I Should Base My Yuji Fic Off Of "Out Like A Light" By Ricky Montgomery Tbh

i should base my Yuji fic off of "Out like a Light" By Ricky Montgomery tbh

GIRL BE PROUD, THIS WAS GORGEOUS ALLAHUMA BARIK

·:¨༺ the secret language of flowers .

i - seed. masterlist. next>>

word count : 8K pairing : autistic!megumi fushiguro x audhd!reader content : as a burnt out uni student, you finally get your dream job in a quaint bookstore - and find out your strangely reserved classmate works in the florist opposite you. note : header art by @hinamie used with permission. this one's for the nd girlies - i see u 💞. taglist open!

“‘mayhaps the blossom will demand of its lover: what is our love in the face of marching time, except that we deteriorate side by side?’”

you look at maki expectantly.

“so?” maki says. the rickety reception desk groans alarmingly under her weight as she leans forward on her elbows. sunlight streams thickly through the window behind her, catching glimmers of dust and glinting off your hardcover collection’s stenciled lettering, before gently skimming the dark green of her short-cropped hair.

“so, it’s morbid - not romantic, as it’s advertised. and sayerd always writes overly flowery, too - all purple prose and no substance.”

“and what do you want me to do about that? you’re the literature major. bring it up with your professor or something.” maki yawns, and stretches her arms above her in a remarkably feline manner. “i think you just hate that sayerd talks about inconsistency. entropy. things ending.”

“joy is ephemeral and happiness is a construct,” you sigh dramatically.

maki rolls her eyes and pushes away from the desk to prowl around the small shop, trailing her fingers along the covers of books lining the cramped shelves. “you think too hard about these things, babe. live in the moment. enjoy life while it lasts.”

“the fact that it isn’t going to last is what makes enjoyment impossible.”

“you’re impossible. drop the literature major and try for philosophy instead.”

you sigh, leaning back in your chair. “with all the trouble this unit is giving me, i just might. i’m sick of this whole back and forth…”

maki’s voice reaches you from behind a row of shelves. “i thought they let you switch tutorial times? when you told them it was because of your new job?”

“i did get switched, from the week after next - to wednesday afternoons.”

“oh, your one day off… that’s too bad. you should work in the restaurant with me - and yuta, too - it’s not terrible.”

you snort. “i’m not giving up my dream job to third-wheel.”

“yuta and i are not a couple.”

“which is what makes it even more unbearable! if you actually got together i wouldn’t have to put up with half as much… yearning.”

you snicker to yourself as maki splutters wildly, rendered incoherent by her indignation. in your opinion, the fervid nature of maki’s denial is enough proof alone for her feelings towards yuta okkotsu; maki wholeheartedly disagrees. the conversation derails from there, ending in maki playfully slamming the door on her way out as she abandons you to face the rest of your shift alone.

with the energy and passion that maki brings, there’s always a feeling of dust settling when she leaves - an exhalation of sorts. it tends to intensify when you’re actually in a dusty bookstore. 

you glance at your phone; there’s two hours before you can go home. you’ll be lucky to get a single customer in that time. for the rest of the shift, it’s just going to be you and your thoughts. you lean back in your chair and follow one glinting dust mote after another, tracking their slow dances until they disappear into shadow. 

this is my dream job, you remind yourself, but the silence that usually wraps around you like a blanket feels oppressive rather than comforting, and the cosiness of the bookshop is suddenly suffocating. you’d never expected that the solace of being alone with your thoughts would ever feel… well, lonely.

this is what i want. isn’t it? the mantra doesn’t fit quite right, doesn’t entirely disguise the restlessness you usually set aside. you drop your head in your hands, suddenly overwhelmed. sure, this is anyone’s dream job - working in a cute secondhand bookstore with all its messy charm and untidy piles and rows of tenderly loved books elegantly showing their signs of age - but you’ve never been able to enjoy the experience. 

there’s a rhythm engraved into you like a second heartbeat: where next? where next? where next? you’re certainly not paid enough to comfortably support yourself in the long-term, not when you only come in on saturdays and thursday afternoons. you can’t stay here forever. what’s the point of being here now, then? why not leave?

why are you never content?

‘live in the moment,’ maki had said. but when you look around, all you can see are all the things you should have done, and everything you need to do to fix it. restack the books you knocked down yesterday. turn in the assignment you’ve gotten an extension for, when you’re only two weeks into the semester. call your mother and try, yet again, to forgive her. try to go back in time and change things; carry your regret forward with you. fix your life - your life that’s barely even started.

when did existing become so impossible?

one step at a time. it’s the only way you can face tomorrow.

you clear your desk space and bring out your laptop and notebook, laying out your stationery in a neat row beside it. you might as well use the time to study; two weeks into the semester, and you already feel like you’re falling behind.

your melancholy mood lasts the entire weekend. you’d probably have been a nuisance to hang around, if anyone was there to interact with you in the first place, but having only one close friend comes with a toll; maki had gone to visit her sister and won’t be back until later in the month.

you struggle through the third week of the semester, turning in your quizzes five minutes before their deadlines and skipping a few lectures in favour of lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. you fall asleep during thursday’s evening shift at the bookstore. on friday, halfway to your mandatory lab after finishing one of your workshops, you stop in the middle of the footpath and let the flow of harried students part around you like a jagged stone in a river. i can’t do this, you realise. even though you’ve got another class afterwards you turn around and head straight towards the bus terminal. it’s like the fatigue has settled into your bones; your head lolls against the window of the express bus as you stare blankly at the landscape blurring past, in a daze so deep you barely manage to rouse yourself when the speakers announce the stop to the university’s student accommodations. your saturday morning shift at the bookstore is entirely uneventful, and sunday is ruined by a needling phone call from your mother.

you haven’t had time to process the last week let alone heal from it, and the new week is already upon you.

now that the tutorial for your literary studies unit has been moved to wednesdays, you’re forced to drag yourself on campus every day. it’s not the commute that’s the problem; you’re living in student accommodation, so you’re pretty close by. but more than ever, you’re acutely aware of how little time you have to yourself. what’s most frustrating is how carefully you planned your classes to make sure you came in as few days as possible, only to have your entire timetable thrown into chaos with a single rearrangement. not only that, but wednesday feels like a write-off to you; your only class is the tutorial from 3-5 pm, and you’re going to be too tired when you get back to do any substantial work. you genuinely cannot think of how your situation could get any worse.

the fifth or sixth time a student passes you in a hurry, throwing you an uneasy glance, you realise you’ve been scowling at nothing and endeavour to smooth out your brow.

