sandiaarts - Tumblr blog

sandiaarts · 11 days

Text

The Wristwatch

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

You had not known you were Nanami Kento's girl, until the Wristwatch Incident.

In truth, your affection had been brewing so slowly, you had not known if you were imagining it.

You had not realised you were in love with Kento, until he leaned in close, and you smelled the smoky, wood-rich warmth of him. Until you found yourself nursing stomach-dropping disappointment, if your phone pinged and it wasn't him. Until you woke up in cold sweats, the memory of the dream of his skin on yours so vivid that your heartbeat throbbed between your legs.

You couldn't accept it. It couldn't be love, when he did not love you back. And yet...that intoxicating dance continued, while your head dipped in denial...blinkered.

The extra coffee that would be gently slid over the desk to you, by a strong, gentle hand. The late night phonecalls, decompressing from the stress of your missions. The occasional dinner in each others' company, because, well...we both need to eat? Why not eat together?

You were afraid to label it; afraid to lose the soft skirting intimacy that you had. Nanami Kento was a hard man to gauge; alternately sincere and distant, warm and cool, closely familiar and objectively analytical. He kept you at arms' length; close enough to brush fingertips, but far enough that you could run...if you wanted. And you never did.

You had gone shopping, together, one balmy spring afternoon. You both needed new clothes...so why not together? It makes sense, really. Nothing else in it, I'm sure. Just friends. He doesn't feel that way about me, anyway.

He had insisted upon Ginza Shopping Mall. You balked at the exquisitely-expensive-upmarketness of it, but you could never deny him, for fear of losing this time together. You had perused for new earrings, your belly clenching at the many zeroes on every pricetag. He had ambled over to another counter, just browsing, and there for quite some time.

"See anything you like?" That deep-roast voice broke you out of your reverie. You looked up, into twinkling hazel eyes, and blushed. Yes, you. One of you, Kento, please and thank you.

"No," you scoffed, turning your back on the jewellery, and walking towards the shop door, "too cheap for me. I couldn't possibly be seen wearing them."

Kento laughed, slipping a box into his pocket, and walking just close enough to send your brain into a spiral. You barely functioned through lunch. Kento remained, as ever, a gentleman.

As he drove you to your door, and you bid him a flustered goodnight, you felt that same big, warm hand on your arm, holding you back to him.

"Wait," Kento insisted, "I have...something. For you. Open it when you're home." He pressed a smooth, embossed box into your hands. You could not see what it was, under the glossy paper sleeve. You opened your mouth to chastise Kento, and he interrupted smoothly.

"It's your birthday soon. Consider it an early gift. You couldn't possibly refuse...?" One raised, fine eyebrow. That cool, impassive gaze. You pouted. Sneaky old goat.

"Alright. You win this time, Kento...but I'll get you back," you had promised. He had simply smiled indulgently, stepped out to open your door, and watched you until you were inside.

With trembling hands, you slid the smooth paper cover off the box, and your stomach somersaulted.

Tag Heuer.

"No...Kento-- you didn't," you hushed to yourself, rushing to open the box.

You fumbled an exquisite silver, blue-faced women's watch out of the box. It seemed, somehow, familiar. You couldn't possibly. You knew the pricetag on these. Even the packaging was too expensive for you.

With one hand over your mouth and a pounding little heart, you sent Kento a text with shaky hands;

Nanami Kento. Absolutely not. Take it back.

A few anxious minutes, pacing, looking at the watch resting on the table and gasping each time. Three small dot dot dots...dot dot dots...and a response.

Sorry. Lost the receipt. It will look good on you.

Squeaking and grinning to yourself, you tried the watch on. You took it off. You paced. You tried it on again. You fell back onto your bed, legs kicking, and hands over your face.

Every further refusal you send to Kento, was flatly ignored. He left you on read all night.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

The next day, at work, you couldn't help but notice the looks you were receiving. They weren't bad looks, certainly, more...surprise? Happy acceptance? Knowing smiles? Each person the same; glancing to your watch, eyebrows raising, and searching your face with a grin. You didn't understand it.

