It’s a slow day. One that you haven’t had in a while, too busy with life- too busy being consumed by responsibilities and finally, you’ve been granted a day where you can slip into shorts, order take out, and watch a movie. It’s the perfect day where you get to ignore responsibilities for a bit and allow yourself to rest. You can slip into the sofa crease and curl up with a soft blanket content that your day has been spent to the fullest. The moon in a low yellow light, appearing large in the night sky and you get to admire the beauty of it all, get to watch as the sky turns into a dark shade of blue, brilliant stars popping in the sky and it’s all just so peaceful. Too good to be true, not an ounce of anxiety, not a sick feeling that you’ve wasted the day- just a day spent in bliss. Alone.
And there’s the sick feeling brought by you being alone, confined to the walls of your home, with hands that are empty with a heart to match. Your brows knit and hold the pillow in your arms closer to your chest, nails digging into the floral print cover.
He hadn’t contacted you all day. He had messaged you the day before and suddenly his messages just stopped. Not a single “talk to you later” or even the acronym. It wasn’t rare for him to leave mid-conversation. His line of work makes it difficult for you two to hold a proper conversation over the phone but he always managed to message you at least once a day- made sure to give you a poor excuse as to why he left- like he was still trying to hide who he was from you.
Your fingers danced on the edge of your phone, lips coming into a pout when you feel a scratch on the surface and you want to message him back but he had given you strict orders that he would message you first- not the other way around- no amount of begging would ever make him change his mind. Always a message first and then a call afterwards if he allowed it. He explained it that he was keeping you safe- that if- when he messaged you, it was because everything was fine. He was safe and that meant that you were safe. A call was meant for him to hear your voice- teasing him that he got lonely in the middle of the night and that he missed you. He never denied it, both over the phone and when he sat next to you. He’d push you out his personal space or leave to scour through your fridge- he would tell you to shut your mouth, place his hand over your mouth once he gained control of his quirk- but he never once denied your words, just shrunk in on himself and pout- trying and succeeding in changing the subject.
You click your phone on and look at his last message. Letting out a tired sigh as you read his last- no, that’s a bad word to use- his final- that’s even worse- his words. They’re his words. You read his words to you and it’s nothing sweet, nothing of him declaring his love for you. It’s just a simple message of him telling you that he needs a new controller and asking if you wanted one too.
You snort. He’s a criminal, raised by a notorious villain, raised in an abusive and neglectful family, made his own family of outcasts. But he’s also a dork, caring to your needs even if he doesn’t know the best ways to do so, someone who you love to sleep in his arms and feel his hands and comment about how pretty they are while comparing sizes.
Tomura Shigaraki is someone who you missed dearly the entire day and even now, you still miss him.
Your rationale was able to convince you that he got busy- he’s always busy now- more so than ever and that was that. But then he hadn’t messaged you. He hadn’t tried to contact you and when the delivery person knocked on your door, you desperately wished that it would be Tomura with a gift bag as an apology for not messaging you earlier. But it wasn’t. It was a stranger who you greeted politely and tipped heavily and now the leftovers are in your refrigerator growing cold.
The movie ends, the credits rolling and the ending song playing and you wish you were more invested in it. Wished that he would have been here and commented about the movie and told you he found it boring, while he let his hands rest above the soft curve of your stomach. You just wished you knew something more about him. That he would have allowed for you to exchange numbers with the original League of Villains so you could feel an ounce closer to them- to him. So if he didn’t answer you’d at least have someone who was close to him who knew if he was alive and free.
But you don’t. You only met them once and even then he never let you out of his sight, never let you stray more than three feet away from him. And when Himiko had asked if she could have your number because you have such a warm personality- her words- he dragged you out of the room and let his legs throw themselves over yours effectively trapping you, fingers mashing aggressively on the controller in his hands.
Now you wish that you snuck out and traded numbers with the kitten-like teenager.
Instead, you’re at home, with cold leftovers some distance away and an empty can of soda a few inches below you.
You slump against the arm of the couch and stretch your arms to the side, sighing in relief when you hear a ‘pop’. It’s a slow and steady process as you get ready for bed- nothing else is going to consume your attention and the moon has grown smaller- it’s time for bed, to let your body rest and prepare for tomorrow’s worries.
You spit into the sink and dry your face. Mouth feels clean and smells of mint and you run a hand through your hair, you watch your reflection with tired eyes. You lean close and let your index ghost over all the little imperfections, tapping at a beauty mark and when content, you pull away and walk to your room, phone tight in your hand.