“god, i’m losing it,” you mutter to yourself as you enter the elevator, which elicits a laugh from the man who comes in after you, a skateboard tucked under his arm.

“aren’t we all?” he says lightly, pressing the button for level 3 as the doors slide shut. it’s at that moment you realise you’ve entirely neglected to properly situate where your new classroom is.

“do you happen to know where g31 is? i got moved to a different room…”

“g31?” he takes off his beanie and rakes his hand through his messy brown hair. “if i’m not mistaken, that should be on level two. right from the elevators and around the corner, past the student printers… somewhere around there, i think. one of my classrooms last year was g29, so…”

you thank him gratefully as the elevator shudders to a halt. beyond walking with maki to her undergraduate engineering workshops, you’ve rarely frequented level two, but you’re sure it won’t be too difficult to find your way around.

“level: one,” the automated voice announces coolly, and a handful more people enter, crowding you to the back. in the midst of the commotion, the skateboard guy is nice enough to press the button to level 2 for you since you’re unable to reach it yourself.

“good luck!” he calls as you exit onto the second floor, and you catch a glimpse of him throwing you a double thumbs up with an enthusiastic smile before the elevator doors slide shut.

“g31,” you murmur. you swivel in your spot to orient yourself then strike out in a random direction, fully confident in your navigation skills. five minutes later finds you right back where you started and immeasurably confused. level two is decidedly different from the rest of the building in both layout and student traffic; at this time of day, it’s nearly empty, and therefore devoid of anyone you can ask for assistance. you’ve got your map out, and you can see the little blue circle that tells you where you are, and the classroom named ‘g31’- but understanding how to get from point a to point b is beyond you.

g31 turns out to be behind a sliding glass door on the other side of the building that opens up to a larger space. you’re seven minutes late and at first glance, the small classroom looks completely full, the round tables completely occupied. your tutor is a well-dressed man with his dark-blonde hair neatly parted; he looks like the type of instructor who cares very much about punctuality, and that thought alone is enough to make you want to turn back. you would, if the room’s walls weren’t made of glass, meaning that you’ve already made eye contact with a few students inside as you’ve been standing here. you grit your teeth and pull the door open and march to the middle of the room, scanning for an empty spot and trying not to look overly desperate, counselling yourself towards confidence. the tutor, thankfully, hasn’t deigned to glance in your direction as he turns to the whiteboard and begins to write.

the empty seat closest to you is next to a young, sleazy-looking man with his long silver hair bound down his back. something about him and the way he’s grinning at you makes you distinctly uncomfortable, even though there’s nothing obviously malicious about him. but if there’s one thing you’ve learned, it’s to trust your gut instinct. so you cross the room as fast as possible and drop into the second free chair, swinging your bag onto the ground next to you and pulling your laptop out. you’re so engrossed in settling yourself as swiftly as possible that you accidentally knock your elbow into the person next to you as you pull out your drink bottle.

“damn, sorry,” you say, turning your head, and then you’re staring into the most beautiful emerald eyes you’ve seen in your life, some shade of rich forest green with a depth and purity to them you didn’t think was humanly possible. well - you’re staring into his eyes; the dark-haired man next to you is looking past you rather than at you, as if you’re beneath his notice, and his face is entirely expressionless. your natural instinct is to feel a level of affront; he hasn’t even bothered with any sort of reply or reassurance to your apology, and instead has already turned his attention back to the pipe cleaners he’s twisting into strange shapes with his slender fingers. but at that moment you can’t help but notice his eyelashes, thick and slightly curled at the ends, and you realise the extent to which you’ll forgive beautiful people of their social blunders.

the tutor calls your attention back to where it should have been in the first place, and you do your best to follow along and take notes. the readings for this week are based around ‘frankenstein’ by mary shelley; professor nanami is approaching it from an interesting perspective of morality, particularly the concept of repugnance and the role it plays in defining a person’s values. he’s an engaging tutor, logical and precise but quietly supportive, nudging each person along as they map out their point of view to best help them communicate their own arguments. unlike your other tutors, he also leaves ample time for discussion and debate within the smaller table groups, gently prompting deeper thinking as he walks around the room.

it’s made even clearer to you that the people on your table have known each other for three weeks already; they share a rapport that has them easily bouncing off each other, joking with each other in witty asides. it’s less that you’re intimidated by them and more that you’re simply unable to match the pace of the conversation. you have plenty of thoughts to contribute, but by the time you’ve managed to articulate them, the conversation’s already moved on. miwa, a cheery girl with her hair dyed a delicious shade of blue, is sweet enough in her own way; she makes basic attempts to include you, but todo’s booming voice easily dominates the conversation, overriding whatever you were trying to verbalise, and more often than not he steers it completely off topic. kamo is the only one who seems to have genuine contributions which he periodically adds in pointed interjections.

unsurprisingly, their easy chemistry doesn’t extend to the dark-haired man on your right. you’d wager your initial impression was a neat summary of everything you need to know about him. the space in front of him is empty; no laptop, no drink bottle, nothing to indicate he’s taking notes of any kind - in fact, nothing to indicate he’s paying attention at all. as far as you’re aware, he hasn’t said a word; his entire focus seems dedicated towards the pipe cleaners in his hands. during a ten-minute break halfway through your session, he doesn’t deign to stretch his legs or get a drink of water as other students have done; instead, he’s pulled his headphones on with the sound up so loud you can, if you concentrate, make out ‘island in the sun’ by weezer on repeat. what with his easy dismissal of any attempts to draw him into conversation and his inscrutable expression, he makes you feel more than a little off balance, but you’re determined to set it out of your mind.

todo sits back to take a breath after finishing a dreary monologue about some idol called takada, and you eagerly jump on the break in conversation.