Over lunch, Shoko reached over to you, a coffee in her other hand, and tapped the new watch on your wrist.

"Couples' watches now, hmm?" She smirked. You frowned, questioning. Shoko scoffed at you, as if you were playing coy, when you didn't even know the rules of the game. Shoko's smile didn't falter once.

You confronted Kento later that afternoon, dragging him into a dusty narrow corridor, and holding the watch up to him with fighting eyes.

Kento's heart burst with pride, biting his lip with a sly smile, and taking your wristwatched hand in his own. He tipped your arm back and forth, admiring the watch on your wrist from all angles, with a lovesick sigh. You suddenly recalled, with flushed cheeks, where you had seen such a similar wristwatch before.

Kento watched your mental gymnastics with a slowly growing smile. You almost caught on fire as he raised your hand to his lips, pressing an adoring kiss to the back of your knuckles.

"Wondered how long you'd take to notice," Kento rumbled, eyed closed and nuzzling his nose against your fingers, "that you're my girl. And always have been."

2K notes · View notes

sandiaarts · 1 month

Text

Dissimulation Continued

>Yan! Mafia! Childe x Fem! Student! Reader (modern au)

>Word count: 4.9k

>a/n: childe "leave your degree and be my wife" tartaglia. i dont think anything in this classifies as yan since its just a continuation of the original story but still tagging that since the original is yan. also, i wrote the beginning during my flight lol

Being housemates with a mafioso isn't a very ideal situation.

First Part

Airports are holes in the fabric of time. Minutes and hours are blurred, the signature beeping sound before the limitless number of announcements causing an odd fogginess in your mind. They're surreal but comforting. You are forever a traveller there, only at the mercy of your own mistakes and mishaps.

A familiar hair colour stands out in the distance, rising above the lake of heads. Your luggage trolley is pushed closer and closer to that lake, but instead of relief, only a subtle feeling of dread settles in. It is true that in airports you are at the mercy of your own mistakes, but it is the same for the outside world. The only difference is that simply existing and being alive is not considered a mistake in the former.

The voice you've been hearing through your phone for the past weeks finally greets you directly from the source. Everything is a blur, your eyes focusing on the person who makes way through the busy crowd to get closer as the sounds become exceedingly loud. Slowly, you stop in your tracks, mind still under the haze of indistinguishable time.

The first to go is your backpack, the item promptly removed from your shoulders. The next is the trolley. Your grip on it is gently loosened, and fingers snap in front of your face to dispel the haze from your mind.

"Earth to [Name]? Hey. You alright? The flight couldn't have been that bad, come on."

Your eyes blink a few times, the background chatter becoming more prominent and the face in front of you being focused on by your vision. Words refuse to form on your tongue, so you have to rely on your actions as a last resort. After closing your mouth with mild embarrassment, your eyes settle on his oversized t-shirt. Bare arms greet you when you look for a sleeve, so you settle with grabbing the side of his shirt instead.

It’s still summer. Of course he’s wearing cap sleeves. The display of what one could easily pass off as clinginess causes him to take a step closer, his arm reaching to wrap around your shoulders. You refuse to directly look him in the eye, but allow the arm to slither around you. ‘I am with this person,’ the arm announces. ‘And we are more than what a first glance can reveal.’

“Are you feeling alright?” The arm pulls you inside a half-hug, the warmth of his body comforting with the smell of familiar cologne. “Did something happen?”

A shake of your head is all you can manage, but it is not accepted.

“Hey,” voice low, the arm around you travels upwards to gently run up and down your head. “Tell me. We’ve talked about this. Don’t hide anything from me. I only want to help.”

To yield and share your feelings with someone such as him is not easy, but you do so anyway, surprised at how easily you were able to speak. “It’s something silly,” you say, eyes glued to the floor. “I just miss home.”

The arm strokes your back comfortingly. There is more than just comfort in his voice. There is sympathy. “I understand.” Commiseration drips from his tone, a hint of melancholy behind the way he holds you closer. “We’ll get through it. Don’t worry.”

The hand grabbing the shirt is now wrapped with another, the warmth from both palms and the touch more noticeable than you would have preferred. Calluses are barely felt, but you know they are there. You saw them in detail right before you left for home. How could you ever forget?

