(one-shot) reset
Title: Reset
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: Akame
Genre: Friendship, romance, angst
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer(s): I own nothing.
Summary: When he breaks free of you, his eyes are soft, too soft, like he could love you.
A/N: Major writer's block lately :( hopefully this is a start to getting over it! Sorry, am still behind with replying to comments. Will get to them, I promise ♥ hopefully this isn't too confusing. Written while listening to Kizuna, actually :) enjoy, comments are, as always, much loved. ♥!
“You look lonely,” he remarks. They’re the first words he’s spoken directly at you, ever since you caught his gaze from across the rehearsal room, stuffed in between the sweat and glaring lights of auditioning. You saw the jagged, prickly strands of his hair sticking out from the crowd, the dejected drag of his feet as he went to hand back his nameplate. You’d watched as the old man by the door clapped a hand on his shoulder, mouthing quick, quiet words you were unable to decipher - but a smile bloomed across his face, soft and innocent, slightly crooked at the edges, and he’d turned back to face you.
“You are lonely,” he says now, sliding down the wall to where you’re sitting, hands clasped in the gap between your knees. There’s a startlingly loud clatter beside you, and you jump, shifting away to see the gleam of a cell phone on the ground, his embarrassed smile lingering at the corners of your vision. “My bad,” he mutters, slipping it back into his pocket.
Carefully, you scrunch your nose upwards, raising an elbow to dig into your own pocket. He regards you curiously, watching as your fingers fumble out a phone of your own, chipped at the corners and paint peeling from the center. “We should stick together,” you announce into the silence awkwardly, pressing the phone into his palm. It sounded better in your head.
But he just smiles, that uplifting, quirky smile, and flips your phone open. “Baseball,” he muses, voice roughened with curiosity. “Guess that puts us on opposite sides of the spectrum,” he adds, and only then do you notice the print on the sleeve of his T-shirt, the elegant, curved symbol of his favorite soccer team decorating the front of his chest.
You wait a beat. “Better than being lonely,” you reply carefully, unsure of the way his hands are still curled around your phone, fingers hesitating on the number pad. At your words, though, he grins - all white teeth and chapped lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling into tiny, etched branches on his skin. He types at a rapid speed, entering his number into the aged, whirring confines of your cell phone.
When he hands it back, his fingertips brush your palm, a warm, fluttering touch. “Call me when you’re lonely,” he whispers, and it feels like he’s giving you more than just his number. He picks himself up from the ground, his figure towering over you as he flashes a peace sign. Guitarist fingers. “See you,” he promises, and saunters off down the hall.
You watch his retreating back, the flop of his dark brown hair, the slip of his jeans around his hips, and you smile a little, your lips pressing into curves against your cheekbones. He disappears around the corner, and you lean back, just a tiny bit more hopeful.
Only then do you realize that you forgot to ask his name.
--
“You look lonely,” he remarks, a bit too loudly to break the silence. They’re the first words he’s spoken to you since you caught his gaze from the other end of the stage, his eyes hidden beneath the slanted brim of his fedora. You saw the long, curled strands of his hair sweep across his shoulders as he turned, the tightened grip of his hand around the microphone, thumb pressing into the metal rimming. You’d watched as he continued to sing, voice loud and strong, but weakness crossed his face, a question in his eyes - and you kept on smiling, rigidly, determined to keep your lips lifted.
“You are lonely,” he says, and it’s more of a question than a statement. He’s standing right beside the couch, just barely leaning on the armrest, eyes on you. There’s an unspoken feeling that wells up inside you, claws to get free, but you swallow it down, focusing your gaze on your hands in your lap. His presence draws closer, slowly, and you close your eyes for a brief, fleetingly painful moment.
Something cold and smooth weighs down in your palm, and your eyes flutter open, surprised to see a sleek, black iPhone. “My new number,” he whispers, voice raw and open, and you look up to see his face just inches from yours, his breaths shallow and irregular. Your fingers twitch, but you refuse to move. The phone lies heavily in your hand.
His eyes search your face, disappointed. But instead of drawing away, like you expect him to, he moves closer - and suddenly, his hand slides into your jacket pocket, curling closed around the phone you have hidden inside. Breathing in shakily, you are about to push him away, but he moves away of his own accord, both phones safe in his hold.
“I’m fine,” the words tumble out of your mouth unwarranted, fashionably late - but he’s already typing into your phone. You can’t help but notice how his hands are trembling.
