Let me just drop
scenario-ish… thing? It’s fluffy and angsty?
It’s, uh, flangst.
I like flangst.
ungendered reader and a lot of swearing, because Hanamiya.
“You look like
you’re in pain,” you said, smiling softly at the pale boy by
not exactly fun to see you like this,” he mumbled. He looked
down at your hand resting on the crisp white sheets. A bright green
wrist tag had your name and blood type printed in neat little
letters, the first thing you saw when you woke up a few days ago.
It had been a
tiring experience so far.
A parade of people
introduced themselves to you.
Your parents, warm
Several of your
friends, carrying flowers and making jokes you didn’t quite
A colleague from
work, serious and a little awkward, coming to tell you not to worry
too much. You had not been
worrying at all. You didn’t even remember what your job entailed.
They came and went
like shadows in a thick fog, little slivers of a life that seemed
nice enough, but also very far away. A blank space that you were
desperately trying to fill.
The young man came
in after the others had left, near the end of visiting hours. He
drifted in like a storm cloud, looking for all the world like he
didn’t want to be here, sleek black hair falling over a sullen
face, hands in the pockets of his tight black jeans.
He looked you
up and down as you sat in the hospital bed, wearing a pair of fluffy pyjama’s that your parents had brought, and all you could feel for a
second was ice.
intimidating, to put it mildly.
“He says he’s
your boyfriend,” the kindly nurse murmured and she placed the
call button next to your pillow, giving you a pointed look before
leaving the room.
The boy did not
move from his place by the door, at first. He wore a scowl that
looked like murder and you wondered if it was meant for you.
said, frowning at the way his shoulder slumped, how he ducked his
head down as if he was weathering torrential rain.
like to take a seat?”
He sat, pouting, in
a chair at the foot of your bed.
remember you,” you said.
you’re cute,” you shrugged.
You wondered if
maybe he had a warm smile to give. Maybe that was what drew you to a
man such as him.
He rolled his eyes
and looked away.
The two of you sat
in uncomfortable silence until the nurse sent him home.
He came back the
next day and showed you pictures on his phone.
There you were,
smiling brightly at the camera, your arms around the pale boy who was
glaring at something in the distance.
You, holding up a
peace sign while he grabbed you from behind.
You, giggling madly
as you lay across his chest on the grass, shouting something at the
He, it seemed,
never smiled in pictures. At best, he looked mildly contented, with
his chin resting on your shoulder, clay brown eyes staring at the
camera from under a small frown.
You looked from the
pictures to him, and back, and tried to recognize the face he made
when he was happy.
The third day he
brought you music and books he said you’d liked.
Your parents had
done much the same.
The things they
called your favourite were very different from what he said you
adored, but you diligently listened and leafed through all of it.
Both parties were
sort of correct. You decided that you liked many genres.
You simply had eclectic
tastes and interests.
You asked him about
his. He seemed to hate a lot of things.
He talked about
politics and history while you occasionally frowned at the crudeness
of his language.
The nurse walked
down the hall on several occasions, lingering a little too long in
front of your door each time.
The fourth day he
brought you smells and tastes, since that had worked before.
The bread your
mother baked had brought back scraps of a memory, of carefree
mornings with a warm sun shining on dewed grass, of a wooden kitchen
with little flowered tiles on the walls.
There had been a
caramel sweet that showed you the kind, wrinkled eyes of an old man,
and you’d cried when they told you that man was long dead.
The boy’s gift
consisted of a shawl with your perfume on it and a brand of dark
chocolate that they didn’t sell in the hospital gift shop. What
you got from the shawl was a feeling of sweaty heat, of a heavy beat
moving a mass of people, the sound of footsteps on a wooden floor, a
tasted like falling leaves.
They were all very
vague things, but the nurse considered them progress.
she said, and the boy rolled his eyes behind her back.
You sagged into
your pillows and wondered how long you were supposed to trudge
through this swamp.
On the fifth day he
sat in a chair by your bedside, silently looking at your hand.
You smiled at his
grumpy face. It was starting to become familiar, the lines on it a
map to his eyes which were always, it seemed, looking everywhere but
straight at you, as if you were too bright for him.
His demeanour scared
the old woman across the hall, and most of the nurses actively
avoided him by now, but you found his presence oddly calming.
demanded nothing. He didn’t hope, like your parents or friends. He
didn’t get frustrated when the day’s efforts failed. He just sat and
grumbled, impatient but unmoving, like he did since the first day he
“I really am
trying,” you said.
He sighed deeply.
he said, “It took me a long ass time to make you mine, so I can
make a little effort to get you back.”