With the other free hand, the trolley is pushed along as both of you walk to the exit. You say goodbye to the building and the odd feeling of time passing inside it. A familiar routine and life is welcomed in its stead, but the welcome is short lived.

You both have stopped walking.

“[Name]?”

You raise your head but do not meet his eyes.

“You haven’t looked at me since you got here.”

Pointing out your actions is cruel, but so is your treatment. Thus, you capitulate like you always do. The sight of the familiar dull blues is something you did not want to welcome but you do.

“Sorry.” You try your best to give a smile even if it’s shaky and uncertain. “I’m just… shaken up. I’ll be alright in a few hours.”

Unfortunately for you, the devil has another demand. “Say my name. You haven’t even said my name yet.”

“Childe?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “My name.”

A light bulb shines above your head, and you immediately respond. “Ajax.”

He smiles. “Again.”

“Ajax.”

You’re near the car before you know it.

The sun is setting which paints the sky in a beautiful gradient of red and yellow, hints of magenta red peeking through the clouds. The car’s trunk opens and your luggage is promptly placed inside. Your company for the evening comes to stand in front of you, and your eyes instead go to the constellations of freckles dusting across his cheeks. Diverting your attention to him seems to please him because he’s smiling at you.

“It’ll be night by the time we’re there.”

Your statement makes Childe turn around and face the sunset as well. Somehow the mahogany coloured t-shirt is a perfect compliment to the sky’s colours, his hair glowing a fiery red with the sunset behind him.

“If it’ll be night,” he says, hand reaching for the phone inside his pocket, “you can go home and sleep. You need the rest.”

“No.” Childe turns to look at you, phone in hand, but you continue speaking. “I need to call my mom. She said to call when I reach the airport.”

The questioning look on his face turns into a smile. “What do you think I’m doing right now?”

You raise a brow. “Taking me home?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “With my phone. What do you think I’m doing with my phone?”

Your eyes widen when he clarifies, mouth agape before you compose yourself. “Oi. I’m supposed to talk to her, not you.”

Childe’s thumb presses something on his phone, cheeky grin infuriating you further. “Too late. I sent her a text. I told her I picked you up and that we’re on our way home.”

Mouth having fallen open again, you stomp towards him. Aiming for his phone doesn’t help, for he simply raises it above his head and takes a step back. Thus, you grab onto his shirt’s neckline and pull. The smile falls from his face only to return when he’s barely an inch away from your face, noses almost brushing.

“[Name],” he breathes, eyes staring into yours, “I’m sure this counts as public indecency. Let’s go home first.”

Unbothered, you simply sigh. “I told you. I’m supposed to talk to her. Not you.”

Childe pulls away, his hand gently undoing your grip on his shirt. “And why’s that? Maintaining a good relationship with your family is important.”

“If my mother finds out I’m with you so often, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He blinks, obviously not having understood. “Isn’t that good?”

“No!”

Childe tilts his head, hair no longer glowing in the sunset. It’s starting to get dark now. “Explain.”

With a groan, you humour him, albeit begrudgingly. “She’ll scold me for being too carefree. I don’t want her on my case all the time.”

“Alright,” he whines. “Come on. Let’s go home. You need some dinner and rest.”

The car park’s street lights illuminate the area, and following Childe you get into the passenger seat. With a huff, you look at his smile - that upturn of his lips seemingly always present in front of you - and plop down onto the seat only to feel… ‘something’ under you. Childe raises a questioning brow as you halfway stand up, trying to grab whatever hard object was under you.

It would be a lie to say you weren’t daunted when a heavy, cold metal object sat in your palm.

Like throwing away a scalding hot piece of iron, you fling the gun to the back seat, eyes boring holes into the item as it lays in the back. Almost as on cue, memories of what had occurred pre-departure flood back in mockingly. It was foolish to be even slightly comfortable around him. Have you forgotten your differences?

“Woah! Careful there!” Childe glances at the firearm sitting on the back seat, but quickly turns back to you. Seeing how your chest is heaving as you look ahead, he breathes a sigh of relief. At least he used the safety lever so that it accidentally doesn’t fire. That would have ended badly.