“Call me when,” he begins, but stops. Silently, he drops the phone back into your lap, rising from the couch with swift movements. “Call me,” he repeats, curtly, and his face is so shadowed by the light that you can’t gauge his expression.
He’s out the door in a few seconds, broad back vanishing into the glimpse you catch of the whitewashed hallway. “See you,” you breathe into the silence he has left behind, the promise you haven’t forgotten.
--
He takes you out for ramen.
It’s the worst ramen you’ve ever eaten. The noodles are too crisp, undercooked, the meat stubborn and nearly pulling your teeth out after one bite. The spices are either too little or too many, the soup is watery - you wonder, for a split second, if it’s really just heated tap water. In your best attempt to not grimace, you hide the lower half of your face into your napkin, watching with a raised eyebrow as he digs into his bowl heartily.
Glancing up to see you watching, he lifts his own eyebrows questioningly. “You’re not eating?” he inquires, and just as you open your mouth with a polite excuse, he dishes the remaining half of his noodles into yours. “Unacceptable. You’re a stick. Eat up.”
You stare at the noodles piled high in your soup, at his nonchalant gestures as he plucks the soy sauce from the ingredients lined up in the corner of the table. He drowns his last piece of meat with it, eyes alighting upon you as he bites into it bravely. “Eat,” he repeats in between chews, and attempts a menacing glare, cheeks puffed with a mouthful of beef. “Or else.”
Biting back laughter, you raise your hands in surrender. “Impatient child,” you respond, picking the chopsticks off the rim of your bowl and rolling noodles around the ends. You can feel his eyes on you as you bring it, hesitantly, to your mouth. Carefully, you munch down the dried ends, working your tongue around to bring out the flavor.
“Indirect kiss,” he sings softly as he blows on his meat, giving you a wink. Letting out an indignant sound, you kick his shin under the table, delighting in the sputtering response as he drops his meat back into the soup with a plop. “Oi, I’m a soccer player, if you break that bone, you’ll have to pay!”
Warmth spreads inside you, a tingling sensation that courses up your spine, makes your lips tug upwards. “Only if you catch me,” you answer challengingly. “I’m a baseball player, remember. I run fast.”
A competitive streak flares in his eyes, and he grins. “It’s on.”
--
He takes you out for ramen.
It’s the best ramen you’ve tasted in your entire life. The spices are mixed just right, the meat is cooked to its finest, the noodles are softened and drenched in flavor. The soup is brimming with taste, so much that you have to fight back a sigh of content as you polish off the entire bowl.
You glance up to see him watching, sunglasses propped up in the giant waves of his hair. His bowl is still half-finished, and you’re warily curious. “You’re not eating?”
Blinking, he snaps out of his reverie - the fact that he was staring at you makes your heart throb a beat, but you immediately revert your thoughts in a different direction. “You eat more these days,” he replies, without answering your question. And, to your surprise, before you can even respond, he moves forward to dump the rest of his bowl into yours, noodles sloshing against the sides to refill the emptiness.
Something catches in your throat, and you swallow your heart back down.
Indirect kiss.
--
His body is warm next to yours on the grass, feet propped up against the pastel blue of the sky. Leaning back, you close your eyes to block out the blind of sunshine, feeling the heat pouring over your cheeks and the earth seeping into your back. “Ryu,” he coos beside you, and you laugh without opening your eyes. “Ryu, we graduated!”
“Shut up,” you reply fondly, shielding your eyes with a hand as you open them, settling on the contours of his alighted expression, the tired, happy purse of his lips. He’s still dressed in the school uniform, white collared shirt accented by a black jacket, silver chain dangling around his neck. You can’t believe it’s over.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” he echoes your thought, collapsing onto his stomach so he can speak facing you. “Our first complete, actual drama.” He stretches lazily, resting his chin onto his flattened palms, body languid against the bent, rippling blades of grass. “The best drama ever.”
“Probably would have been better without you,” you retort, earning a loud protest and elbow in the ribs. Suddenly, you can’t stop the laughter that bubbles out of you, spilling from your mouth, an endless outburst of feelings you can’t express properly in words. You laugh until your sides are aching, and you can see him laughing with you, without any reason, any worry, any obstacle in sight - it’s just you and him, the ground, the sky. The staff is cleaning up a few miles back down the path. You’re alone, and it feels good. You’re alone, and happy, and inexpressible warmth courses through your veins, pours into the corners of your heart until you are folding into yourself, holding your stomach with uncontained giggles, hair falling across your eyes.
