes that you’ll turn up.

except you never did.

and at the end of the third week, he had had enough.

“oh hey megumi!” your best friend greeted him, her hand fixing around yuji’s hair in the locker room after a game.

“hi.”

he stood there and said nothing, and your best friend eyed him skeptically. “…yes?”

megumi shifted awkwardly. “have you um… have you seen y/n?”

she sucked in a breath. “uh yeah. i saw her this morning.”

“this morning?” his eyes narrowed. “is she okay? why hasn’t she been coming to our games with you?”

“because—” she stammered. “well because—”

“is it our place to say?” yuji muttered.

“is it our place to know?” she whispered back harshly.

“i don’t know!”

“let’s just tell him!”

“but what if!—”

megumi rolled his eyes and huffed. “nevermind. please tell her to come tomorrow, i need to talk to her.”

your best friend gulped and nodded, both her and yuji watching the way he walked away and snatched his cap off, throwing it inside his locker and slamming it shut with his foot before picking up his duffel bag and leaving, not even bothering to change out of his dirt covered uniform.

“i’ve never seen him so stressed,” yuji commented.

“it’s because he likes her and she’s being an idiot…” your best friend sighed sadly.

so when she came to you the next day and told you megumi needed to speak to you, she amplified how upset he was to get you to feel bad and feel the urgent need to come to the game tonight, which you of course did.

and you were worried. so so worried and scared that he was finally going to tell you off for kissing him, to tell you that you sucked and that he never ever wanted to see you again in his life and that you were a disgusting human being—

but the roar of the crowd pulled you from your thoughts, the team winning once again as many began to pack their things and take their leave. you were completely and utterly shitting yourself, petrified and already heartbroken over the fact that megumi was officially going to cut you off as a friend when you hadn’t even had the chance to try and win him over yet.

and the way he played on the field tonight was way more aggressive than normal. he was louder, meaner, and didn’t take his eyes away from the ball or his opponents as he nearly got into a fight with another player, yuji and a few others needing to pull megumi apart and set him aside to cool off— the cameras and reporters having a field day in regards to him.

and that bothered you like nothing else. why the hell were they so excited over him getting angry? to amplify the brand that he upholds as the teams meanest player? as if they’ve never had a bad day a day in their lives? what was the point?

and it was all because of you, you realized.

you made him upset.

you covered your face with your hands and groaned, feeling like you wanted to cry.

“y/n…” your best friend patted your back. “it’ll be fine… he just needs to talk to you! you don’t even know what it’s about.”

“i can take a wild guess.”

she looked at you worriedly before picking up her things. “whenever you’re ready babe… i think he’s in the locker rooms by now.”

she left you there to gather yourself, and you sat there for a couple of more minutes before finally getting up and making your way to the locker rooms.

most of the fans had cleared out by now, and the sun was beginning to set as you passed and squeezed through crew members and news reporters, gnawing at your bottom lip as you turned a corner and spotted the locker room, many of the players already leaving.

just as you had reached your hand up to open the door, a firm voice called out to you.

“y/n.”

you froze, retracting your hand as you turned to look.

megumi stood there at the end of the hall, his baseball uniform still on and his cap dangling from his belt loop, hands in tight fists with his chest rising and falling, an agitated look on his face that you had never seen before.

“h—hi-”

“are you trying to forget me? is that what’s going on?”

your eyebrows furrowed.

“what?”

megumi took stride full steps towards you. “you finally talk to me, you confess to me, you disappear for a month, i wait for you, you finally show up at the banquet looking like the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen in my fucking life—”

he stopped in front of you. “takuma tries to steal you from me, i get pissed off, i fall for you at the park, i kiss you—“ he threw his arms up. “and you disappear again!”

your eyes bulge out of their sockets.

fall?

“you what?—”

“so i’m asking you again,” megumi bent his knees to look at you at eye level, his hands coming up to cup your pink cheeks and his face so close to yours you can make out the exact color of his eyes.

“are you trying to forget me? like you said you would?”

you fidgeted.

“i— i was doing it for you—”

“why for me? i never said—”

the feeling of his big hands on your cheeks was making your heart do backflips and trick shots as your wide doe eyes looked at him.

“because when i kissed you i made you uncomfortable and i don’t ever want you to be so i thought it’d be best if i left you alone—”

“okay let’s fix that right now,” his hands tightened slightly around your cheeks and he readjusted his footing, knees still bent. “i kissed you. if anything i should be the one worried if i made you uncomfortable because i put my hand on your thigh like that and for that i’m sorry.”

“no but—”

“yes y/n. i kissed you because you’re polite and you’re sweet and you’re funny, and you don’t see me as rude like everybody else does. and even though you’re naive and helpless sometimes, i like that you are. i like you.”

“but you’re megumi fushiguro…” you squeaked.

“so?”

“and i’m a loser.”

he laughed so cutely and shook his head, his pearly whites fully shining at you so big that it took you back to the first time he smiled in front of you.

“no you’re not you big dummy.”

he let go of your cheeks and placed his palms flat against the brick wall behind you, cornering you in as he let his head hang low, the top of his spiky black hair the only thing in your line of vision.

“i don’t know how else i can make you see…”

he sounded so exhausted, and your heart clenched.

“was it—” you timidly placed your hands on his shoulders. “was it actually you that kissed me?”

he nodded, head still hung.

“and do you actually like me? like— like more than a friend…”

“way fucking more,” he mumbled.

you bit the inside of your cheek as you tried to contain yourself from screaming.

you couldn’t believe it. the megumi fushiguro, number eighteen, the most handsome man you’ve ever seen and the kindest one you’ve ever met… liked you.

“i could’ve sworn i kissed you..” you spoke softly, trailing off.

“you didn’t.” his voice was firm. “i kissed you and i put my hand up your thigh…” his forehead lifted to rest on the crook of your neck as he sighed a deep breath.

“i told— i told takuma to scram at the banquet because i got jealous that you were talking to him more than me. i saw you crying in the hall that first time we spoke and i recognized you and i went up to you because finally—”

he picked his head up slowly, eyes serious. “finally, you noticed me.”

he was so close that your nose brushed gently with his.