He watches as you pay him no mind, eyes focused on what you can see through the dashboard’s glass. “Hey,” he whispers gently, “I left it there by mistake. My bad.”

You put a hand over your throat, fingers pressed to your right carotid artery. The continuously pumping blood grounds you. It grounds you, but it provides no comfort. Whatever strength remains in you after a long trip is what helps you compose yourself again.

“Let’s just go home.”

Your words are taken as a command, and Chide nods, immediately reversing the car out of the parking space. It’s completely dark now, the sky only illuminated by the moon and whatever stars are visible with the light pollution. As you exit the airport premises, you allow yourself to immerse in the silence.

Head resting against the window, you close your eyes. It’s a shame your family doesn’t know about your new living arrangements.

The first thing to greet you at your new accommodation is silence. The next is the sound of your phone ringing. The bag on your shoulders is eased off as you press the device to your ear, Childe leaving the thing on the sofa. Silver chalice coloured polished tiles stare back at you as you greet your mother while your new mafioso ‘housemate’ drags your luggage to your room.

After reassuring your mother that you have reached home safely, you excuse yourself with wanting to rest, something she respects and immediately cuts the call for. Now, your greatest conundrum faces you with crossed arms, dull blue eyes observing you instead of simply looking. It’s a test. You know it.

Thus, being the good student that you are, you play along. It is absolutely crucial that you do so because there is only one thing that may land you in hot water: your refusal to cooperate. Despite all that, there are boundaries you will not allow to be crossed, no matter how much he insists.

“Are you sure about the guest room?” Childe patiently eyes you as you mull over an answer. Eyes still taking in every minute detail of your body, he doesn’t miss you biting your lip for a moment.

With a meek voice that you know is his weakness, you mutter a yes. “I’m sorry,” you excuse yourself. “I don’t think I’ll be comfortable sharing a room just yet.”

“Well,” Childe tries again, grabbing the backrest of the sofa behind him for support, “maybe we could live in the same room, but uh, I’ll go to the guest room to sleep. Then we can slowly get comfortable with each other-”

“Childe.”

He blinks. “Yes?”

“Please.” You make it a point to slightly frown, just to garner his sympathy. “I promise I’m not being distant. I’m just… not comfortable yet.”

He sighs, the sound bouncing off the newly painted walls. “Fine. I don’t want to overwhelm you.” His commiseration, although begrudging, is welcomed on your end. Thus, to show your gratitude, you walk up to him and pat his cheek twice. The action makes his eyes widen as he looks at you, and you’re again reminded of how simple-minded he is at times. It’s almost cute… if you ignore the other stuff.

“Do you… want me to be next to you while you sleep?” Childe asks. “It’s a new environment for you. M-maybe my presence will help you fall asleep.”

You smile at him, thankful that he’s caring about your comfort. Nevertheless, you’ll be fine, so you decline. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ll pass out as soon as I hit the pillow.”

He’s still looking at you like a sad puppy in hope you’ll change your mind. You do not. “Fine,” Childe yields. “Just call me if you need anything. I’ll… wake you up for dinner. You can nap until then.”

Just the thought of bed makes you sleepy, so you nod and head for your new living quarters. Unfortunately, you do not turn to look at your new housemate’s empty gaze.

It takes great strength to open your eyes, even if for just a moment, but you do not bother with waking up. Turning to the other side instead, you snuggle deeper into the cover with the contentment that your mother will come and wake you up whenever appropriate. And she does. The warm hand that rests on your cheek caresses the skin gently, a voice hesitantly calling your name.

The realisation that the hand and voice do not belong to your mother is cruel, but it suffices to instantly wake you up with a startle.

Blue. That is what you first see.

The mattress underneath you feels too hard for a moment, and you feel as though you are somewhere unfamiliar, somewhere you mustn't be. The feeling seems to be a mockery created by your mind, but you allow yourself to breathe before listening to the culprit of your disturbed sleep.