Finally, the laughter subsides, and you are left with the echo of happiness in your ears. His smile is wide and up close, too close for you to even begin gathering your bearings - his hair is ticklish against the bare skin of your neck, his breathing irregular. He’s too close, but you can’t push away, because your heart is blinding your eyes, because his hands are entangled with yours, because his lips are on yours and everything crashes in that moment.
When he breaks free of you, his eyes are soft, too soft, like he could love you.
You stumble onto your feet, your heartbeat tripping, your fingers shaking. Your name is a silent breath on his lips, and you turn your head away from it, from his heart balanced in the air between you. You give it back to him; shove it back into his chest with panicked hands, fluttering eyelids, clumsy footsteps.
You run away, and you never look back.
--
His body is warm next to yours on the grass - you knew he’d come; you had a feeling. Your feet are bare, propped up against the faraway city lights, the flashes of color and streak of an airplane across the sky. Leaning back, you close your eyes, and you feel nineteen again, unprepared for the ache of life in your shoulders. “Ryu,” his voice is quiet in your ears, rough with memories.
The name makes you flip around, until you’re searching his dark eyes with your own. You tilt your head, reaching out an uncertain hand to flick the fedora off his head, uncovering the mess of rocker-style hair that drapes to frame his face. “Wasn’t any better without you,” you whisper, the syllables tumbling out of your mouth breathlessly. (Forgive me.)
Without answering, he shifts upwards a little, and the slightest fear spirals through you that he’s going to leave - after all these years, he’s going to do the same you did to him. You deserve it. His shadow covers your body, temporarily blocks out all the lights of nightlife, and it’s just his face closing in on yours. His hands run up the length of your side, and you shiver, the familiar warmth making your toes curl.
Your breathing is shallow, almost non-existent as he nudges his face into the crook of your neck, breathes out shakily into your bare skin. “I finally caught you,” he murmurs, and you press your lips tightly together to suppress the tears. He slides up against you, guitarist fingers grasping the insides of your wrists; coaxes your mouth open with his own.
When he finally breaks free, you’re both breathing hard. When he finally breaks free, his eyes are soft, so soft, like he loves you.
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: Akame
Genre: Friendship, romance, angst
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer(s): I own nothing.
Summary: When he breaks free of you, his eyes are soft, too soft, like he could love you.
A/N: Major writer's block lately :( hopefully this is a start to getting over it! Sorry, am still behind with replying to comments. Will get to them, I promise ♥ hopefully this isn't too confusing. Written while listening to Kizuna, actually :) enjoy, comments are, as always, much loved. ♥!
“You look lonely,” he remarks. They’re the first words he’s spoken directly at you, ever since you caught his gaze from across the rehearsal room, stuffed in between the sweat and glaring lights of auditioning. You saw the jagged, prickly strands of his hair sticking out from the crowd, the dejected drag of his feet as he went to hand back his nameplate. You’d watched as the old man by the door clapped a hand on his shoulder, mouthing quick, quiet words you were unable to decipher - but a smile bloomed across his face, soft and innocent, slightly crooked at the edges, and he’d turned back to face you.
“You are lonely,” he says now, sliding down the wall to where you’re sitting, hands clasped in the gap between your knees. There’s a startlingly loud clatter beside you, and you jump, shifting away to see the gleam of a cell phone on the ground, his embarrassed smile lingering at the corners of your vision. “My bad,” he mutters, slipping it back into his pocket.
Carefully, you scrunch your nose upwards, raising an elbow to dig into your own pocket. He regards you curiously, watching as your fingers fumble out a phone of your own, chipped at the corners and paint peeling from the center. “We should stick together,” you announce into the silence awkwardly, pressing the phone into his palm. It sounded better in your head.
But he just smiles, that uplifting, quirky smile, and flips your phone open. “Baseball,” he muses, voice roughened with curiosity. “Guess that puts us on opposite sides of the spectrum,” he adds, and only then do you notice the print on the sleeve of his T-shirt, the elegant, curved symbol of his favorite soccer team decorating the front of his chest.
You wait a beat. “Better than being lonely,” you reply carefully, unsure of the way his hands are still curled around your phone, fingers hesitating on the number pad. At your words, though, he grins - all white teeth and chapped lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling into tiny, etched branches on his skin. He types at a rapid speed, entering his number into the aged, whirring confines of your cell phone.
