yet another self indulgent aef AU

[discarding]

[Midousuji and Aerith have been…friends (or something—Midousuji wouldn’t call it that even if it were that simple, because he simply didn’t put titles on any type of relationship for fear of spontaneous combustion per his breadthy slew of mental problems) for a little over half a year.

he hates, as a matter of fact, that he knows the time they’ve known each other to the week, day and hour; a curse of an obsessive personality and an over-calculating brain that parses logic by numbers before anything else. it, of course, makes him feel gross.

as too do his feelings, of which he can no longer deny in the privacy of his own mind—and even that’s been a milestone to cross. he’s aware, to his great irritation and dismay, that he has feelings for Aerith. gross ones. ones that make him wonder how she’s doing, what she’s doing, and do things like reach out to her on purpose, or occasionally vandalize her porch with a small gift (extremely sparing are these gestures; god forbid Midousuji be transparent about anything).

and in Aefenglom, he has no purpose—there is no any particular reason to construct himself in any particular way, because he’s only ever molded himself as his own idea of the perfect machine suited best for victory. the only thing he’s ever had, and the only thing he’s ever cared about. but he’s been in this horrible place for a horrible year, and with the disservice (help) of new memories imparted to him the previous Summer, Midousuji has changed. it’s subtle, being the long-limbed picture definition of a slow-burn in any capacity.

even his sexual attraction to Aerith was late to catch up to every other type of attraction that had been months-festering, and if he hadn’t had…a disquieting dream that sort of slapped him in his dense-idiot face, Midousuji might not have ever become aware. it was easy to dismiss as an offshoot, and then he’d gone and had another. he was able to dismiss that as a coincidence—but after the 4th time, Midousuji had to (with great frustration) resign himself to his fate. and his dick. terrible.

but despite all this, Midousuji’s behavior hasn’t changed from when Aerith had first met him. not too much, anyways. he’s of course more comfortable (though not by a heap), even if that too was a months long journey; he’s now more playful, more goading. it’s easier to lean into that with his (gag) crush, too. and of course, because he’s frustratedly aware that this is an aspect of him that may never change, Midousuji is still plenty shy, too, despite that. but now, if Aerith incidentally and innocently shows a bit too much leg, or leans in a way that, in combination with his lofty height, shows a bit too much of the soft, inviting cleft between her breasts, Midousuji sharply looks away, and takes longer to recover than any of his typical sheepish gaze-dodging—whereas before, Midousuji didn’t bat an eye at these things. if he’d even noticed.

doesn’t help that it’s not like he has access to porn in Aefenglom. the asshole powers that be should sooner strike him dead than catch Midousuji stooping so low as to buy a racy, old-timey skinmag.

all of this combined has gotten Midousuji into the unique (though admittedly, teenagedly predictable) situation that he’s in now.

Midousuji and Aerith don’t have a lot of types of magic in common that they like to practice—but the one overlap in their interest, though for very different motivations, is divination. part of Midousuji’s interest in divination is that he has any at all, and so does Aerith. meaning, of course: it’s an excuse to spend time with her, guised conveniently and for his comfort as him being his typical hardworking and studious self. Aerith probably isn’t fooled, but Midousuji thinks he’s pretty clever and doesn’t even consider that.

tonight, against his better judgement, but not for the first time, he’s studying at Aerith’s—worse yet, and also not for the first time, in her room. but at least, they were sat on the floor—any suggestion to move somewhere more comfortable gets an eye-rolled shrieking tantrum from Midousuji adamantly putting down the line with a hard no. too risky!

and they’ve studied late into the night. Midousuji hadn’t wanted to admit that he was getting drowsy, and when Aerith teased that it seemed so all the same, Midousuji simply blamed her—said because she was acting groggy and yawning that his animal brain was being tricked into picking up her sleepy cues. but they were almost through this chapter. Aerith was more familiar with tea-leaf divination than Midousuji, so maybe she’d just been a little bored. truth told, Midousuji’s not all that interested in it either. so he is bored, despite how riveted and on-edge he feels at the same time.

it doesn’t prove to be enough to keep him awake, and, resting on his belly, Midousuji eventually nods off, drooling onto the page of his book before his head suddenly slammed down against it, arm still propped as it had been to support his chin. and just like that, he was out like a dead person. he always slept hard, and suddenly—and he had a pretty regular routine, too, working his own clock against him in this circumstance.