“you’re so dense y/n…”

megumi’s eyes flickered to your lips, “i’ve wanted you since the party.”

“the party?” you murmured.

he nodded. “the party where your friend first met yuji.”

your breath hitched as you felt his hands slide down the wall and snake over your hips, holding you tightly against him as the shock of his words made your body numb and tingly.

since the party?

it all seemed to click into place then, every single moment megumi tried to get you to look at him, to talk to him, in his own discreet way that you were completely oblivious to. and you were so fucking caught up in this fog of denial, that a person like megumi could never be interested in a person like you, that it made you push him away for the longest time without even giving yourself a chance.

you were so fucking stupid.

your arms slowly wrapped around his broad shoulders, the rough feeling of his baseball uniform underneath your fingertips and arms as you pressed your nose up against his shoulder shyly, feeling so incredibly bad for avoiding megumi for so long.

“i’m sorry…” you mumbled. “i’m sorry i was so oblivious gumi.”

you felt him shake his head from the crook of your neck silently, the vibration of his heart beating rapidly against you making you sweat and melt at the same time.

“don’t be.”

“i just—” you struggled. “i just thought you didn’t like me like i liked you and i wanted to respect your space…”

“i understand,” he muttered. “but i don’t want you to respect my space anymore.”

you held him tighter.

“and—” your voice was slightly muffled by his shoulder.

“hm?”

“i liked it when you put your hand on my thigh…”

megumi stilled, you playing the night he kissed you over and over in your head again like you’ve done since it happened— the thought making you nervous and timid.

he gripped you tighter.

“did you?”

you nodded, “mhm.”

megumi without parting from you, slipped a hand under your shirt and soothed his fingers over the bare skin of your torso, your breathing stuttering, his rough hand radiating warmth.

“what else do you like.”

you gripped the fabric of his uniform.

“i like… i like the way you kissed me. and how you touch me… like right now.”

your voice was so so soft, practically a whisper as he seemed to shiver under your words, wanting more.

“what else.”

“you,” you mumbled. “your body… your hair… your face… your hands… the way you talk to people.”

“you want me?” he murmured breathlessly.

“more than anything.”

“what else do you like?”

you leaned your head back a little and pressed your lips to his ear. “the way you play ball.”

he hummed, “you like the way i play baby?”

you nodded, your heart hammering.

he lifted his face from the crook of your neck and shamelessly pressed his lips to your cheek, murmuring.

“you wanna see what else i can do?”

“what— what else?”

megumi’s face remained pressed against your cheek as he let both of his hands now snake underneath your shirt and upwards, slowly but roughly groping the cup of your tits over your bra, feeling you up as you gasped.

“uh huh..” he pressed an open mouthed wet kiss to your pink fuzzy cheek. “‘cause i can do a lot more than just be your cool baseball man.”

he roughly spun you around and pushed you up against the wall, his hands coming back up to your breasts to grope you as he shoved and rubbed his hardened clothed dick against your perky ass, your tiny skirt riding up and revealing your pretty pink panties that made him absolutely feral.

“gumi!” you gasped. “s—someone could see—”

“i don’t fucking care.”

megumi buried his nose further into the back of your neck and your hair, him being a little pervert in the most delicious and intoxicating way possible.

he dragged his mouth up against your skin and latched on to the nape of your neck, sucking and biting sloppily against it as he marked you aggressively, no doubt in your mind that a purple bruise would follow soon after as his hands slipped under your bra now, pinching your hard nipples meanly and laughing when you jumped.

you moaned and whined against the wall, your body trembling as you felt your slick arousal slip from your hole and dampen your panties, choked up embarrassment coating your face as he shoved his fingers down your skirt without warning.

“you’re soaked baby…” he whispered. “and all because i grabbed your tits?”

“megumiii…” you whined, and you squeaked as he quickly slipped his fingers in between your pussy lips and pinched your clit.

“gumi,” he corrected. “fix it.”

“g—gumi—”

“good, pretty baby...” he praised, his dick rock fucking solid against your ass at the way his fingers slipped and slid in between your lower lips without much effort, both of your chests heaving and panting as your brains frazzled erotically.

the sounds of footsteps echoed from the end of the hall and you both immediately froze, a gasp slipping past your lips before megumi quickly covered your mouth with the same hand that was just fingering you.

“shh.” he kissed the back of your head.

if anyone were to walk in and see the sight before them— megumi with his crotch pressed up against your ass, a hand pushing your top and bra up, squeezing your bare puffy tit and the other covering your mouth?

they’d drop dead.

without another moment wasted, megumi uncovered your mouth and turned you around, his tongue darting out and licking the patch of wet on your cheek from his fingers before shoving them in his mouth, sucking up your left over juice as he bent down and wrapped his arms around your legs, lifting and throwing you over his shoulder.

megumi was freaky.

your eyes widened as he walked to the double doors of the locker room and kicked it open with his foot, turning around to lock them shut before walking to a corner and setting you down gently on a bench, his palms flat beside you on the smooth wood as he towered over you.

“is— is everybody gone?”

“long gone.” he nibbled at your cheek.

“but— but what if someone wants to come in?—”

he pulled away and got down on his knees. “i’ll tell them to fuck off.”

you panted as he pressed his hands against your thighs and squeezed, spreading them apart slowly with his eyes trained to your drenched cute pink panties.

he slid his hands underneath your thighs and lifted, bending you and pressing your knees closer to you as your back hit the lockers behind you, your hands gripping the bench for dear life.

“has anyone ever seen your pussy?” he gruffed, licking his lips.

you shook your head, embarrassed. “n—no.”

“has any other man touched you the way i’ve touched you?”

“m—maybe in high school?—”

megumi sunk his teeth into your inner thigh and bit you as you yelped.

“thought you liked me.”

“i do!” you sputtered.

“clearly not if you’re being a little whore and letting other filthy men on you.”

your hole clenched.

“that— that was before you!”

he stuck his tongue out and pressed it flat against your pussy covered panties, dragging it slowly and agonizingly up until the tip of his tongue passed and flicked up against your clit, the tip moving around and around your little nub as your thighs shook.