When he hands it back, his fingertips brush your palm, a warm, fluttering touch. “Call me when you’re lonely,” he whispers, and it feels like he’s giving you more than just his number. He picks himself up from the ground, his figure towering over you as he flashes a peace sign. Guitarist fingers. “See you,” he promises, and saunters off down the hall.
You watch his retreating back, the flop of his dark brown hair, the slip of his jeans around his hips, and you smile a little, your lips pressing into curves against your cheekbones. He disappears around the corner, and you lean back, just a tiny bit more hopeful.
Only then do you realize that you forgot to ask his name.
--
“You look lonely,” he remarks, a bit too loudly to break the silence. They’re the first words he’s spoken to you since you caught his gaze from the other end of the stage, his eyes hidden beneath the slanted brim of his fedora. You saw the long, curled strands of his hair sweep across his shoulders as he turned, the tightened grip of his hand around the microphone, thumb pressing into the metal rimming. You’d watched as he continued to sing, voice loud and strong, but weakness crossed his face, a question in his eyes - and you kept on smiling, rigidly, determined to keep your lips lifted.
“You are lonely,” he says, and it’s more of a question than a statement. He’s standing right beside the couch, just barely leaning on the armrest, eyes on you. There’s an unspoken feeling that wells up inside you, claws to get free, but you swallow it down, focusing your gaze on your hands in your lap. His presence draws closer, slowly, and you close your eyes for a brief, fleetingly painful moment.
Something cold and smooth weighs down in your palm, and your eyes flutter open, surprised to see a sleek, black iPhone. “My new number,” he whispers, voice raw and open, and you look up to see his face just inches from yours, his breaths shallow and irregular. Your fingers twitch, but you refuse to move. The phone lies heavily in your hand.
His eyes search your face, disappointed. But instead of drawing away, like you expect him to, he moves closer - and suddenly, his hand slides into your jacket pocket, curling closed around the phone you have hidden inside. Breathing in shakily, you are about to push him away, but he moves away of his own accord, both phones safe in his hold.
“I’m fine,” the words tumble out of your mouth unwarranted, fashionably late - but he’s already typing into your phone. You can’t help but notice how his hands are trembling.
“Call me when,” he begins, but stops. Silently, he drops the phone back into your lap, rising from the couch with swift movements. “Call me,” he repeats, curtly, and his face is so shadowed by the light that you can’t gauge his expression.
He’s out the door in a few seconds, broad back vanishing into the glimpse you catch of the whitewashed hallway. “See you,” you breathe into the silence he has left behind, the promise you haven’t forgotten.
--
He takes you out for ramen.
It’s the worst ramen you’ve ever eaten. The noodles are too crisp, undercooked, the meat stubborn and nearly pulling your teeth out after one bite. The spices are either too little or too many, the soup is watery - you wonder, for a split second, if it’s really just heated tap water. In your best attempt to not grimace, you hide the lower half of your face into your napkin, watching with a raised eyebrow as he digs into his bowl heartily.
Glancing up to see you watching, he lifts his own eyebrows questioningly. “You’re not eating?” he inquires, and just as you open your mouth with a polite excuse, he dishes the remaining half of his noodles into yours. “Unacceptable. You’re a stick. Eat up.”
You stare at the noodles piled high in your soup, at his nonchalant gestures as he plucks the soy sauce from the ingredients lined up in the corner of the table. He drowns his last piece of meat with it, eyes alighting upon you as he bites into it bravely. “Eat,” he repeats in between chews, and attempts a menacing glare, cheeks puffed with a mouthful of beef. “Or else.”
Biting back laughter, you raise your hands in surrender. “Impatient child,” you respond, picking the chopsticks off the rim of your bowl and rolling noodles around the ends. You can feel his eyes on you as you bring it, hesitantly, to your mouth. Carefully, you munch down the dried ends, working your tongue around to bring out the flavor.
“Indirect kiss,” he sings softly as he blows on his meat, giving you a wink. Letting out an indignant sound, you kick his shin under the table, delighting in the sputtering response as he drops his meat back into the soup with a plop. “Oi, I’m a soccer player, if you break that bone, you’ll have to pay!”
Warmth spreads inside you, a tingling sensation that courses up your spine, makes your lips tug upwards. “Only if you catch me,” you answer challengingly. “I’m a baseball player, remember. I run fast.”
A competitive streak flares in his eyes, and he grins. “It’s on.”