“we’ve almost got enough points for each side of the argument.” your marker hovers over the neat list you’ve drawn up on the whiteboard table. “was there anything you wanted to add, uh…?”

you glance at the green-eyed man, but before he has a chance to respond, todo’s leaning over the table and slapping a large hand onto his shoulder.

“don’t mind megumi, he rarely has much to contribute,” todo says genially.

megumi shrugs off todo’s hand with unmistakable irritation. “frickin’ stop that.”

todo only leans back into his seat, grinning widely. you glance between them, struggling to interpret the undercurrents of this interaction. miwa looks faintly uneasy at todo’s behaviour but resigned to her silence; clearly, it’s not the first time the two have clashed. kamo is scowling, but you’re not sure who his affront is directed towards.

megumi’s hands are twisting the pipe cleaners with fervour, in jarring, sharp movements. nothing in his face shows any sign of distress, but the speed with which his left leg is twitching - up and down and up and down - reeks of agitation. you’re reading and rereading your group’s measly list to no avail; the constant movement in your peripheral vision has got you on edge and completely unable to concentrate.

“we’re missing an argument against repugnance,” you manage. you’re not addressing anyone in particular, but even so, you’re surprised when megumi speaks up.

“i think i have one.” he enunciates with a quiet clarity, and something in the rhythm of his voice is strangely compelling. “i found it interesting that though frankenstein’s - creature - was initially characterised as kind and intelligent, it was nonetheless ostracised due to its appearance, which is an entirely superficial judgment - and reflects how those who don’t conform to inane societal norms often face unjust rejection. it’s argued that this is the role of repugnance; because the people in the novel naturally felt inclined to shun him, this must be morally correct, or at least it should act as a basis for a moral guide. i don’t believe repugnance should guide ethics; rather, it disrupts morality by fueling prejudice.” 

he pauses to gather his thoughts for a moment; you stay completely still, as if fearing the slightest movement will disrupt his flow of thinking. “prejudice comes from fear of the unknown; fear of the unknown stems from ignorance. true ethics should not be based on something so fragile as a lack of understanding in the natural differences between mankind.”

there’s a stunned silence. todo’s blinking rapidly, looking as if every word has flown over his head. you glance down at what you’ve managed to write down: ‘repugnance = prejudice’. it doesn’t nearly capture the quiet intensity or the depth of reasoning that megumi delivered his argument with.

“wow, megumi,” miwa says finally, with a nervous smile. “that was really… well, i didn’t expect - i mean, coming from you…”

she falls silent, realising a little too late that she’s dealt irrevocable damage to the situation. the air almost seems to solidify around you all.

“coming from me?” megumi says. there’s a strange cadence to his tone, a well-paved rhythm borne from an emotion you’re struggling to identify.

“i only meant that it was nice to hear you participate,” miwa says quickly.

“was it?” he says icily.

“that’s not what i—”

“ah, megumi, don’t make our miwa upset,” todo says easily, throwing his arm around the back of miwa’s chair. he glances around the table, meeting all of your eyes individually and nodding sagely as if you’re all in on some kind of joke. “look at her; she’s all pale.”

you’re not entirely sure what you’re witnessing, but it’s clear it’s not leading to anything good. you clear your throat and attempt to steer the conversation to safer territory. “let’s get back to—”

“if you have a problem, just say it,” megumi snaps, eyes ablaze.

todo raises his hands pseudo-placatingly. “we all just thought it was nice to finally hear your voice.”

it’s patronising, the way he says it, and he somehow manages to make his tone an insult, even though his words are superficially kind. you’re not privy to the significance of his words, but you can see it in miwa’s sharp intake of breath, and in how kamo rests his chin in his hands, eyes trained on megumi with keen amusement. 

you follow his movement and turn to megumi, only to find he’s completely retreated - face blank, eyes shuttered -  in a way you can’t put words to but you know all too well yourself, because you’re fairly sure that’s how you look when you go nonverbal. his hands are still, clenched into tight fists, half-twisted pieces of pipe cleaner caught between his fingers. at the weight of your gaze he seems to come back to himself and begins to sweep up the pipe cleaners and dump them in his pocket. you only realise what he’s doing once he stands up, swings his bag over his shoulder, and leaves the room without another word. 

you’ve more than had enough. “what the hell was that about, todo?”

“alright, sweetheart, take a breath. i’ll admit it looks bad, but - you weren’t here for the past few weeks.” 

there’s that strange significance again, as if you’re supposed to instantly discern his meaning from the gaps between his words - like if he sketches around it enough, you’ll grasp the outline. 

“just—” you start, but miwa breaks in.

“you know what we’re talking about,” she implores, looking at you with pleading blue eyes. “megumi’s just… i mean. you know.”

“weird,” todo supplies. “he rarely talks - not in person, not in the group chat either. and i wouldn’t care if it wasn’t for the participation grade we need from everyone for the project. but telling him that in week two was probably the biggest mistake i’ve made because he finally opened his mouth a bit.” he laughs bitterly; there’s the unmistakable ring of truth in his voice. “and megumi has this special talent where he manages to make everything a competition: pointing out the tiniest mistakes, nitpicking at everything, and generally not giving anyone a moment’s peace, as if every small slip up needs to be thrown into the spotlight. i tell him no one gives a damn, or that he’s being a jerk, and then he gets as upset as if he wasn’t the one mimicking miwa under his breath for the past five minutes, and he’ll refuse to talk for another hour. or he’ll just up and leave, all high and mighty like he’s the one who was wronged.”

kamo slides neatly into the gap in conversation. “you can hardly blame us; it’s very tiring to interact with that sort of person. it’s irritating and unnecessarily patronising, and overall adds no benefit whatsoever.”