“doesn’t matter.” he let a string of drool fall from the corner of his lips and over your ruined underwear, your eyes fluttering as you felt his warm saliva ooze in between your lips.

“and what about takuma, hm?”

you tried to open your eyes. “ta—takuma?”

“mhm. he was all over you.”

you hiccuped as he wrapped his fingers around the straps of your panties and pulled them down.

“i—”

“bet he wanted to do to you what i’m doing right now…” he hummed. “would you have let him?”

he stuffed his nose into your bare pussy and inhaled deeply, your jaw dropping as you squeezed your eyes shut.

your lack of response caused him to pull away and bite your thigh again, harder.

“would you?”

“n—no!” you shook your head quickly, strands of your hair lightly grazing your face. “i wouldn’t—”

“so who then?” he licked over his bite mark. “who would you spread your legs open for like this and let them see what a nasty fucking girl you are…”

“you gumi!” you hiccuped. “just you—”

“just me?”

megumi finally let his tongue slither itself in between your folds, slowly running over your flaps and clit as your hole continued to squelch out your arousal, pooling on the bench beneath you.

“y—yes!”

he slobbered and spit over your pussy like a starved dog, his face glistening like sugary glazed sweets.

“that’s what i fucking thought,” he hummed. “you gonna try and forget me again?”

“no!” you shook your head. “never! i can’t!”

he gripped your thighs tighter as he absolutely violated your folds then, wet sloshing and slurpings filling the air as he spat and shook his head side to side rapidly on your clit, you squealing and attempting to snap your thighs shut in response, his strong grip not letting you even if you tried.

“i—i can’t!” you cried. “gumi slow please it’s too much—”

“be a pretty baby and stop complaining.” he ran his slimy tongue over your pussy entirely before shoving it inside your hole.

you choked and clasped a trembling hand over your mouth, tears of ecstasy spilling from the corners of your eyes as you squeezed them shut.

you whimpered and moaned and cried so pathetically, so cutely in his ears that he grinned as he pumped his tongue in and out of you filthily.

“you’re so fucking sweet—” he slapped your cunt and you jumped. “good thing i have a sweet tooth.”

your legs shook violently as you began to see stars, your tight hole clenching and sputtering around nothing as you felt your release approaching.

“gumi—” your hand flew back to the bench and you gripped it. “m’gonna cum! i’m— i’m gonna make a mess—”

megumi’s hand shot up and wrapped around one of your thighs so the tips of his fingers met your clit, his digits proceeding to rub and flick it as you climbed and reached your high, a high pitched scream echoing through the steamy locker room as your pussy leaked your sweet cum on his tongue.

you shuddered and jumped at the way he cleaned up your release and swallowed it, running his tongue soothingly over the bite marks on your thighs before coming back up and wiping his glistening face with his sleeve.

megumi leaned in and pressed a gentle loving kiss to your lips, a complete turn around from the feral beast you had in between your legs— you kissing him back with just as much feel and affection.

he pulled back and got back up on his feet, you watching him ditzy as he jogged over to his locker and turned the lock until it clicked open, him rummaging inside for a little before he shut it and came back with a fresh pair of gray sweatpants.

“put these on baby,” he murmured.

you nodded sweetly and took them from him, you slipping off your skirt and pulling his sweatpants over as you watched him bend and look over corners.

“what are you looking for?” you asked softly.

he perked up then and stuck his hand under a bench, pulling out your wet ruined pink panties and holding them up high like a trophy.

“oh my god—” you covered your mouth in embarrassment. “give me those!”

“nope.” he shook his head and walked over to his duffel bag on the floor, unzipping it before stuffing your panties inside. “these are mine now.”

megumi came back up and wrapped his palm underneath your chin, tilting your face up softly before planting a sweet kiss to your swollen lips.

“and so are you.”

and that you were.

you went on many many dates with megumi after that, each and every single one so incredibly lovely and fun, a genuine connection you felt with him and each other that you had never ever felt before in your life, absolutely enamored by the way he gently treated you and made you feel like the only one that mattered in his life.

your best friend was obviously over the moon for you, squealing like a maniac at everything you told her, and always teased megumi about his lovesick face whenever you came to his games or appeared in the locker room to help him change, sort his clothes, or fix his hair.

“megumi…” she snickered. “your cheeks are a little red! are you like— sick?”

he scowled at her and turned the other way, wiping his sweaty forehead as he watched you bounce down the steps cutely and onto the field after one of his practices, a huge smile on your face that replicated on his.

the minute you jumped into his arms, he peppered your little cheeks with kisses as you giggled and ruffled his spiky hair, asking him how he felt about practice and other things after he set you down.

without anyone noticing, a journalist was on the field, and at the sight of megumi fushiguro’s beaming toothy smile as he watched you run to him, they quickly snapped a photo and published it.

one was a perfect portrait photo of his shining white smile (that later became his signature picture) and the other was a photo of his arms out for you as you ran, the both of them causing an absolute uproar that altered megumi’s image from that day forward.

megumi fushiguro was thought to be the meanest player on the team since the day he got signed.

but when he started taking more pictures with fans, kind of stopped offending the people around him, signed more autographs, and smiled occasionally at the paparazzi— all while your pretty self stood right next to him?

megumi fushiguro was sometimes the meanest player on the team.

---

one more time.

contents. 6.031k words (gave up on proof reading i'm sorry-), second chance romance, hurt to comfort, author + psychologist reader, swearing, nsfw (not smut just mentions), getting drunk, one nightmare, abandonment issues, kaiser’s terrible with people, it takes a while for kaiser to appear

part two to this

a/n. i guess you could read this as a stand alone, but a lot of the details won't make as much sense (like they'd have a lot more relevance and meaning if you've read part 1). and you're being referred to by your first name by your nephew for the sake of keeping it gn

"y/n?"

Your nephew's question brings some of your attention towards him, with the rest focusing on the road. Rain droplets raced along the windows, and he must've gotten bored of guessing which one was the fastest. 

"Yeah? What's up?"

"When are you getting married?"

The innocent yet so significant question made you choke on your own spit. It was unexpected for a child to not gag at the idea of intimacy and love, let alone one questioning your marital status.