“Sorry.” You give no reaction to Childe’s apology. He continues, “It’s starting to get late, and I didn’t want to wake you up for dinner but decided against that because you probably haven’t eaten in a while.”

You continue to stare at him, giving him a look that says, ‘so?’ but he doesn’t seem bothered. Instead, he has the gall to grab your hand from underneath the cover.

“Let’s eat together.”

Childe ends up receiving a very tired raised eyebrow from you before you actually make a move to get up. However, before he could comment on your tired state and ask you to stay in bed, you have thrown the cover off your body and are already on your way to the living room. It makes him sigh, but he doesn’t complain.

Dinner is late and quiet. It’s around half past ten, but Childe doesn’t mind since you don’t have class in the morning. He took a day off as well, just to make up for lost time. The last time he saw you was weeks ago. Of course he wants to spend time with you.

You, on the other hand, down the home cooked meal without any second thought, brain still on autopilot. It makes you feel bad since you don’t have the energy to compliment his cooking, but hey. He woke you up from a deep sleep. He should feel bad. Nevertheless, the cook shamelessly asks about his cooking.

“Did you like it?”

You blink up at him, responding with a sigh. “I’m too tired to taste it.”

Hands folded over his chest, his portion of food is also gone. “I see. Want to go to bed again? I’ll lay down with you till you fall asleep.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Childe gives you a look again, one that reminds you just how easily his dull eyes make you acquiesce. Despite fighting it, you fail and give in like you always do. “Okay okay,” you grumble. His celebratory smile falls when you elaborate. “But no getting into bed with me. You can uh… just sit there.”

“Why not?” The tilt of his head is accentuated by his slightly furrowed brows. It honestly reminds you of a kid trying to negotiate a later bedtime with his mother. “I promised you I won’t try anything you don’t want me to.”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is?”

Sensing an argument coming up, you decide to steer the conversation elsewhere. There is too much at stake to anger him just because you’re tired, and you would rather not act like a whining child simply to get what you want. No. You are better than his tactics. Better, but not necessarily perfect.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice low and dejected, “I just want to be alone. I just got back from home and everything feels so weird.” You sigh, simply to make a point. “If I was living in the dorms, I would’ve still been in bed. I really appreciate you, truly, but I just want to be alone. Living alone isn’t easy.”

He counters almost instantly. “You aren’t alone.”

“I meant family,” you clarify. “Being away from family isn’t fun.”

A pensive expression takes over his face. Childe actually looks like he’s thinking, the gears in his head moving as he tries to make sense of your words. Though they were only to get him to back off and subtly establish your boundaries, not everything was a lie. Well, some of it at least.

“Alright,” he surrenders. “I’ll sit next to you.”

Funnily enough, sleep comes easy with his presence. The fact had baffled you when you woke up in the morning, but the plentiful rest ceased any thinking on your part.

Like a sponge slowly soaking up water as it’s left over a water stain, Childe has entered almost every part of your life. He has consumed it entirely, trapping you within his confines as every single activity remains scrutinised. You had first thought you were the sponge, but you were mistaken. Childe is the sponge. You are the water he has soaked up and gotten hold of.

The power is in his hands. Though it’s not unpleasant most of the time, his proprietorial behaviour never fails to remind you of the numerous differences in both your personalities and mentalities. At first, you were able to subtly manipulate him like you did when you first got back. Unfortunately, he has either realised your tactic or grown immune to your tired expressions with displeased frowns and sweet pleadings.

You have no idea what to do.

It absolutely does not help that you are under the added stress of your studies and with no means of clearing your mind because you aren’t sure how to go out with your friends. It also doesn’t help that you simply don’t have the time to go out with your friends.

Rubbing your eyes, you cross out the name of a particular course before clicking on the submit button. The word ‘submitted’ appears in front of ‘assignment 3’, and you instantly put your head down on the table. As usual, your laptop’s screen turns off after its three minute timer is up, prompting your mind to start thinking over your next assignment.

There’s around five days to the deadline and it’s an essay. Perhaps having it drip with affectation might impress the tutor. She is one for grandiose after all. All you’ll need is to find synonyms of every other word and make them sound pretentious. Yes, that’ll do. Just make a rough draft and then edit it with the synonyms so that it’s easier to write and organise your ideas.