“i think we can agree that not every conversation should be to prove a point,” miwa adds. “and… i guess that’s why todo said what he said, because that was honestly the first time megumi’s come out with something… thoughtful.”

doubts assail you. your classmates don’t look like they’re lying, but then again, a lot of what they’ve said is up to interpretation; you’d know that better than another, being autistic yourself, though you very much ignore that part of your diagnosis - adhd feels a lot more socially acceptable. you could bring that up now, but unlike megumi, you’re good enough at masking that most people don’t instantly pick up on your neurodivergence - and you’d like to keep it that way.

you’re saved from making a choice either way as your tutor drifts over to your table, brows pulled together in concern.

“everything okay here?”

todo gives him a double thumbs up. “one hundred percent-o. we were just talking about… how repugnance equals prejudice,” he reads off the table with shocking confidence.

“was megumi okay? i noticed he left the class.”

you cut in before todo can open his stupid mouth again. “not really.”

“yeah,” says todo easily, “he got overwhelmed and headed out.”

professor nanami’s sharp gaze sweeps over the table; a sudden certainty grips you that he’s aware of more than he’s letting on. but he says nothing, just nods slowly and moves on to the next group. you’re left sitting there feeling sick to your stomach. maybe you should've spoken up, but what could you have possibly said?

the rest of the tutorial crawls agonisingly on, and it’s a relief when you emerge into the amber sunlight. you’ve never seen the bus terminal this busy; then again, you’ve rarely stayed on campus until five pm. the bus to the off-campus student accommodations has already pulled up by the time you reach the stop, so you have to struggle through thick knots of people to reach the doors. it’s fairly crowded, but you manage to settle into a spare seat near the back with your bag in your lap. it’s only when the bus shudders to life and pulls into the main road that you look up and realise megumi’s sitting in the aisle across from you, headphones around his neck, thick locks of dark hair falling into his emerald eyes that are near-glowing in the golden light. your eyes follow his side profile - the sharp angle of his jaw, the curve of his cheek, the slope of his nose - before you wrench your gaze away, realising you’re staring. he’s in conversation with a pink-haired boy next to him - or perhaps more accurately, he’s mostly doing the listening, but he seems more attentive than you’ve ever seen him.

you end up hanging out with maki on friday after all. you explore the sports sector of campus, a side of the university you’ve rarely been to, and sit on the empty bleachers, leaning against each other and swinging your legs as she vents her frustration about her complicated family drama. it’s awful enough that you buy her boba on the way back, and she lets you try her newfound favourite brand of ramen in return.

your thursday and saturday shifts at the bookstore go by as usual, except rather than catching up with your growing piles of assignments, you opt to binge a new anime instead, bringing along some snacks for the fun of it. on saturday you only have to pause your show twice; once for a customer and the second time for your coworker inumaki, who'd left a jumper here last night. he salutes and signs a sarcastic have fun as he leaves.

as expected, come monday you’re sorely regretting your decision. only the thought of seeing megumi again on wednesday gets you through the start of your fifth week of the semester - though you utterly refuse to consider the significance of your newfound enthusiasm.

wednesday 3 pm rolls around speedily enough, and for the first time you turn up early to a tutorial. you steal a few different coloured markers from the still-empty tables around you and doodle patterns onto the whiteboard surface as you wait for the rest of your table members to appear. kamo arrives first, swinging his bag over his shoulder wordlessly and dropping into his seat, giving you nothing more than a nod; miwa follows shortly after with a decidedly warmer welcome for you - a smile and wave, and a query on how your week has been so far. and finally - finally megumi walks in, two minutes before the scheduled start time, head bowed over his phone.

“hey, megumi,” you say cheerily as he takes the seat next to you.

given the happenings of last week, you’re not exactly expecting a reply, so you’re surprised when he responds - albeit a beat late.

“hey.”

his response is brusque and preoccupied as he pushes his bag out of the way under the table, but it’s better than nothing. progress.

the positive: it doesn’t look like todo’s showing up today; your prayers have been answered. the negative: professor nanami has fallen ill. your replacement is a tutor who teaches the same class at another time, and god. professor higuruma has a lot of knowledge, but an undisputable tendency to lecture where professor nanami used to discuss. the other students seem engaged enough but it’s simply too much for your adhd brain to handle. you spend most of the time switching between your coloured markers, creating swirling patterns and mandalas and the occasional fictional character before erasing them to start afresh. sometimes doodling helps you concentrate, but today you’re not even bothering to catch a word of what the professor’s saying. you can just read the slides later, anyway.

it’s near the end of class when you’ve switched to doodling flowers that you notice megumi’s eyes on you - or, more accurately, on your handiwork. you expect him to lose interest after a few minutes but his gaze is surprisingly unrelenting, tracking the sweep of your marker with unerring accuracy. you put up with it for a while, but after some time your hand falters. you’ve always hated when people watch you do something; it's a great recipe for overthinking.

“i don’t even know what i’m drawing,” you mutter half to yourself, hoping to shift a bit of his attention.

“the petal shape is similar to a hibiscus.”

“what?”

he’s staring directly at you, and you notice there’s flecks of blue in his eyes, too, alongside the emerald. blue like the deep richness of a cloudless sky on a summer's day.

“i said, the petal shape is similar to a hibiscus.”

“oh?”

“you said you didn’t know what you were drawing.”