You freeze as you catch a glimpse of your room. Light peeking through the gap under the door and you struggle to breathe. Your hands are already moving on their own, scrambling and jerking to unlock, pressing on the call button and you wait with bated breath to hear Tomura’s raspy voice- you can deal with the lecture later, you just need him right now.
You think your own heart might stop before his voice is ever heard when a ringtone sounds from your room. It’s muffled but you hear it.
On your end, you hear him click his tongue when your call is answered. “I thought I said I’d call you first.”
You’re frazzled and trying to regain your breath, the rational thinking is gone and replaced with the weird in between thinking of survival and jokes. He gives out an irritated sigh and it breaks you from your stunned silence. “Oh no,” you mutter, “the call is coming from inside the house.” It’s dumb and it’s going to piss him off but it’s all you can think of to say.
“I’m-” he takes in a sharp inhale- “I didn’t visit for dumb jokes.”
His voice is quiet and you can hardly hear him through the wall but all emotion is evident in his speech. “Maybe you should call first next time.” Your brain struggles to process exactly what’s going on and his words aren’t registering. “Maybe then I wouldn’t be currently pissing myself because I thought someone broke in.”
He snorts and it’s a low and brash sound. “Oh, you are? That’s kind of hot.” You can hear the teasing in his voice, the smile reading through the receiver and you narrow your eyes at the wooden door that stands and acts as a barrier to your partner.
“You,” you struggle to find the correct insult, “are absolutely crude.” The insult doesn’t come. It never has and it never will. Words are always a struggle around him, wanting to prove yourself as someone who can be quick-witted.
“Shut up.” He’s quick to respond. “Are you coming in or not?”
“It’s my bedroom.” You tell him, taking slow steps towards your room.
He’s silent. “I’ll leave if you don’t come in.”
You smirk and your hand hovers over the doorknob. “No, you won’t,” you tell him matter-of-factly, twisting the knob and stepping inside the room. You’re met with him, sitting on your bed, clutching a plush animal from your childhood, the color faded and stuffing gone limp. “You’ll miss me too much.”
He makes a show of hanging up on you. He kicks his shoes off, and crawls on your bed, stuffed animal still clutched tightly in his grasp, and he rests on your pillows, closing his eyes as he sinks in. You press the end call button and walk towards him, sitting on the edge of the bed with your back turned to him.
“I told you I would call first.” He sounds tired as he talks and the bed creaks under his weight as he turns on your bed.
“You haven't messaged me all day,” your voice is delicate and you hear a small groan sound from him. “No message or anything” You turn your head and peer at him. “I don't want to be clingy but-”
“Things came up,” he’s quick as ever to give you a feeble excuse- to cut you off and start a new conversation all together. “I- I wanted to message you earlier but I uh, got my hands tied.”
You turn to face him and your eyes dart to his wrist. “That better not be a pun that you actually got tied up.”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s not.” His mouth twitches and he sits up, his hand still on your bed, palm extended towards you. “I promise-” he curls his fingers, encouraging you to take his hand. “Can we get some rest now?”
“What’s the magic word?” You have a lilt in your voice and a smile finally appears.
The tips of his ears burn and the dark shade of red is hidden by his soft hair. He mumbles under his breath, words unintelligible and lets the rabbit fall out of his grip and it lands in a slump on his lap. The hand outstretched towards you begins to pull away, already curling into a fist when you grab onto it.
He looks up at you and refuses to break contact even as his lips pull into thin lines. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” Your hand slips away from his and you turn on the lamp, opting for a softer light than the one currently on. You turn off the light above and the room is darker now, more intimate and even though you two have spent a considerable amount of time together- it still makes your heart leap into your throat. You crawl into bed with him, covering the both of you with blankets and immediately, as if it were the everyday routine that you shared, you crawl towards each other, hooking your leg under his and pressing yourself to his chest, feeling the soft thumping of his muscle against your ear, a constant, rhythmic reminder that the was in bed with you. His arms hook around you, fingertips playing with the ends of your hair, letting the strands flutter on your back before being picked up again. “You’re okay?”
“Just a rough day.” He presses his lips against the top of your head. “Recruits, paperwork, fucking spending and shit.” You nod and your hand smooths over the front of his shirt. “It’s boring and the fucking brace was itching during a meeting-”
“Want me to rub some oil on it? I have rosemary and peppermint.” You rise from his arms and he clutches the loose part of your shirt. “Only if you want to.”