Wait… you haven’t even done the reading yet. How are you supposed to write it without doing the required reading?

Taking a peek at the clock on the wall, you make a mental note of reading and writing down main points and ideas before bed. That’s the only thing you have the energy left to do. Maybe you’ll watch a movie tonight, forget any academic obligations and let the mistakes take over.

“Sulking? Or tired?”

Your beloved housemate’s voice calls out from somewhere behind. That gives you a very clear idea that he’s invited himself inside the room. The door was closed. You didn’t hear anything.

Without raising your head, you mumble out your reply. “Both.”

A chuckle, and you hear him sitting down on the bed. “Wow. You sound like you need a twelve hour sleep.”

“Maybe I need twenty.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles again, “you’re going to need drugs for that.”

With a sigh, you raise your head, eyes staring at Childe’s blurry reflection on your laptop’s screen. “Maybe a drug cartel-ish business would’ve been easier. How much do you make again?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I don’t really need to keep track. It’s more than enough.”

“Show-off.”

“To be fair there are no drugs involved.”

You raise a brow at his reflection. “Then what is?”

“Hm.” Childe crosses his arms, faking deep thought. “You would have to be assassinated if I told you. Which is obviously unpreferable.”

“Yeah. I’m good then. Keep your secrets.”

He laughs again, louder this time. “Technically, spouses are immune to that rule. You’re gonna have to marry me if you want to know.”

A click of your tongue and you turn to look at him. Your expression is anything but playful. “Keep your secrets.” Now that you see the burnt maroon shirt and black pants, you figure that he just came back home. He’s even wearing his gloves.

“Oh, come on [Name]. I’m not that bad.”

You don’t reply.

“I am…?”

“No comment,” you deadpan. With that, you turn back to your laptop and turn it back on. Quietly, you close the pdf files of your submitted assignment and open the ones relating to the essay you need to turn in. By your estimate, you need to do lots of brainstorming, so if you start right now, you can get it done in around three days.

A hand flat on the table next to yours and warm breath over your ear startle you as you attempt to start reading. “Week six,” Childe reads, “the emotional mind: emotion, reason, and consciousness. Discuss the argument the author of this document has laid out and present your own views on the topic he is discussing. There is no right or wrong answer. You will be graded over your coherency in your writing and skills in identifying any possible discrepancies or invalidity of arguments. Please feel free to contact me or your tutor if you need help. The format is the same as what we discussed in class. Good luck.”

You open the document that is your required reading for the assignment and hear a grumble from Childe. He moves closer to you and instinctively, you lean forward to maintain what little distance there was. Gently, he coaxes your hand off the touchpad and asks if there’s any unsaved progress in the tabs you’ve opened. Once you say no, he closes everything.

After shutting down the laptop, he picks it up and places it on a side table. “Take a break,” he says. “You don’t need to work so hard.”

Tired, you’re almost tempted into listening to him but snap out of it when you hear what he says next.

“I’m going to take care of you, so even if something happens and you can’t complete the degree, you don’t have to worry.”

The statement makes you frown and you clearly show your displeasure with your expression and words. "That's not very nice."

He simply shrugs. "All I'm saying is that there's no pressure on you. Take it easy."

"The kind of pressure you're talking about is irrelevant."

Childe shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hand on a hip. "Is it? In what way," he challenges. "You left home to come to a different country to study. Of course there's pressure to succeed. I'm just trying to ease that."

"No. You're not." You finally find the courage to look straight into his challenging stare, unyielding despite feeling your heart start to beat faster. "You might be trying on your end, but it just makes me feel worse."

Your chest rises with every beat of your heart, the lub dub clearly audible in your ears. Again, Childe shifts his weight onto the other foot. He’s still looking at you that way, and it’s freaking you out. How can his stare be so… overwhelming?

“If you really think,” he says, “that what I say makes it worse, then I’m sorry.”

Out of surprise, you look over his expression but the furrowed brows fail to show any sign of insincerity despite his flat tone. The discrepancy makes you frown again, but you don’t bother explaining the expression to him. “Alright,” you say. With that, you go back to your table only to stare at the empty space in front of you.