“oh. thank you.” you glance down at your scribbles and assume he’s most likely correct - not that you know anything about flowers in the first place, so you're just going to have to trust his opinion.

you look up again, intent on continuing the conversation, but he’s already turned away like he never spoke.

you refrain from messaging maki about your interaction; for once, you’re not quite sure you want her opinion. you're sure to get some variant of, “he's always like that; he hyperfixates on flowers; you're really not special.”

instead, you try to put megumi out of your mind and spend the rest of the week locking in, as you like to say. to your surprise, you manage to get a few assignments out of the way. it’s not enough to let you relax, but at least you feel like you’re not spiralling anymore. you also make the decision to change your saturday shifts to just past midday rather than early mornings, which certainly helps to put you in the mental space to study. usually once you’d finished a morning shift, it'd felt like the day was practically over.

so it’s during golden hour as you’re locking up the bookstore and stepping out that you happen to look up and catch a glimpse of megumi fushiguro as he disappears into the open door of the florist across the road. 

what?

i shouldn’t. i really shouldn’t, you tell yourself as you cross the street and come to an ill-timed stop outside the florist’s. it’s a quaint shop, small but tasteful, with the gold lettering of its name curling against a pastel blue. but what takes your breath away are the flower arrangements on display in the window. it’s like the world slows down around you. at first glance, you can't explain what makes the bouquets so entirely compelling; there doesn't seem to be a logical answer. you're no expert, but you've never seen these specific species paired together in such a way. but as you continue to inspect them, jaw slack, a pattern slowly emerges, more based on vibe than anything tangible. there’s a raw beauty to them, a planned chaos rather than the mechanical arrangements you’ve gotten so used to seeing. colour, shape, height, texture, size - all play an indescribable role. 

it’s beautiful.

“hi! can i help you with anything?”

you startle wildly, stumbling backwards a little. as you gain back control over your rapid heartbeat (and the rest of your body), you’re certain that voice is strangely familiar. and sure enough, the pink-haired boy from the bus is smiling at you from one of the shelves near the entrance, an apron hanging loosely off his frame, holding what looks to be a pot of soil in his gloved hands.

“sorry, i didn’t mean to scare you,” he says apologetically.

“i thought florists would only sell bouquets,” is somehow the first thing out of your mouth, to your utmost horror. the peculiarity of the situation has thrown your brain off-balance enough for your major functions to bypass a lot of your necessary filters.

he’s a little taken aback, but to his credit he answers readily enough. “i don’t really know how other florists work, but we do bouquets and potted plants as well. were you looking for something in particular?”

“no, no, that’s okay, i was just - i thought i saw someone i know come in here…”

you’re aware that you’ve started to wring your hands together like a distressed countrywoman and force yourself to stop. you’re no stranger to having bad ideas, but you’re sure this one is breaking some sort of record.

“someone you know?”

“yeah, uh… megumi?”

his brow furrows. “megumi? as in… megumi?”

“well, i assume so.”

you stare at each other for a moment.

“uh, maybe i was mistaken—”

“how do you know megumi?” he says at the same time. something has changed; he’s shifted imperceptibly to fill the doorway and his hands have tensed around the pot. you’re not sure why he’s suddenly perceiving you as a threat and push down the urge to step backwards.

“from uni?”

the boy assesses you; you shift nervously on your feet, feeling the need to elaborate.

“he’s in my literature tutorial - wednesdays at three - we’re in the same group for the project…”

“oh. i see. megumi’s most likely in the back, then.” his shoulders drop, tension leaking from his body. “here, i’ll show you through. i’m yuji, by the way.” 

you give him your name as you follow him through the narrow doorway into the small store. the first thing that hits you is the layered scent; you have an urge to bottle it up. you stop for a moment simply to breathe it in.

the layout is simple but eyecatching: simple round tables are covered in pots of flowers in a beautiful array of colours. larger, leafier plants are nestled on the floor around them in rich greens. there are smaller plants hanging from the ceiling in those aesthetic baskets you’ve always loved. but your eyes are most drawn to the bouquets lining the shelves against the walls, instantly recognisable as the work of the same person who made the bouquets on display - probably megumi. you recognise his touch in the song by weezer playing softly in the background, though you’re not sure of its name.

“sorry if i was a bit - you know,” yuji says, depositing his pot on a table as he walks past and peeling off his gloves. “pushy. it’s just not every day people come around asking for megumi, and when they do, it’s rarely something good.”

“that’s happened before?”

“yeah,” he says grimly as you follow him through a door behind the counter. “you know how megumi is - always manages to get on people’s bad side. right, megu?”

you find yourself in a cramped, dimly-lit room. the cluttered shelves are lined with baskets, vases, twine, ribbons, and other tools you don’t recognise, and stacked boxes - some opened, some new, some with potted plants littering their tops - are tucked into the corners of the room.

megumi’s crouched on the floor, brow furrowed in concentration, several half-full vases in front of him. as you watch he tuts and shifts some flowers - tied together with some sort of wire or twine at their base - from one vase to another, then sits back on his heels to get a different angle. he moves with an easy confidence, a few strands of spiky black hair stuck to the back of his neck, and swipes at his face with the back of his thick gloves, leaving a smear of dirt across his forehead. it’s the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him.

“right, megu?” yuji repeats cheerfully.

“what?” megumi doesn’t look up, nose scrunched at the vases.

“i was just saying, you’re always getting on people’s bad sides.”

“oh? well they’re always getting on mine.”

he looks up, then, and sees you. there’s an instant shutting off, like part of him retreats; a stranger has invaded his safe space. 

his voice is cool, but not unfriendly. it’s more a genuine query than an interrogation when he asks, “what are you doing here?”

“i thought i saw you come in, and thought i’d just… i didn’t know you work in a florist’s.”

“well. now you do.”

there’s a short silence. megumi turns back to his flower arranging, evidently dismissing you.

“are you making bouquets?”

he barely darts a glance towards you. “obviously.”

“so did you arrange the ones out the front? the ones in the display window?”

yuji crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. “he makes all of them.”

“all of them? do you get paid extra, then?”

“our manager’s quite stingy, so megu does it for the fun of it.”

“it’s not fun, it’s frickin’ stressful. look at all this crap. i’m not even given a proper budget for this.”

“well, however fun or stressful, i think your bouquets are beautiful. and that’s saying something because i’ve never really seen the point of giving flowers as a gift.”

yuji looks aghast. “why not?”

you shrug, unconcerned. “they’re so expensive, and after all that, they don’t last; they die so quickly.”

“so does the joy of receiving flowers and the beauty it brings to your home not matter to you at all?” yuji says, eyes wide.

“i believe there’s something else to be addressed here,” megumi breaks in. “how can you say you’ve ‘never seen the point’ in a worldwide human tradition?”

“it’s not that deep,” you say dismissively.