You blinked at him,
he said, “just take it easy, ok? Try not to break your head
again, you idiot.”
You giggled at his
rudeness and he sagged deeper into the chair.
Then an idea
you asked, “can I touch you?”
He raised an
eyebrow and you pointed at his hand. He laid it on the sheet and
flinched only a little when you softly ran your fingers over the
skin. You traced the lines from his knuckles down to his wrist while
he stared out of the window, lips pressed into a thin line.
The back of his
hand was smooth, with long, thin fingers stretching out into blunt
nails. They were well taken care of, you noted, kept short and filed.
Gently you turned
his hand over and rubbed a thumb in his palm. The inside was coarser,
with hardened skin on the cushions of his palm and the pads of his
There was a hint of
a memory, of rough skin on soft flesh, a deep murmur turning into a
moan and you jolted back, as if you just caught yourself in a
“Why are your
hands like this?” you asked.
dribbling a ball.
It made sense, you
thought, he seemed muscular enough to be some athlete.
A brief impression
flashed in front of your eyes, of muscles tightening under bare skin,
a chest with beads of sweat running down.
Your cheeks heated
up and for the first time, you could see a small hint of a curl on
the boy’s thin lips.
You continued to
calmly stroke his palm as the images came fluttering across your
vision like a cloud of starlings.
These hands, folded
across your chest.
These hands tracing
circles on your thighs.
These hands, prying
your fingers away from your eyes as you hide from the monsters on the
“You’re such a
coward,” his voice in your ear says, but you hear no malice.
The images came
faster, more vivid.
His fingers are
sneaking under your shirt, his lips are on your neck.
against you, biting your lower lip with a grin that makes your blood
You know you
shouldn’t be here, every sane part of your brain is screaming at you
to push him away but he tastes like dark chocolate and whiskey and
you want nothing more than to feel him, consume him, swallow him whole.
His nails scrape
down your damp back and you hold on to him, pulling him ever closer.
You blinked to find
the boy blatantly staring into your quickly reddening face.
“What the hell
are your remembering?” he said.
A small smirk played
on his lips.
You took a deep
breath and folded the fingers on his hand in, one by one, into a fist.
something. Something precious.
“Did that cunt
buy this?” he snarls.
“Did you fuck
him for it?” He pulls his arm back, ready to throw, to smash.
Please!” Your throat is sore. You’re heaving, out of breath.
Your eyes are stinging and it feels like the floor fell out from
you care about, isn’t it? How expensive something is? You wanna be a
fucking trophy? Well, go and be that rich fucker’s whore then.”
He throws it across
the room and you hear it shatter against a wall.
what everyone wants? For you to be with him? Have him pay for your
friends drinks. Have him buy your parents a trip to fucking Honolulu.
Everyone will live happily fucking ever FUCKING after.”
You let go of his
fist and shrunk back, turning toward the bedside table for a glass of
It gave your
shaking hands something to hold on to while the boy sat motionless
and looked at you.
He said nothing.
visiting hours are almost over,” you croaked.
said and grabbed your wrist.
His hand is holding
onto your wrist.
“Let go of
me,” you cry.
says, his voice bare and broken,“not after all this.”
“I can’t do
this. It’s too much.” You’re sobbing in the middle of a busy
Come inside and we’ll talk.” He’s trying his very best to be
calm but there is desperation there. You can feel it in the way his
fingers clench, leaving marks on your skin.
“Let go of
me,” you whimper.
And he does.
You stumble back.
You almost fall before you turn around and walk away.
You’re wiping the
tears from your eyes when you hear him call your name.
There’s a loud
noise, a high pitch and then everything hurts.
His hand is
underneath your head. It feels wet, somehow. A searing pain is making
it hard for you to concentrate. Your vision is a blur but you can
hear him very clearly.
me,” he’s saying, “not you.”
He’s close, so
close you can hear his breath hitch. He’s feverishly wiping hair out
of your face.
he says, “don’t you fucking dare.”
The murmur of a
crowd forms near you. There is a crunch of glass underneath shoes and
the hiss of an engine somewhere nearby.
“Stop gaping, you assholes!
Call a fucking ambulance,” he screams.
You looked up with
wet cheeks and the pale boy was frowning at you. His hand lay,
carefully, on your wrist.
He rose from his
seat just as the nurse came in.
“Time to get
some rest,” she said, gently, and turned to close the curtains,
“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, sir.”
“Will you come
back tomorrow,” you asked.
He leaned in and
briefly pressed his lips to your forehead.