He’s never been one to look away during a conversation, always making eye contact and it could come off as off-putting and as he stares at you, you can see the dark bags that reside under his eyes, his cracked lips that part and remain a fresh pink, a telltale sign that’s picked at them, and slowly, he nods his head, never once breaking eye contact from you.
“Peppermint,” he tells you and you break away first, quickly giving a kiss to his forehead, and rolling over to scour in your nightstand for the little glass bottle and spare tissues that you keep tucked away. “You keep oils in your nightstand?” he asks through a yawn, removing the brace with one hand and letting it drop to the side of him.
You sit criss crossed in front of him. He watches through half lidded eyes as you take his hand in yours, your fingers leaving phantom touches over his head, sending waves of shock through his body. You’re gentle with him, soothing over the crease lines that the brace has left. The pads of your fingers aren’t like his, they aren’t covered in ash and reek of death- yours are nurturing and smell of peppermint and home- something warm and sweet, something that he hasn’t felt and never realized that he missed until he met you. You caress him, hold him gently in your hands and even as the pain fades away, he wants to lie and tells you that it still hurts, that he’s still hurting and that it’ll only go away the more you hold him, he’ll say anything as long as you get to hold his hand until he falls asleep.
“Does it feel better?” You mumble, dabbing at his hand with the tissue, blowing cool air on him and your lips ghost over his skin. He nods mutely, throat too tight to answer and he covers his eyes with his free arm. “Okay, just tell when to stop.”
Your hands don’t leave his hands. Even as your movements slow and become weaker, you don’t leave and pull away from him, you stay sitting next to him, eyes half closed, soft words escaping from your lips, a little song that you sing to him, words getting lost and faded into mumbles, lilts of your voice as your thumb brushes over his scarring. He lays in bed and the smell of peppermint have overpowered your much softer scent, it’s sharp and fills senses, and he wants you to stop and he wants to wash his hands of it and just smell yours, wants to clean himself with the milk and honey hand soap, wants to soak it in and rest against you. He’s avaricious, wanting to hold you and wanting you to hold him, to rid himself of the peppermint and hold you close to him, to just have a day where he can pretend he’s already won and can rest with you.
“Tomura?” You call out to him, voice small and your hands have stilled on his.
“Yeah?” He tries to return your softness, his voice breathy and the remaining fingers on his hand jump.
You look at him and he looks up, slowly sitting up, legs extended out and he’s tired. “I missed you today,” you mumble, holding his hand tighter.
He swallows tightly. “I missed you too.”
You nod silently and down at his hand that you hold onto so tightly, like he would disappear and leave for the night, leaving you empty and cold. You move closer to him and let your hands go, reaching over to the napkin that has turned translucent. His hand is empty and exposed, the cool air in your room sharp on him. You wipe your hands feebly, and you lean towards him, taking his face in your hands and he can still smell home on you, even after you’ve been coated in peppermint.
You peck at his lips and he keeps his eyes half open as yours close. “I love you Tomura,” you whisper against his lips, your breath minty and shaky on him. You pull away and give him the softest look he’s ever received and it makes his lungs contract and chest ache. He looks away and presses his lips against your palm. You turn him back to face you. “I love you. I really do.” You kiss him once more and he can feel the smile on your lips. “You don’t have to say it back.”
He doesn’t know how to say it back. Those three words holding so much power over him and it’s almost laughable but it’s also pitiful. He loves you- he does. This feeling that overtakes him whenever you're near- the warm feeling in his chest as if he were standing under the sunlight- it has to be love. The driven force to protect you and hold you close- he knows that it’s love. Can say the words in his mind just fine, but they burn his tongue and make him bleed- the words are sweet on your tongue, a beautiful melody to him and yet his words would be rapsy and broken, unsure and uneven. He would never deny you love, always show the action and let you see him unmasked, but those three simple words are everything- everything to him and to you, and as much as he doesn’t want to deny you the love you so desperately want and deserve, he keeps his mouth silent and holds the words close to his heart.
He nods and you return to his hand that is covered in your love and warmth and lies back down, biting on the inside of his cheeks as he tries to calm his beating heart. But as you continue your signing, as your words echo in his head, he mouths the words and hopes that you heard him- that you understood and saw, that you took notice of him- that you know that he loves you too- the best that he ever could and the most that he ever will.