“an interesting way to refer to five thousand years of rich history,” he snaps. “if you’re so ignorant, perhaps you should consider not saying anything in the first place.”

“megu,” yuji says softly.

megumi pauses, and visibly inhales. “sorry,” he mumbles. he looks as if he has more to say, but ducks his head instead and turns away, wringing his hands obsessively.

“megumi’s quite passionate about flowers,” yuji says, filling in the sudden silence. “he’s really smart; he knows a lot of stuff about it.”

his tone is relaxed but his eyes are hard as he watches you. you’re not offended; it warms your heart a little. for some reason, you have an urge to out yourself: i know that feeling. i’m not a threat. i’m just like you. 

it’s a strange feeling. you’ve never told anyone about your autism diagnosis, not even maki; you’ve barely let yourself think about it. there’s just too much stigma to unpack, both in society and in yourself. and if you can pass as functional, what does it matter anyway? if your only breakdowns are out of sight, or with a completely straight face? 

to you, you’ve always been made to feel like adhd is more ‘okay’. people generally believe it means you just fidget a lot and have issues with focusing, and even though it’s a lot more than that, their assumptions aren’t wrong, or harmful.

autism, on the other hand…

echoed words are dredged up from the depths of your mind, words you thought you’d long pushed down. “don’t give me that. you’re my daughter. i know everything about you and i know you’re not a r-tard.” your mother’s sobs. “you were never like this before. god, what changed? what did i do to deserve this?” on the phone to her friend, “i’ve failed as a parent, that’s all there is to it.”

it’s there, it’s all there in megumi, body half-twisted away from you to try and hide the twisting movement of his fingers, a stimming he can’t control. but he can’t hide it, any more than he can hide the rest of him from the world, and you hate that he’s made to feel - that you’re both made to feel - that you should be hiding in the first place. the last thing you want is for him to feel like he has to mask in front of you, because if it’s tiring for you, it’s exhausting for him. but then there’s yuji with his steady protectiveness, always on the lookout, and his quietly supportive presence is almost too much for you, because when have you ever experienced something like that? me too, me too, me too, you want to weep.

but you can’t.

there’s just too much shame.

instead, you move forward and lower yourself to the ground next to megumi, crossing your legs. “so.”

“so?” he doesn’t look at you.

“so, tell me about this five thousand year rich history. like you said… i don’t actually know anything about flowers. so maybe i should learn something first before dismissing them.”

“are you mocking me?” he says bluntly.

“no.” 

his eyes dart to yuji behind you and back. then he sighs and shifts his position, tucking his feet underneath him and with an admirable effort he stills his hands and folds them neatly in his lap.

“if i start talking, i might not stop.”

“fine with me.”

he sizes you up for a moment, then shrugs. “in short. giving flowers as a gift stretches back to thousands of years ago. earlier human civilisations like the ancient egyptians used them in religious ceremonies as offerings to the gods and to their dead, as did the greeks and romans. and each nation has specific species of flowers that hold cultural significance to them - like in india, it’s marigolds and jasmine. but the marigolds came to india from mexican culture. it’s all connected. and then you’ve got the middle ages in europe where plant symbolism was becoming more frequent, which continued through the renaissance and the victorian era and developed into floriography.

“i don’t think anyone notices, but i try to put symbolism in all my bouquets specifically using floriography, beyond just looking pretty - which is, of course, an entire field on its own. but ever since i was young, i’ve never really agreed with all the symbolism the victorians assigned to some flowers - i just don’t think it matches, especially if you take into consideration the hardiness of the flowers, or their texture, or their shape - or other things i can’t really explain. things the victorians didn’t think about. so i’ve made my own version - my own secret language of flowers, i guess. it’s nerdy and stupid, but who gives a frick. my version is better. even if no one’s heard of floriography in the first place, and therefore wouldn’t bother to care about my twist on it.”

“honestly, i think that’s pretty cool. i haven’t heard of floriography, but i’ve studied a bit about the victorian language of flowers before. it’s always present in literature as a metaphor, isn’t it? like the cliche of roses symbolising love, and daisies innocence.”

his eyes brighten. “literature being a representation of the state of humanity - and flowers always having relevance in expressing that - and then the intrinsic link towards humanity and constant pursual of beauty—”

“and finding meaning in that beauty, no matter how short-lived it is,” you add.

“yes, exactly - the transitory nature of beauty.”

“speaking of daisies before - i’m sorry, this may be a bit of a side tangent but i remembered daisy from ‘the great gatsby’ as another example - oh, and there’s myrtle too - but i’ve heard nick’s last name is also…?”

“caraway represents rationality, faithfulness, maturity - i’ve heard the blooms can also represent hidden passion, but i don’t entirely agree with that.”

“but then daisy likens nick to a rose, if i remember correctly - i read it last in year 10 - which feels like a contradiction?”

“that’s exactly the point. it’s all in the dissonance - it’s a representation of daisy’s superficiality and shallowness, and of her projecting feelings of warmth and charm and glamour - it’s letting the reader know that daisy doesn’t know crap.”

“i never realised that. perhaps i’m overdue for a reread.” you’ve never thought to have any specific interest in flowers before, but your conversation with megumi has certainly piqued your interest.

“perhaps you are.”

you twist around. “what about you, yuji - have you heard this before?”

he looks amused. “not about ‘the great gatsby’, no, but in general, yes. i haven’t actually read it. classic literature is too much for my adhd - i’m more graphic novels. unless it’s sci-fi, or horror, or sci-fi horror - i absolutely eat that up in whatever form.”

adhd? “me too, yeah,” you say before you can stop yourself. “i mean. not the sci-fi part, though i do read sci-fi as well, i just meant - i have adhd. too.”

it feels strange saying the words; the most you’ve ever done is typed it out. it’s stupid, but you get a sudden shiver of nerves across your body. it’s a fairly big moment for you - but the general reaction is comparatively anticlimactic.

“but you still manage to get through fat ass books?” yuji whistles, impressed. “good for you.”