if he shifts in his sleep, he doesn’t notice; he tends to be quite still himself, but there’s some unfamiliar parameters at play in this situation. one of which being a warm body sensed near by in his subconscious, tied to a familiar scent that brings both comfort and craving. Midousuji’s never hugged anyone in his life—not even his own mother—but somehow, at some point, maybe due to Aerith’s dozy nearness or her curious, too-close inspection a couple of hours, Midousuji’s bony, awkward arms have pulled her in. the only reason the hold isn’t especially stiff and awkward is because much of his body’s tension comes from his mind, which had been currently off.

so to speak, anyways.

another lurid dream had began to tingle the peripherals of his mind—and elsewhere. he squeezed Aerith a little closer, thin, strong arms pressing in parallel folds across the soft of her tummy, his head swimming with the scent of her. and, unfortunately, while Midousuji wasn’t one to express his inner workings, sometimes, his body was. this was made evident, depending on whether or not Aerith was even awake, by his obvious, urgent hardness against her body. he wasn’t doing anything as foul as rutting (by some miracle; Aerith was lucky), but in the back of his mind, in his subconscious, he was aware of a soft, pleasant pressure. it informed his dream, though it was kind of abstract and hard to pin; holding Aerith’s jaw with one upturned, clawed hand to taste the inside of her mouth and to bite her lips, grindingly deep within her. the dream is surprisingly nothing frantic in its depiction; just close, hard, quiet; quiet gasps and panting—

but no orgasm, as these dreams tend to go by the design of a young man. indeed, Midousuji wakes suddenly, for whatever reason. maybe the warmth against his crotch had suddenly dawned on his sleep-self’s brain as being too real, or maybe Aerith had stirred in some way. but either way, his eyes open in a sudden snap, and simultaneously, he sucks in a raspy, choked gasp.

frozen, his arms then do cage in an unnatural, stiff grasp. realization coming in sleep-drunk, confused pieces, Midousuji’s eyes drop with pin-pricked horror, noticing the position of his arms. and thus, subsequently, Aerith’s body—and his hard, stupid dick.

Midousuji shrieks, throwing his one arm off of Aerith while desperately yanking his other one away from underneath the (lovely) dip of her side, and scrambles backwards so suddenly that he slams the back of his head and his bony spine against the hard wood of her bed frame. which, of course, gets another yelp out of Midousuji, turning in wide-eyed surprise as his back bends to boggle at the bed frame. he’d forgotten where he was. mortified, Midousuji then whips his head around to stare, wide-eyed, at Aerith. he can’t even find words.

but his head is an echo-chamber of “no”s.

no, no, no, no, this is bad. he’s crossed a line!! he couldn’t be—wasn’t that kind of person! sure, yes, urges were normal! even attraction was, fine! but that—that wasn’t why he spent time with Aerith! that wasn’t why he wanted to be closer to her!! and now it’s going to seem that way. and his intentions be damned, his attraction is enough to make him a monster anyway! he’d fucked it up!! he’d fucked it all up!

panic swells in Midousuji, which does nothing to de-escalate the swelling of his unspent wood, because he’s the worst. he has to get the fuck out of here right now.]

Comments

[bloomly]

( she knows that he won't have any issue following instructions, just like she knows that it won't take much guidance for him to find the right rhythm for the both of them. in this, ironically, despite all lack of experience, she imagines, on his part, and the small wealth of it that she has on hers, she trusts him--she trusts that he knows how to listen to his body, the way that he must when he's riding his bike, or when he's doing anything here. operating with such long limbs must be good for something other than the towering way he hovers over her, or the way he uses his flexibility to, at times, try to scare other people. at least, that's what she thinks it must be: that he uses it as a barrier between himself and others, like he's circumventing being hurt by doing it himself. if he comes off strange enough, clumsy enough, no one will even try. and maybe she's used to that kind of person, now--maybe she's too stubborn to stop something once she's got her fingers in it.

i want you to like it, he says. she wonders if he knows that she would like it any way, so long as it's him: realizations that have sat, patiently waiting, in the pit of her heart to be addressed or answered.

and really, like she figured, it doesn't take him long to get it going. at first, the tandem movements are a little clumsy, and in encouragement, she keeps herself still, lets him find the connection between his hips and his hands and offers, instead, soft, little breaths of pleasure to keep him going. it's not slow, and it's not lengthy, and it's not the kind of strange, sensual fucking that she's heard of before, like it's more romantic that way or something; she's never liked the thought. this, here, is more romantic: where he touches her and pushes himself forward, where he stretches inside of her and rubs over her in a way that's impossible to escape from. his body cranes over her and her arms lift to clutch at him--both hands crawling up the back of his neck, curling up into his hair in affection.