"Why are you asking something like that?" You carefully dodge the question, given that you have little to no experience with any sort of romance, the closest to love was an eternity ago. Despite graduating from college already, nothing about that had changed.

"Well." He begins explaining himself. "Mama and papa met each other in high school, they got married when they were younger than you." Unlike you, your sibling had a quite successful love life, already married and with a child. The fact that they were even high school sweethearts seemed to only accentuate your sorrowful envy.

"Your parents were lucky. Not everyone gets to meet the person they love forever in high school. Even if they do not everyone ends up marrying them." It was a difficult approach. You wanted him to fully understand the possible outcomes of love but didn't want him to avoid it entirely. "Love is dumb luck. Sadly, not everyone ends up loving someone who loves them back."

"Hmm." He sounds like he's deep in thought, which also surprised you given that he was still young and oblivious to these sorts of discussions. "Were you unlucky? Is that why you're not married?"

The query stung a bit. Not necessarily because it hurt to be reminded of him, but because it wasn't mere misfortune. It was ultimately up to him to act that way. 

"Hmm, I guess. Your father got all the luck I suppose." You chuckle, an attempt to conceal that your heart was begging for some sort of closure, even after all this time. 

"But that's not fair."

A sigh leaves your lips as you continue. "It isn't. But that's just life."

"What happened to them? Did they not like you?"

"They did at one point. I think. It was pretty obvious but after I liked them back, they became a bad person" It felt so weird. You've bottled up all the memories and emotions, sealing them away from the world, yet with this tiny child you've decided to open up. It's odd, but not uncomfortable.

"They're dumb." 

"You can't say that. It's not their fault for not liking me-"

"But you're amazing. You always spend time with me since Mama and Papa are too busy to. You bring back yummy snacks and tell the best stories. You even teach me so many new things. You're the best person ever." 

Although misery from the past had been reawakened and nurtured at the topic of the conversation, his kindness seemed to combat that, you can't help but grin.

"I'm glad you appreciate that."

"You deserve better!" 

That makes your breath hitch up, a weird, indescribable sensation accumulates in your chest, and for the first time in a while your eyes begin to prickle. 

You blink away the sensation. Three, simple words uttered by a literal child, yet it seems to affect you so much to the point you're moved to tears. 

Because no one ever told you that.

No accusations of you being delusional and crazy. No sort of discomfort inflicted through others attempting to make it public. 

It was what you've been waiting to hear for so long.

"Thanks bud. Keep this a secret from everyone else, yeah?" You come to a stop at a red light, turning towards him with a grateful smile.

He mimes zipping his lips. "Of course!"

"I know everyone's asking about me getting married, but it won't happen."

"Why?"

"Because." Because you feel undeserving of it. Because you're terrified of being abandoned like that again. Because you're simply just scared. "Because it just won't. I'd rather focus on making sure you and your parents are happy."

"Am I supposed to do that when I'm older?"

"Maybe not to my level. Make sure you treasure your family, but your lover too." Now that piece of advice makes you wonder what it'd be like if you got lucky.

"I don't want to get married even if I'm lucky. I want to be cool like you and take care of family too."

"Then do that. But don't close off your heart completely. Your dad didn’t think of love when he was a kid, look at him now. But it's completely okay if you don't love anyone." Obviously, you'd support him no matter what, but a part of you desperately wished that he'd be lucky enough to never experience what you did.

He nods but changes the topic. "What about you? You seemed happy when you talked about that person. A different kind of happy."

What was that supposed to mean?

"It's just nostalgia."

"That's a hard word. What does it mean?"

"You'll learn when you're older. Promise." And with that you dodge the topic of love, adjusting the conversation to one about the new Doraemon episode he watched the other day.

"Holy shit Ness look at how good they are at this."

"Fucking useless."

"Please help me with trig, I'm begging you. Really? Thank you so much."

"That's such a bitch move. Class average was so low, yet they're still scared of showing their high B. Fucking pussy."

"I love you."

Fuck. 

Another nightmare. It's only a mess of his words, both the good and the bad; followed by overwhelming dread and fear swallowing you. A wave of relentless cold engulfing you and drowning you in the depths of torment.

The dream leaves you drenched in sweat and panting. It doesn't fucking make sense. It's been years, you were only kids and now you're an adult. Yet it still leaves you so affected. You don't even clearly remember what he looked like. Only the cerulean orbs and the blonde wolf cut. 

Most people brush off any sort of heartbreak in high school as trivial and temporary, yet yours has clung onto your heart so persistently, that it still constantly haunts you. 

Nothing's working. Attempting to date others only accentuated your paranoia and abandonment issues. Trying to open up to trusted ones caused the words to get stuck in your throat, to the point it feels suffocating. You even wrote an entire book about it; sure, it was effective in expressing yourself and it was a huge hit and profitable, but something deep down still hurts. 

You keep trying and trying, heart craving for closure. But the only way you'd satisfy that miserable desire is through meeting him.

Only you know that so damn well.

Maybe that's why you keep fiercely trying. It's your own way of hopelessly trying to escape him.

But it's futile. It's so draining.

It doesn't matter though. It should stop soon. It's such a stupid thing to be sad over. You're successful, a now bestselling author known for your beauteous expression of love and hurt, while still working as a psychologist. You've achieved something majority of people couldn't do, and you're seeing the fruits of diligence and hard work. But it still hurts.

You do your best to shrug off this sense of dread, focusing on what's important. 

"Thank you for today!"

Your nephew wore his signature grin, one that was adorable and so full of joy. It was almost impossible to not smile back at him. 

With the commencement of school holiday, you decided to take him to a nearby soccer match, France vs Germany. You didn't know anything about soccer, but he loves the sport, constantly practicing and rambling about Julian Loki (a.k.a. his favourite player of all time) You got extremely lucky, if it weren't for Yoichi and his connections to the JFA you wouldn't've been able to surprise your nephew. Yoichi wasn't prepared to see you constantly thank him ("You're my closest friend, your nephew's a good kid too. Lemme coach him some day!"). He even managed to get you three VIP seats.

"Yocchan, how do I win more? I want to shoot the most goals in my team!"