--
He takes you out for ramen.
It’s the best ramen you’ve tasted in your entire life. The spices are mixed just right, the meat is cooked to its finest, the noodles are softened and drenched in flavor. The soup is brimming with taste, so much that you have to fight back a sigh of content as you polish off the entire bowl.
You glance up to see him watching, sunglasses propped up in the giant waves of his hair. His bowl is still half-finished, and you’re warily curious. “You’re not eating?”
Blinking, he snaps out of his reverie - the fact that he was staring at you makes your heart throb a beat, but you immediately revert your thoughts in a different direction. “You eat more these days,” he replies, without answering your question. And, to your surprise, before you can even respond, he moves forward to dump the rest of his bowl into yours, noodles sloshing against the sides to refill the emptiness.
Something catches in your throat, and you swallow your heart back down.
Indirect kiss.
--
His body is warm next to yours on the grass, feet propped up against the pastel blue of the sky. Leaning back, you close your eyes to block out the blind of sunshine, feeling the heat pouring over your cheeks and the earth seeping into your back. “Ryu,” he coos beside you, and you laugh without opening your eyes. “Ryu, we graduated!”
“Shut up,” you reply fondly, shielding your eyes with a hand as you open them, settling on the contours of his alighted expression, the tired, happy purse of his lips. He’s still dressed in the school uniform, white collared shirt accented by a black jacket, silver chain dangling around his neck. You can’t believe it’s over.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” he echoes your thought, collapsing onto his stomach so he can speak facing you. “Our first complete, actual drama.” He stretches lazily, resting his chin onto his flattened palms, body languid against the bent, rippling blades of grass. “The best drama ever.”
“Probably would have been better without you,” you retort, earning a loud protest and elbow in the ribs. Suddenly, you can’t stop the laughter that bubbles out of you, spilling from your mouth, an endless outburst of feelings you can’t express properly in words. You laugh until your sides are aching, and you can see him laughing with you, without any reason, any worry, any obstacle in sight - it’s just you and him, the ground, the sky. The staff is cleaning up a few miles back down the path. You’re alone, and it feels good. You’re alone, and happy, and inexpressible warmth courses through your veins, pours into the corners of your heart until you are folding into yourself, holding your stomach with uncontained giggles, hair falling across your eyes.
Finally, the laughter subsides, and you are left with the echo of happiness in your ears. His smile is wide and up close, too close for you to even begin gathering your bearings - his hair is ticklish against the bare skin of your neck, his breathing irregular. He’s too close, but you can’t push away, because your heart is blinding your eyes, because his hands are entangled with yours, because his lips are on yours and everything crashes in that moment.
When he breaks free of you, his eyes are soft, too soft, like he could love you.
You stumble onto your feet, your heartbeat tripping, your fingers shaking. Your name is a silent breath on his lips, and you turn your head away from it, from his heart balanced in the air between you. You give it back to him; shove it back into his chest with panicked hands, fluttering eyelids, clumsy footsteps.
You run away, and you never look back.
--
His body is warm next to yours on the grass - you knew he’d come; you had a feeling. Your feet are bare, propped up against the faraway city lights, the flashes of color and streak of an airplane across the sky. Leaning back, you close your eyes, and you feel nineteen again, unprepared for the ache of life in your shoulders. “Ryu,” his voice is quiet in your ears, rough with memories.
The name makes you flip around, until you’re searching his dark eyes with your own. You tilt your head, reaching out an uncertain hand to flick the fedora off his head, uncovering the mess of rocker-style hair that drapes to frame his face. “Wasn’t any better without you,” you whisper, the syllables tumbling out of your mouth breathlessly. (Forgive me.)
Without answering, he shifts upwards a little, and the slightest fear spirals through you that he’s going to leave - after all these years, he’s going to do the same you did to him. You deserve it. His shadow covers your body, temporarily blocks out all the lights of nightlife, and it’s just his face closing in on yours. His hands run up the length of your side, and you shiver, the familiar warmth making your toes curl.
Your breathing is shallow, almost non-existent as he nudges his face into the crook of your neck, breathes out shakily into your bare skin. “I finally caught you,” he murmurs, and you press your lips tightly together to suppress the tears. He slides up against you, guitarist fingers grasping the insides of your wrists; coaxes your mouth open with his own.
When he finally breaks free, you’re both breathing hard. When he finally breaks free, his eyes are soft, so soft, like he loves you.