at some point, it becomes hard to even consciously think of what she's doing--her body does it for her, too, lets her eyes finally close, lashes that tremble almost like the pleasure is so good to the point of being overwhelming. it's hard, in some ways, to reconcile it; her fingers get tight in his hair, arching up the back of his head, like she wants to smash him into her chest and hold him close, but even that wouldn't get them any closer than this. it feels like her body is at his mercy: and she likes it. likes it so much that her thighs start to cage in around him, that one of her knees knocks against his hip and she thinks, a little, that her gasp of don't stop sounds childish and silly, like he won't like it at all but she can't help herself from blurting it out.

it's not supposed to be like this, is it? she's supposed to guide him, or something; she's supposed to help, or something, not selfishly claim orgasm twice in a row.

her fingers tremble, pull--her lips fall apart, split by a hot breath, and her hips press into him, almost shaking with effort that doesn't even really need much effort at all. the second orgasm always comes a little easier than the first, after all; she rides it out around him, squeezes and tilts and rolls herself into his cock, and the only hint of shame is when one of her hands breaks away to wipe a bead of sweat off her forehead and then, carefully, to reach in between them for his hand. )

Sensitive... ( she whispers, by way of explanation--her eyes are barely open, looking up at him, hazy; satiated; drowned in an affection that she can't put into words. )

[discarding]

[Midousuji drinks in her clinging embrace, overwhelmed by the savoring in it—his parched spirit eagerly receives the way her fingers sweetly comb through his hair, and even how she comes to pull, earning a low groan from the bottom of his throat and a hiss through his teeth. with all his focus, Midousuji tries to keep his rhythm of his fingers and thrusts in time without being lost to the sensations it incurs. he notices the way she tips her hips, just right, to best receive him, and he feels his cock jolt in a way that almost interrupts his pacing when she makes that little hiccuping cry, pleading him to keep hold of his control, keep pushing.

her second orgasm is a quivering vice-clamp around him, and his mouth drops open as his eyebrows raise, a silent gasp caught in his throat as she rolls her hips against him, catching his thrusts with an unintended force. he lets go of a quivering, low whisper of her name, followed by a tattery, broken staccato of rapid breath, in and out, his abs tensing. he can’t hold on any longer, with how tight she is, and how she clenches so hard she almost pushes him out. mitigating, again, Midousuji pushes as deep as he can, holding himself so that he isn’t ejected—his arm comes around the top of her head, clinging to her as he feels his cock pulse hard in another release. and it’s then that Midousuji’s shoulders drop, resting on his elbows again as he towers over her with a craned back, groaning in a way that almost sounds wounded.

reeling, Midousuji is still like that for a moment, desperately trying to catch his breath as he comes down from having stars knocked behind his eyelids like that—and his other hand comes around, moving to complete his embrace so that it encircles her, and he watches her groggily. her hand unintentionally intercepts him, then, and he blinks. Midousuji’s not great with social cues as a rule, especially in tender circumstance, being so inexperienced and with a script so underdeveloped. not to mention, of course, his body is weak, almost shaky, and his mind is still in pieces—so rather than take her hand, his instinct leads him to close his eyes, turning his head to brush her hand against his face, cradling his cheek in her palm as his eyes close. he isn’t sure, either, what exactly she refers to, and is pulled in too many directions to even remember to respond, just yet.

he breathes out slowly in a heavy sigh. he’s content, of course, but too full of too many feelings. a head-spun disbelief, an uncomfortable, overwhelming well of affection, and frustration. at himself—this very thing. his inability to connect, or to communicate, even when he intends to. for now, anyways—limitations are always temporary, so long as you work hard to surpass them.

he lifts a hand, with notable hesitation—it falters, almost withdrawing, on the way to the hand he’s made to rest on his face, and with an awkward, shy lack of confidence, he rests his hand stiffly over hers. then, he relaxes it.

he has to be intentional, right? push through. he can’t let her keep misunderstanding—more accurately, he can’t keep misleading her.]

…Aerith-chan…

[he isn’t even sure what to say. does he say anything. it’s appropriate to just be silent after sex sometimes, right? though what the hell would he know, he just lost his virginity.]