You passively listen to Yoichi's advice for your nephew, as you can't understand or contribute to the conversation much. It's impressive how people play with this many people watching. The whole stadium was flooded with people, except for the VIP section but that was purely due to how expensive it was. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to France vs Germany!" The commentator booms, earning a cheer from everyone. You expected it to be loud, but not to the point you think your eardrums would burst. 

The event went on normally. Player names were read out, with an energetic screech from your nephew when it was Loki's turn. At this point in time, you were pretty laid back, given that you recognized no one.

"Aaaaand Germany's ace and forward, Michael Kaiser!"

You froze. 

Michael Kaiser, the Michael Kaiser from back then? 

Finally, you have a vivid image of what he looks like. His blonde hair was partially dyed blue, the pretty shade slowly fading out, and navy roses decorated his neck. Red eyeliner adorned his almost feline like eyes. He looks almost unrecognizable yet he's still the boy who had a crush on you. 

Suddenly, VIP seats weren't so tempting anymore. Suddenly, you want to drag yourself out of there and ask Yoichi to supervise your nephew.

But he still looks beautiful.

"I hate that bitch." Same Yoichi, same, you silently agree with him. "He's insufferable and a fucking prick."

"Language." Although you'd agree with him, it was a bit too early for your nephew to start speaking like Yoichi (though you wouldn’t mind him learning how to verbally defend himself from Yoichi).

It's only 90 minutes. There's over 20,000 people. Kaiser won't notice. Besides, high school was years ago. He's a professional player and seemingly a famous one, he would've met plenty of players and coaches, too many to even remember your existence.

You suck up your fear, the three of you cheering on Loki.

"Do you think I can be like Loki?"

The game concluded, and to your nephew's joy with France's win, 3 - 2. To be honest, you were still clueless about the sport, but you could at least tell Loki lived up to his name, rapidly scoring and leaving his opponents in the dust.

"Of course, you could be better than him!" You appreciate Isagi's support but that probably wasn't the right thing to say in an environment full of soccer fans. Nor the smartest.

"I'm going to head to the bathroom, I'll meet you outside." You hurry away, ready to get out of the stadium.

You were being too paranoid earlier, obviously nothing would happen. To a national athlete like him, someone he hurt all the way back in high school, someone who he entirely ignored for a few years too.

"Fucking found you."

As if the universe was transpiring against you once more, you're dragged into some unknown corridor, a hand silencing you.

It's him.

Michael Kaiser, now a full-grown adult. His high school popularity bloomed into real world fame and glory now. While your success had sprouted from seeds of hurt. 

Now you're pressed up against a wall by him again. This time with his arms having an iron grip on your shoulders, roughly pushing you against the wall.

You can't help but reflect on last time something like this happened. But instead of childish affection it’s aggressive and rough, with his aquamarine eyes clouded with something unreadable. That wasn't particularly new, but what changed was that the foreign but hostile glint flickering in them.

All Kaiser does is stare, hair messy from the match and breathing unstable.

You don't say anything either, you can't even think properly, let alone find the right words to say.

"I've waited for this for so fucking long. You're too distracting."

His arms wrap around you, tightly, as if his life depended on it.

You can't move. Your body won't let you. It's not like you were petrified with fear. It was more so all the conflict of emotions. You weren't sure if you wanted to reciprocate the hug, scream for help, or spit in his face and swear at him.

"Kaiser... Please let go."

He abides, partially, changing back to his original position of holding you against the wall.

"No."

"Please?”

" You always fight back when you're uncomfortable." He wasn't wrong, you didn't exactly hate being in his proximity. You hated how he treated you, and how he's suddenly here again.

"You don’t mind this, right?”

Despite his words, his releases you, allowing you to run away whenever.

But you don't.

Because even though it'd be smarter to run away and never see him again, the tiny hope within you is still pleading for closure, and Kaiser himself.

"Kaiser, I can't, my nephew-"

"Is with Yoichi." Kaiser brings his face a lot closer to yours. "If you wanted to run away, you would've already."

Both of you remain silent, as your cheeks heat up at his touch and presence. His hands reach towards your face to caress your cheeks, the roughness of his calloused hands contrasting your soft skin. Annoyingly, you whimper at the unfamiliar sensation. It earns a cocky smirk from him.

"Cute, you really haven't changed."

"I don’t want to see you."

"Why? We both know you would've already kicked and slapped me if you really hated me."

"Because" Because he scarred you beyond words. "Because you hurt me. A lot." Your voice cracks up at the end, he's the one person you didn't want to be vulnerable around, both before and after heartbreak. 

For the first time in forever, there's something vaguely readable in his eyes. Was that regret? Sorrow? Guilt? Empathy, even?

"I know, I could tell-"

"Then why did you do it?"

You've given up on sounding stoic, evident anger was displayed in your voice.

"I tried everything, dating other people. Yet you still haunt me to this day." Years of accumulated feelings were finally released. "Just when I finally figured out, I liked you, you fucking did that then, and then." The rest is cut off by him.

"... You liked me back...?" There's a significant shift in his tone, from cocky and confident to vulnerable and shocked. "You, liked me...?"

"Of course I fucking did Michael." A quiet gasp leaves his lips at the sound of you finally using his first name again. "You were so sweet and was always there no matter what, until you decided to hate me for no reason."

"No, I've never hated you-"

"Just stop lying. Please. First you lie about loving me and now-"

He swallows the rest of your words with a kiss, denying your claim. The kiss gives you butterflies, your cheeks heat up even more and his lips taste you and him; sweet and irresistible.

When he's done his face is flushed as well, lips swollen. His chest rises up and down, he seems more flustered from the kiss rather than the actual match itself.

It's back to the uncomfortable silence, his hands gripping your shoulders tight and various emotions clouding your mind and heart. 

Without a word, Kaiser just leaves. 

The action evokes a nostalgic yet dreaded emotion, it's just like how he initiates whatever he wants without considering anyone else. 

You swallow your hurt, leaving the hallway and finding Yoichi and your nephew.

You don't lie to your loved ones. You’d rather die than deceive your nephew or your best friend Yoichi. But tonight, was an exception. 