There’s eraser dust around the table, your stationery haphazardly lying around and a single notebook open. There’s also your phone and a little packet of salted peanuts to munch on while studying. You hear a deep inhale from somewhere behind you but don’t bother pausing your aimless staring. It’s the sudden physical presence behind you that demands your attention back.

“[Name].”

Be mature about this, you tell yourself. There’s no need to be petty and say something neither of you will like.

At your silence, he continues. “[Name], are you… mad at me?”

Of course not! I love it when you say that you’ve cemented the idea of the both of us together. You start, “Childe-”

“Ajax.”

“Ajax,” you correct yourself, “gosh I’m still not used to that name. Anyway, I’m not mad at you.”

There’s a sound of disbelief that comes from behind you. “You’re not even looking at me!”

“I’m processing not having to use my brain. Give me a moment.”

He scoffs this time. “I don’t believe you. You’re doing the same thing. You’re being distant again.”

“I’m not,” you defend.

“Yes. Yes, you are. I know how this will inevitably go down. You’re going to grow more distant and talk less until there’s a confrontation that leaves you crying.” Childe continues despite your silence. “I don’t want that.”

It forces you to think he’s selfish, that he only thinks for himself when he says that he doesn’t want that, but despite wanting to think so, you know that he says that for you. His countenance gives away what his words cannot, and you still remember the face he made when it had happened.

That pure horror and regret is one of the reasons why despite his actions you still respect this man. Maybe it’s the only reason you don’t scream at him everyday, be acrimonious and cry yourself to sleep over your predicament. He may have taken over your life, but he also undoubtedly and unequivocally loves and cares for you. Even if he sometimes looks at you like you’re hiding something.

You will ignore the occasional watchful eyes in favour of the care he is capable of. Perhaps, or even most likely, it is the only reason why you think twice before speaking when you’re in a bad mood.

“So,” Childe says, a hand now next to yours on the table as he leans closer behind you, “let’s talk it over, okay?"

A question pops up in your mind, and you voice it after pulling your hand under the table. “Talk over what? I was just about to say that I’ll try my best not to do that again. And as for right now, I’m really just processing things. I’m tired.”

“Hm,” he hums. “The offer is still on the table. I can make your life easy. All you need to do is give me one chance.”

You scoff. “Easy? I think my life is easy enough. I don’t have to work, only study. Heck, you even do the groceries and cook more than half of the time.”

“I suppose you have a point.” In one swift movement, your chair is grabbed by the backrest and dragged to the edge of the bed. There, Childe seats himself, satisfied at the eye contact. “But I could make it easier.”

Arms now crossed, you respond to his offer with a question. “What, so you’re a magician now? I didn’t know you had a side gig.”

He laughs, boyish and charming. “Of course not. I’m just telling you what I can do for you. Nothing more.”

The smile on his face unsettles you. It’s one of the scheming ones. The one he has when he’s cooking up something that definitely is not food. Nevertheless, his little ‘clarification’ is met with nothing more than nonchalance on your end.

“Alright,” you shrug. “Thanks for making me take a break. I really needed it.”

He’s still smiling, albeit differently this time. It’s morphed into something more sincere, something more warm and welcoming. The look in his eyes is no way the same. “Absolutely. There’s no way I wouldn’t help you.”

The conversation seems almost over, and you are about to get up to lie on your bed when a demand pauses your movements. “Say my name,” he says. “I love hearing my name from you.”

You know why he asks that of you sometimes. It grounds him, reminds him of who he is behind the red mask that lays next to the vase on the side table. Gloves are peeled off, and hypnotised by the reveal of the long fingers underneath them, you mindlessly give your reply.

“Ajax.”

“[Name],” he breathes.

You are just as breathless. “Ajax.”

Face now resting in his palm, his smile is small but affectionate. “[Name].” Eyes follow as well, turning into something more soft. You finally see the image of someone adoring and can’t help the almost desperate call that slips from your mouth.

“Ajax.”

You do not know who you were calling to.

1K notes · View notes