Aerith-chan, I-I…

oops meant to say 1/2. SURPRISE

[discarding]

…I. [wait a minute. oh no. Midousuji’s eyes suddenly snap open, and he reels back, both of his palms suddenly grasping her knees, and he rudely (thoughtlessly) pulls them open in a panic.]

—came inside of youuuu!! Fuck! Twice! Fuuuucckk!

[Midousuji’s not even the type to curse, but he’s been known to have a fit of it here and there. his mind races, or it tries to, his face hot as he tries to think of any herbal tinctures or…something he’s maybe ever heard for about emergency contraceptive, but he’s never been conscious of that thing to log it away, because he wasn’t ever interested and getting laid!!! AND NOW HERE IT WAS. HAPPENING. WORSE, POST-HAPPENING!!]

Pyyyyaaaghhhh—! [Midousuji drops his face into his hands, scrubbing it in stress. thankfully, his hands settle to instead pull at his hair, and he stares dumbly down at Aerith’s lap. at least he’s released her legs.]

What do we do—?? I can’t be a father! I’ve never had one, or even anything like one!! And I’m not even old enough to drink legally, in my country!

[if he didn’t know any better, that it wouldn’t help, he’d just. try and push it out of her, or something.]

I can’t believe how carried away I got… [Midousuji’s face sinks back in his hands, and he sways side to side, his voice dropping to a quiet, frustrated hiss.] Like a dumb, gross dooooggggg…

[what if there’s nothing he can do??? can he do it?? oh my god? what an overwhelming thought, that kind of commitment. but it’s accountability.]

she is a terrible person

[bloomly]

( it feels like they've reached some kind of breaking point. maybe it's more accurate to say that she's reached some point inside of him, a wall of ice that's she's come at with handfuls of salt, hoping to watch it melt and now, determined, chips it open with an ice pick, driving it in until it snaps. the way that he holds her, the soft, earnest sound of her own name, past his lips--it's a strange place to be, where her heart catches and while she normally doesn't feel nervous like this, while she's normally comfortably sure of herself, here, she worries: is he going to say something, admit to something, give her something to wrap her hands around and hold onto? or is he going to carefully, gently, drive her right off a cliff?

her eyes open, but they're hazy, watching him; she doesn't want to say anything, doesn't want to interrupt what must be a difficult moment for him, doesn't want him to feel any measure of impatience or like he has to get it out in a timely manner. for a moment, she just waits, lifts her hand and lets it go through his hair, carefully drawing what she can away from his temple; there's a sliver of loneliness, in it, like she can't quite believe that she's felt so alone and now, like this, with someone that doesn't even come from the same planet as her--she feels peace.

it is, of course, short-lived.

he comes back to himself the way that a record skips and stalls, the way it suddenly revs up at the end and rewinds on itself; his hands push at her knees, and the way he draws back, separating from her, is a harsh burn through sensitive, wet skin; she hisses a breath, nearly kicks him in the knee in protest, but tries instead to stay carefully still. the comfort of orgasm is over, by the looks of things: struggling, she blinks a few times, forces her gaze to steady through tired lashes, listens and tries to work out what the hell he's panicking over.

right. that.

that, which she didn't worry about anyway--she hasn't had her period since she arrived in this place, figured that must have been a sign of something, had asked around and discovered what he clearly had never wondered about.

her elbows dig into the wood floor, pushing herself up onto them and then, carefully, up entirely; her dress falls, pools into her lap, and neatly, she brings her hands up to her chest, pushing her breasts together so that they fit in the cups of her bra, hooking it together again. she leaves the buttons undone, for now. )

So you're just going to abandon me?

( oh, it's definitely evil to have fun with him, but she'll tell him the truth after a moment--for now, she looks at him calmly, her hair a damp disarray around her face, unbraided and messy and tumbled around her cheeks. )

You have to take responsibility, Akira-kun.

( wait, he said--abruptly, she leans forward, narrowing her eyes at him in suspicion. )

--Not old enough to drink? How old are you?

they both are. they deserve each other

[discarding]

[Midousuji’s head snaps back up, eyes wide as he leans in a sudden lurch forward again, though it’s more of a looming than a towering, with the way his arms hang back near his hips.]

What?!

[nevermind, there’s one of them—slapping the damp flesh of his own cheek-hollow, long fingernail beds dragging down his eyelid as he tilts his head.]

Groooosssss, ab-an-don?? Who said that?