It's not like you wanted to make Yoichi baby sit your nephew ("Sorry, work suddenly called me in), but you were too hurt to spend time with anyone.

The bar's loud, all the noise drowns out your thoughts, as you're up to the nth bottle of alcohol, no one was keeping track.

It's out of character for you to drink so much, but the state of being disconnected from the world, not having to deal with any worries was irresistible. 

"You're drinking a lot." A stranger seated next to you comments, you don't bother questioning who they were.

"I desherve it." You slur out, evidently flat out wasted. "I hate men! Especially the German ones." A few glares were probably received after you said that.

"Why's that?" Their calm tone juxtaposed your upset and livid one. 

"Because, because, this bitch leaves me heartbroken for years, appears out of nowhere, kisses me and." You're cut off by a hiccup. "Disappears again! I, I-" You're a complete mess, hiccupping while chugging down alcohol, and now sobbing with tears messing up your expression. 

The stranger doesn't respond, taking a quick sip from his own glass.

"Did you know," You begin explaining, despite them not asking. "I did so much. I never wanted to date much but I tried to so I could forget him. I even went to a party, and I'm scared of those. Heck, I wrote a whole ass book! At least I can monetize my pain."

"You must hate this guy."

"Beyond words, he's the reason why I think everyone will leave me, but I still feel like I have some kind of hope. If you want to know more, you should read my book." Now you were self-promoting, but the alcohol diminishes your shame. At this point it wouldn't be surprising if people were concerned about how much you've drank. "There's no point of a stupid psychology honours degree if I can't fix myself."

All they do is chuckle, still calm. "I'll read it, and I'm sure he likes you back if he kissed you. There's nothing about you to fix." 

You burst into laughter; you sound borderline manic. "That's what I thought after he said he loved me." Another glass, swallowed down by you with ease.

"After all, there's no way the Michael Kaiser would actually love me."

The next morning you wake up, with a splitting headache and swollen eyes. 

You try to get up and get started with the day, but the lights are so blinding, only amplifying the splitting headache. 

How much did you drink? 

Now you start remembering last night, the (probably) unhealthy amount you drank, your inconsolable bawling and that mysterious yet kind stranger. Your immediate reaction is to grab your pillow with plans of screaming into it, out of embarrassment, praying that you'll never meet that person again and that they'll forget who you are.

Wait.

Since when were your pillow cases white? 

And where did your bookcase go? What about the drawings from your nephew and childhood you cherished and decorated your room with? And what happened to your clothes, since when did you own white robes?

Shit.

"Finally awake?"

Your eyes have finally adjusted to the light, and blinding white melts into something, no, someone.

Kaiser. 

He's seated at the end of the bed, white robe matches yours, with his exposing his toned and muscular chest, and the navy roses blooming on his neck.

What the hell happened. 

It's as if your fight or flight response was triggered, and your brain decided on flight with full confidence, you scurry backwards, avoiding him like the plague.

"Did we-?" The new and completely different outfit and waking up in his bed were obvious hints.

He blinks. 

There's no fucking way. 

"Did you at least use protection? If I get fucking chlamydia because of you, I'll ki-" 

Kaiser laughs. So hard that it sounds like he can barely breathe.

"I didn't say we slept together. The y/n who never understood anything remotely sexual, instantly assuming we went that far." He composes himself, "No, we did not fuck. You were too drunk to consent."

"Then..." Your hands grip at the robe.

"Nothing happened. All I did was give you that to change into"

Alright, now you've confirmed that you don't need to get tested for any STDs or STIs.

"Goodbye then, where's my stuff?" As you try to get up, his hand holds you and your shoulder down, denying your question.

"Don't run away."

It's so ironic for him to tell you that when he stopped talking to you, avoided you, and even went as far as treating you badly. Anyone would want to run away if their first love who had scarred them emotionally randomly reappeared in their lives. 

You remind yourself to remain rational, to stay calm and respond maturely, to deescalate the cascading sentiments overwhelming your heart, like a proper, polite, and perceptive adult. 

But you don't want to be an adult. Not when it feels exactly like your high school years, ones where you had stayed up late just to innocently fawn over Michael Kaiser. Only for your heart to be a toy, one that he had thrown away and ruined merely because he had enough of playing with it.

You're a scared teenager alone in your room again, fearful of everything, heart closed off to the point not even you could fully comprehend what it was feeling. 

You just want to run, to run away from all your problems until they'd give up hunting you down, until they found other prey to pursue, until you could live at peace with your scars.

When people mention 'confronting your fears', most would imagine someone fearless and undisturbed, someone who knows what they're doing. Yet you completely contrast that curated image, a troubled individual who wants to return to how they were before their irremediable suffering.

"Don't give me that crap. You're the one who fucking did that to me."

He's the one who decided to poison you with the suffocating fear of abandonment.

"You never cared for me in any way, why should I bother listening to you now?"

To break your heart was one thing. To do it out of nowhere without explanation after years of captivating affection was another.

Kaiser remains silent, expression still stoic. 

"I hate you." 

That's what you've told and convinced yourself for so many years, yet something inside of you refused to fall for your self-inflicted dishonestly. The part that miserably prayed that Michael Kaiser would one day go back to the boy who was head over heels for you.

You've managed to forget this torment for years, but all he's doing is ruining it, making it even more difficult to get over him and the indescribable hole in your heart.

But now, it doesn't seem like you're the only hurt one.

By the end of your speech, you're panting, despite only staying still in bed. You still have so much more to say, but you're already in disbelief that you've finally expressed the hardships plaguing you, and to the reason for said burdens.

"Why'd you hurt me?" And it finally happens. Tears. Ones that had hid from the world, cowering at the thought of another witnessing this pathetic vulnerability. “Everything would be so much easier if you never appeared again, but you had to randomly appear again to kiss me, only leave again.” 

He finally speaks. Voice equally soft and weak as yours. “I know I did. And I know it wasn’t right. But I never wanted to, I never wanted you to hate me or end up hurt. I’ve always wanted the opposite.” Kaiser shuffles closer, hand inching closer towards yours, not daring enough to hold onto it. 

He inhales, deeply, as if this whole ordeal had an emotional toll on him too.