“i mean, mostly. unless i can’t. it depends. ‘anna karenina’ was hard, even though i really enjoyed it. i was mostly motivated by levin and kitty’s developing relationship, actually. i’m currently into high fantasy, but it changes a lot.” you’re sweating for some reason, and wildly grasp at straws to take the attention off you. “megumi - what type of books do you read? do you have a specific genre?”

“nonfiction.”

“what types of nonfiction are you into?”

he shrugs. “autobiographies, memoirs, natural science… general science journalism, too. i don’t really mind. anything but high fantasy.”

“i could give you some recommendations.”

“no thanks.”

“you’re missing out.”

“i’m glad.”

you laugh at the firm certainty in his voice. “well, if you ever change your mind, i’m at the bookstore across the road thursday and saturday evenings - you could come in and i’d sort you out.”

the words fly out of your mouth before you consider their greater implications. this meeting and conversation was entirely by chance; and no matter how many interests you share, you’re still not much more than strangers, or very loose acquaintances. megumi was nice enough to infodump on you, but you’re not sure that holds any significance. hell, if a complete stranger came up to you and asked you to elaborate on your special interest, you’d do it in a heartbeat. megumi hasn’t been cold, but he hasn’t been particularly warm either - passionate, but distantly so. 

but you’ve extended an invitation of sorts, to something more. friendship? maybe?

or maybe you’re simply delusional.

you’ve built up a lot around megumi, you realise. in a way, he’s symbolic to you; he represents parts of you that you try to ignore, and somehow you’ve managed to attach that heavy lore to him. there’s already a relationship between you in your head, a magical connection, but when you step back and look at it objectively you realise that’s exactly what it is - something in your head. 

and it’s certainly not fair on him, either. he didn’t exactly ask to be the recipient of your buried childhood trauma that you’re projecting onto him. at some level, you’re only seeing what you want to see.

it’s a clinical evaluation, but it’s something you’re used to doing, because if there’s one thing you’re good at, it’s picking apart your relationships with other people. it’s akin to a bucket of cold water over your head, and the small backroom of the florist’s is suddenly claustrophobic rather than cosy.

“i’m good,” megumi says in response to your offer. there’s no malice behind it; in fact, it’s entirely polite. 

polite, and distant. as he’s been this whole time.

“i should get going, actually,” you manage.

“alright.” 

“i’ll see you on wednesday, then?” you try.

“probably.”

“good chat - thanks for stopping by!” yuji smiles. easily as that, you’re dismissed.

you glance over your shoulder as you leave the room, but megumi’s attention has already shifted back to his flower arranging, and he doesn’t spare you a second glance, as if you were never there.

you try to unpack it on the bus home. you think by understanding him, you’ll understand yourself. you want to relate to him, so you know someone can relate to you. you want a relationship with him, so badly, because you’re trying to fulfil your need to feel wanted and understood no matter your flaws. you’re not even thinking of him as a person; he’s just his autism, and yours as well.

but it’s too much. it’s all too tightly woven for you to begin to unravel. maybe you’re overthinking it; maybe it really was just a simple conversation.

“it’s not that deep,” you mutter again, this time to yourself.

i really am a mess. you’re grasping at straws. you’re throwing yourself after any bit of human connection you can get. it’s laughable. it’s tragic.

god, it’s lonely.

you rest your head against the cool glass of the window so no one can see you crying.

a/n - well! part one is finally here. i rlly put a lot of myself into it ijbol. also yes the smau is formatted badly shut up and take it !!

taglist - @strxbxrrylover, @all-skedaddle-and-no-bop

YET ANOTHER HIJABI HERE FOR MORAL SUPPORT!! You'll do amazing nonnie, even if weirdos stand in your way, wishing you the best hon <3

random ass rant because i need to get this out of my system. literally auditioned for my school play and im lowkey irked i did not get a callback. not tryna sound like entitled, but i know im not a shit actor (i got a callback last year) and litrly won an award in a mock trial competition this summer for my acting as witness. also, i literally get paid to voice act! but they barely ever cast poc for my school's plays. last year out of the 16 callbacks, it was 6 poc including me (37.5%), and this year out of the 24 callbacks, it was 4 poc (16.7%). that's literally got cut the amount of poc cut in half, despite there literally being more roles in the play?? last year, out of the 6 poc that got callbacks, only ONE made it to the final cast. last year the lead told me he literally thought i deserved a role because i did well in my callback, but im 99% sure the role went to this white girl over me because... well i wear hijab, and hijabis dont exactly fit in a play that takes place in the 1920s. even though i was a year ahead of her, and upperclassmen get priority over underclassmen for roles!! like im not tryna cry and be that one sjw thats like "diversity!!!" but i feel like im lowkey tweaking cause this can be coincidence. i cant even say nun because unlike the white kids that got cast i havent been taking theatre since i was 3 1/2 years old, so fuck do i know. you know the production is always gonna say "we dont cast based on race, just on talent", but shit like this always pisses me off bro. there is no way this is all just a coincidence chat anyways thanks for coming to my ted talk chososcamgirl. keep writing sjap, and being a sexy ass mofo. your smaus are my escapism.

oh anon i’m so sorry that happened to u 🙁 that literally sucks like it’s so shitty that they’re blatantly rejecting people just bc their poc like what the fuck? the casting director definitely is a racist idc because you obviously have a lot of experience in acting AND you literally have a paid voice acting job like ??? you clearly have the talent so smth is not adding up !!!!! argh it must be shitty like i can only imagine how u feel :( i’m sorry that the director is bitter and ugly and a cunt you so much better and i love you <3 also tysm angel im glad u like them 😭<33

@stillnotherapy you are the main reason my feed has been like this, and this reminded me of you, so I come bearing gifts ig :3

off topic but I need to finish aot.

if any anime guy could become real and you’d risk it all, who would it be?

i’ll go first 🫶🏽

I WILL its acc priority on my watchlist, but god ik its gonna kill me :,)

if any anime guy could become real and you’d risk it all, who would it be?

i’ll go first 🫶🏽

your fics are what meth is to a crackhead

this was so omg and ughhhh

again and again (and again and again) ༺ choso kamo

wc : 1.2K content : soulmate au, reincarnation trope, victorian era, vampire au. no use of y/n. fluff. angst. ↬ masterlist (jjk)

·:¨༺ he would recognise you in any universe.