“I didn’t avoid you because I hated you, or wanted you to get hurt. I wasn’t trying to play with your emotions either. I was young and foolish.” For the first time, he’s readable, evident sorrow painting his features. Right now, he was a complete juxtaposition of his image on the field, assertive and lionhearted to now frightened and uncertain.

He’s not done yet. “I’ve always liked you, from the day we started talking. I wanted to love you properly, to take you out on nice dates and to be a boyfriend no one could ever compare to. I was just… scared.” The Michael Kaiser admitting to fear was something new. “Scared of ending up as a disappointing lover or you never reciprocating. I ran away yesterday because I was a coward. But I don’t want to stay as one. I refuse to."

Kaiser continues. “It feels unreal, the idea of you liking me back when you’re so perfect. You’ve always been mature, diligent, and hardworking, your future seemed so bright with how academically proficient you were. At the time I was so unsure of myself and felt so inferior, it doesn’t justify anything I’ve done but I wanted to rather hurt instead of being hurt.”

“You, think I’m perfect…?” It’s such an innocent question. The praise seemed to melt away the resentment accumulated within your heart, and momentarily you forget wanting to leave.

“Of course, I do.” There’s still the same vulnerability in his expression, but this time it’s complemented with a soft smile. “I mean, look at you. You always got the top marks, and you’ve achieved a dream of entering the psychology field. I still love what you wrote about PSTD.”

How did he know that?

“I never mentioned my job.” He still remembers that one piece you wrote, a task that your English teacher had given. You were allowed to write anything you wanted to, and that was the birth of that PTSD essay, which Kaiser had found impressive for the level of detail it had.

“Your books state it.”

And how does he know about those too? You used a pen name for privacy and to avoid any attention to your personal life and loved ones.

“I never mentioned being an author.”

“You certainly did last night. I quote ‘you should read my book’.”

Wait.

A wave of realization crashed over you, the poor individual you complained to about Michael Kaiser was Michael Kaiser himself. Now the memories are flooding in, the declarations of hate, the miserable murmuring, and your stupidly embarrassing behaviour.

But even after recalling all the events and details of that night, you don’t remember providing a title and your pen name. It’s a complete secret, not even Yoichi or your own family know.

“I didn’t tell you the novel name though?”

Kaiser’s now grinning, but there’s still the soft feel to demeanor. “I’m a bit of a fan. ‘Where the Sea and the Horizon Meet’ is my favourite." It’s the book you wrote about him.

“But how did you know I wrote it?” Anyone can write about their tragic first love and the bitter yet beautiful saccharinity it entails. Your pen name didn’t allude to your legal one in any manner, and you dismissed any questions that interviews that attempted to intrude into your personal life.

“Because I instantly knew it was about you, about us. I’d never forget that day, right before English. When wanted to tell you I loved you since it was so pretty that day. I missed bothering you. I missed you.”

He actually remembered?

All this time you had assumed it was a memory that had been sitting at the back of his mind, only to be forgotten so easily after a couple of years.

You don’t say anything. It’s so confusing and overwhelming, the person who hurt you did it out of the fear of hurt, yet still missed you.

“You didn’t forget?”

“No. You were the first and only person I’ve ever loved.”

First… and only too?

You hadn’t shown any signs of auditory hallucinations recently, right?

Even though he himself just said it, it’s still a fever dream to you, unreal and fictitious.

Did you hear that right? You’re the first and only person he’s ever loved; all those touching memories were real, that heartfelt proclamation of love wasn’t fake.

Despite Kaiser’s confession to being in love with you, there was the tiny part of you that was still convinced that you were dreaming; that none of was real.

Because someone who completely destroyed you so long ago shouldn’t be able to waltz back in so easily.

Yet every part of you is begging for him to come back.

You haven’t said anything for a while, only lost in the storm of thoughts while trying to navigate the seas of your emotions.

“Same.” You whisper, you wish you had said something more than a simple agreement, but it’s all you can muster. And it’s true. No one else had been that loving with you. “I don’t hate you. I hate the pain I felt.” You take back your claim, and he looks like he’s received the best news of his life, relief washing over his features.

“I know, which is why, I would never do again. That’s if, if you’re willing to give me another chance.” He finally has the courage to hold your hand with his own, fingers ghosting over your knuckles. “I want to love you. Again. This time properly, and until I learn how to do perfectly.”

There’s an undeniable fear of you have of vulnerability and love, yet the offer is so tempting.

Is the risk really worth it?

You’ve always depended on logic and rationality to make decisions, and here, it’s clear that trusting someone who hurt you isn’t a smart idea. It’s common sense, but something about him makes you want to oppose your usual ideals; to get hurt over and over again until something works, to finally break down the walls you’ve miserably built, and to expose your heavily guarded heart.

“I love you y/n.”

It doesn’t the possess the same grandeur it did that day, years ago, but it still conveyed the same passion, laced with his true feelings for you.

Only this time, you say it back.

“I love you too… Michael.”

“Am I allowed to kiss you again?”

You permit his request, pressing your lips against his, and it tastes just as saccharine and tempting, but this time it’s now garnished with satisfaction.

“Congratulations on your wedding, Kaiser!”

A smile tugs at his lips as his teammates congratulate him, well pleased with how the event had been turning out so far. His parents were overjoyed about you and the occasion, and everything was running smoothly.

It’s been around three years since you had given him another chance.

You looked flawless, the outfit you chose complemented all your tones (though he’d argue that any colour and shade would’ve looked beautiful on you).

Kaiser couldn’t find the right words to describe how euphoric he felt. The closest to this happiest he’s ever gotten was when you accepted his proposal.

He's relieved and buzzing with a sense of pride. Not the typical, cocky kind, but the kind of proud where he’d be able to happily tell his younger self about all of this, that it all works out in the end, that he eventually makes up for his actions; that he ends up marrying his long time crush.

Everyone was happy, at least, except for one person.

“I can’t fucking believe you’d date and marry this man.”

Kaiser snickers at Yoichi, someone who he’s been competing against constantly and has been his rival for years but is also your best friend.

“I swear, he’s not that bad. But I understand if you’re disappointed.”