“death’s kiss,” he murmurs.

it makes sense. he is sure you are an angel.

i do not…

the cool edge of the blade rests along his throat. the slightest pressure would spill him open. but there is already a fissure threaded through the centre of his soul. he has spent his entire life coated in a thin layer of ice and the passage of a hundred mindless years have drilled into him needle fractures, powdered glass. hunched over his gaping wounds, alone throughout the ceaseless turnings of the earth.

i do not bleed.

“be silent,” you hiss. there is hard fury in your eyes. unlike him, you will not shatter. “your honeyed words will not sway me from my task. i swear to you i will see it through. you may have deceived countless before me, but not i. your refusal to devour in the ways of your kind means nothing to me. i see through the weakness of your facade; i name you for what you are - i know you.” 

i do not bleed as men do.

“you mistake me. with you, i would wear no facade. and my words have no more sway over you than that of any mortal; that is entirely on your part.”

“liar.” 

but as for my love.

your sword digs deeper, inking a line of sluggish dark red along the pale expanse of his neck. the metal burns against his skin. it holds no candle to the burning in your eyes. the soft popping and crackling of the fireplace, the light acclamation of the rain on his windows, the scent of burning parchment; the world has receded.

i swear to you i would love you anywhere, would know you by the shape of the world as it reflects in your eyes. i would race the creeping shadows to your sunset. i would find you at the end of the world. i would tear down the sky to cloak your warmth in the indigo night. i would form you again from the dying light of the stars. i would rage against the entropy of the universe.

“monster,” you breathe. “you do not even bleed as men do. death is a mercy.”

“as a man. as a man. i do not bleed as men do, and i am not a man. but i love as they do, and even more than that, and yet—”

“do not speak to me of love,” you spit.

“why? what do you fear?”

“you know nothing of it.”

his eyes search yours. honey brown. heavy. grieved. “i have lived long enough to see the death of stars. waiting. and do you know what for?”

“devil’s spawn - i care not…”

but your hand trembles, betraying you, etching jagged lines deeper into his bared throat - yet he does not flinch.

“for you,” he breathes. “for you to wake up weeping from a dream you cannot remember, with the tears long-dried on your skin in such a way you thought you’d crack in two. chasing a warmth akin to sunlight, like a memory long-forgotten. hands that frame you, that cherish the shape of your soul, that hold you together, and a murmured vow, for we fall apart but we are all the pieces.”

his breath fans across your face. you cannot remember closing the space between you. perhaps there never was a distance at all. there has always been something drawing you to him. bloodlust, you had thought. vengeance. passion. your life has never felt more complete than at this moment, with your blade to his neck. but the slightest brush of your knuckle against his skin is setting you alight. and it is not the imminence of his death that is rendering you whole.

this is not how it was meant to be.

“you feel it too, do you not? the familiarity…”

“i feel nothing,” you grate out. 

sweat beads on your forehead, drips off the tip of your nose. his hand slowly rises to cup your face. his thumb brushes dry the damp skin under your eyes. someone in you is weeping. pleading.

“if i were to die at your hand i would love you just the same, i swear it, but i fear what that knowledge may do to you. so lower the blade, my love, and do not doom yourself to any further grief. you would have killed me already had you wanted to do so. my love, you have done so well - so well in coming this far - and i am so, so sorry…”

his voice breaks. there is pain in his eyes, something raw and fresh and agonising. you cannot stand the sight, but it is not disgust that twists your heart.

“this time around has been the worst of all. i have been forced to live a thousand unwanted lifetimes, and none of them with you, and all of them with the burden of hope. never did i know whence you would come - from which era, in which form… and now you are here, before me, with a face i have traced, and a voice i have memorised, and a look in your eyes i know better than my own name. and you know me, too, as i know you.”

your vision is blurring; the blade slips harmlessly out of your loose grasp as you stumble into him. he catches you in favour of regaining his own balance, grip firm and strong and sure, and your palms are flat on the carpeted floor of his library on either side of his face and he stares up at you. his lips form your name—not what you are called in this world, but something deeper, truer—and you swear you have not heard it before but there is a crystal resonance all through you, like things falling into place.

“please,” he begs softly, weeping. “come back to me.”

and you see it, then, give in to the yearning of your heart and the aching of your soul, and ages come and pass before you—despairing hands reach for a gauzy veil, slips; water; a sweeping curve, a cloak; a cupped palm, a face; time, years, our place—moments, ages, intangible warmth; seconds, lifetimes, minutes, a soft caress of sunlight, and a whispered promise—you, i, that is to say, we, are infinity.

when the dizzying realisation fades, your face is pressed against the steady beating of his heart, fisting his shirt in sharp handfuls, exhaling in shuddering rasps.

“i know you,” you rasp, lifting your head to rest against his - and you name him, finally, name him for who he is. “choso. my love, my love, my love. i am so, so sorry—and to have kept you waiting for so long—”

“it’s not your fault,” he murmurs, smiling, even as tears stain his face and blood dries on his skin. “we have found each other, now, and we will find each other again, in every universe. i would wait a thousand lifetimes for a moment by your side.”

“i know.” 

there is grief, but beyond that, there is love, too. there is always love.

you kiss him, deeply, passionately, until your head spins. his arms come around you to hold you closer, to tangle in your hair, to cup your face. whenever you break for air you breathe his name into his skin, again, and again, and again, fearing to forget.

choso. my love. my life. my soulmate. choso, choso, choso.

not death’s kiss, but life’s.

somewhere, somehow, something has aligned.

— ; i js think there's smth tragic abt the reincarnation au. but each time, one person is doomed to remember.

i was gna make the reader kill him n then realise they're soulmates n kiss him as he takes his dying breath and swear to find him in their next life but. i fear i am not built for that level of angst