 “Excuse me, I’m the perfect boyfriend and husband.”

“Oi, did you hear something? Must’ve been a fly. Didn’t expect any here.” Michael’s jaw drops at being ignored by Yoichi.

“Shit, I’ve forgotten the bug repellent, my bad. My mother might’ve brought some.” Michael lets out an exaggerated gasp at the betrayal.

“You guys are so mean.” You and Yoichi grin at his faux pout.

“Well,” Yoichi begins to slip away. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone; I’m going to go say hi to Kunigami and Hiori again. Kaiser I’ll kill you if you ever hurt y/n.” He waves a small bye to you before running off.

“Someone seems to trust you a lot.”

“I- “Before Michael can try to defend himself and respond with a witty comment, your nephew interrupts, with his parents following from behind.

“y/n! Congratulations!” He comes running towards you with a bouquet, so big that it was almost the size of him, it’s a miracle how he’s able to carry it. You quickly accept, hoping that it wasn’t a hassle for him to bring it.

“Thank you. How’d you carry these? They’re too big for you.”

“He insisted.” Your bother replies to you, his wife nodding. “He said he wanted to be the ones to give them.”

A hand playfully ruffles his hair. “Thanks bud.” Even after years he still has the same kindness and enthusiasm.

“We’re going to say hi to everyone, are you coming?”

“Can I talk to Michael and y/n more?” They nod, reminding him to be polite and greet everyone afterwards.

“I can’t believe you’re dating the Michael Kaiser though.” Kaiser stands with pride at your nephew’s disbelief, about to make a confident statement until your nephew continues. “You better behave properly, you clown.”

Again, Michael’s jaw drops and the sight has you biting your lip to avoid laughing uncontrollably. Your nephew runs off to his parents, saying that he wants to see his grandparents.

“Since when did he talk like Yoichi?” He nudges you, still shocked at being called a clown again. “He even waited for his parents to go. And he ran off immediately. ”

“No idea, but I like it.”

“Of course, you do…” He takes a few moments to stare at you, dazed by your beauty and seemingly in a trance. “You’re stunning.”

“What’s with that suddenly?”

“It’s not sudden, you’ve always been cute. And pretty. And just perfect in general.”

“Someone’s cheesy.” But your smile is out of control.

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“Giving me a second chance.” The morning you woke up in his hotel room comes to mind, and although you were conflicted on whether to let him back into your life again or not, you don’t regret anything.

“Liebling, I’m truly forever grateful for it.” His hand takes yours, planting a kiss on your knuckles.

Because it’s been amazing with him. From the small yet sweet things like how he'd pay attention to literally everything about you, and remember every time detail about you to his grand proposal by the beach, the one that was located near your high school, the one outside of the window when he first declared he loved you. You adored it all; the connection you and him had that no one else would ever understand, to how the sun sunk into the sea, breathtakingly beautiful. Even the aftermath of arguments because he always refused to deal with them immaturely, knowing the consequences of not doing things right better than anyone else. The mere thought of you crying could bring him down to his knees.

Now, if someone were to ask you about Kaiser you'd end up stumped, thinking of all his actions of love, from always defending you no matter what, even if it's him against the world and the media, to how he constantly teases you (he never shuts up about how you assumed you had slept with him when you woke up in his hotel room.) He's your everything, your boyfriend, lover, your own proof reader and soon to be husband.

Now, you'd describe him as your favourite, someone you adore beyond what words could capture, not even your experience as an author could ever change that.

“I love you, so so much. I would die for you Liebe.” Kaiser eagerly kisses you, and no matter how many times he does you never get sick of how he tasted, or how soft and tender they were.

“I love you too Mihya.” You breathe out, crimson dusted all over your face as you’re panting in between words.

He really wasn’t lying when he said wanted to love you properly.

© kitorin : do not repost, plagiarize, change, or translate

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thinking about how your husband changes drastically when he’s had just a little too much to drink. his faint, whiny hiccups would escape his quivering lips, filling your ears with his intoxication as he leans against you. he reaches out to play with your hair, gently tugging at the strands and trailing undirected kisses along them as you bite your lip to suppress your giggles. he then brings his unsteady hands to your face, squishing your cheeks before pulling you closer, looking at you with glossy eyes—small hearts seemingly etched into his pupils.

"i wish y-you hic were mineee...."

"pftt—" you burst into a fit of laughter at his uncharacteristic neediness—you’ve always enjoyed it when he'd get drunk. after all, they say a drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts. so, although he loves you an awful lot, he would never admit, while whining, how much he actually wants you. 

"i am yours though, sweetheart," you reassure him softly.

“oh, really? you are?” he raises his brows questionably, “well, that's good... i couldn't bear the thought of some other loser having you all to himself."

unbeknownst to him, however, is that you had recorded him during his moment of vulnerability. he was absolutely embarrassed and ashamed of himself when he had sobered up.

—

"y/n. delete that."

itoshi rin, kaiser, MIKAGE REO, barou, XIAO, kaveh, alhaitham, wriothesley, neuvillette, CHILDE, geto, megumi, BLADE, dan heng, dr ratio, aventurine, scaramouche

© 2024 bluelockmaniac — do not repost, copy, translate, modify, etc my work on any platform !

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. . . ⇢ 「 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐞!𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 」

a gojo x reader au where you're both roommates ! ☆

⊹ link to the roomie!gojo tag  ´ˎ˗   

⋆ fics *ೃ༄ 𖥸 ─ ❝𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝. . .❞ [nsfw] 𖥸 ─ ❝𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐬-𝐨𝐧𝐞. . .❞ [coming soon]

⋆ drabbles/asks/etc. *ೃ༄ ⊹ he goes with you everywhere + extra ⊹ wearing his clothes ⊹ you both go clubbing ⊹ accidentally stripping in front of him ⊹ you/him slipping in the bathroom ⊹ how you both became roommates ⊹ bathing each other (non-sexual nudity) ⊹ his love languages ⊹ karaoke night ⊹ when you can't sleep ⊹ (accidental) first kisses + extra ⊹ apartment visuals ⊹ petty arguments ⊹ some of his favorite foods

+ more headcanons/discussions are all tagged :3

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