[it’s easy to be mad. the fact that Midousuji thinks it, thinks it’s easier to be mad, scares him. but the part of him that can’t always discern jokes from serious accusations stalls in a loop in his head, and he doesn’t like the way it makes him feel. it’s not a feeling Midousuji’s used to, so much, like many others, he doesn’t even know how to name it—it hurts.

when she tells him he has to be accountable, the tension in his hand, face and body go suddenly slack, iris’s shrinking to gob-smacked pin-pricks. right…he was just panicking about this, wasn’t he?

his face goes pink to each of his earlobes, throat tightening—he looks away, looking for his response, finding it hard to come up with something clever or appropriate to say when he’s just examining a possibility like that for the first time in his life. his jaw drops a little, not the way it normally does when he’s just doing his own thing, but like he’s about to speak—

then she’s leaning forward, and Midousuji gasps, reeling his big shoulders back as they hike, genuinely startled. not because his personal space is tetchy right now, but because he’s on edge. you know, despite two orgasms. leave it to Midousuji.

he tilts his head, and his hands draw uncertainly up, folding between his chest and collarbones as he tilts his head, furrowing an eyebrow in agitated confusion.]

The same as you, right? Aren’t you 15 to 17? Something like that?

[then again…Midousuji knows he doesn’t exactly look like his age. but he’d surely alluded to something that would imply he’s young at some point. right? hadn’t he? he’s mentioned studies at home, but who even knows what that means in Aerith’s world… and doesn’t talk about his home life much at all, keeping everything pretty vague. after all, he’s extremely private—and also, he knows there’s a good chance his experiences aren’t universal.]

People often think I’m older, because of my voice, and because I’m tall…

[he blinks, eyes flitting back up to Aerith, and he blinks again. his hands rest on his cheeks.]

Did you think I was older?

[Midousuji’s gaze falls, not seeming bothered—yet. his eyes wander from the friendly, scarce tuft of Aerith’s pubic hair up her belly, and his eyes stop dead. he’s still convinced Aerith is in the range he guessed, though finds the prospect she may have thought he was in his early twenties or something interesting.

Midousuji’s not sure which reality would be more irresponsible of him.

he leans forward, drumming his fingertips briefly against her belly, where he carefully undoes the last buttons of her dress. after that his gaze is empty and nowhere as he rests his cheek between his hands, resting against her flesh as his long fingers dip beneath and part the fabric, his body partially curled over and against her. the rest of the messy fabric sticks to his damp skin, which he can feel finally beginning to cool. just a little. his breathing is still a little heavy, which doesn’t help his eloquence.]

Even if we’re the same age, though…

[Midousuji glances down towards his chin, which tucks a little.]

I—wouldn’t…

I mean…

I don’t…want that. But I wouldn’t… [Midousuji pushes his voice, past the awkward block in his throat, feeling like he did as a child when his words wouldn’t make it through his teeth.

his fingers curl, careful not to scratch her belly.]

…abandon…

[he finally finds the ability to glance back up at her, because there’s now some confidence behind what he’s saying, even if he’s discovering it in real time. this does have something to do with some of his personal experience. he wouldn’t be like his dad. never ever.]

Being a single mom is so hard it can kill you.

[bloomly]

( it feels like there's rarely a moment where she's able to so keenly regret doing something, or more accurately, to see the repercussions of her actions, in alarming real time: his expressions, his body language, even his voice changes, and it's going to be hard to admit this one, hard to reel it back and affect some kind of cheerful just kidding! and wonder if he'll hate her afterwards. he coils in against her the way that it feels like a child might seek out their mother; and that's it, isn't it? the way he says being a single mom is so hard it can kill you: he spoke of his mother before, once, and maybe that's all she'll ever know about her. maybe he'll never want to share more with her, and maybe that's okay--she isn't sure she wants to begin to explain her own family, or if he would even want to know at all in exchange. but if this is how he views it all?

it's sad, in some way. it sinks her heart a little, from where it had trembled with warmth after orgasm, or tickled brightly with mischief after his exclamations. it's not like she thought he would leave, either, even if it had been true, but this soft display: it's sweet, aches a little, like eating sweets too fast. she doesn't know what to say.

her hands move, a familiar motion, to find the top of his head; her fingers work through his hair but it's a little tangled now, dried with sweat like hers, and it takes careful, deliberate movements to go through it without causing harm. but then--

fifteen? fifteen? her mind circles back to it, as though desperate to remind her of what he'd said. how could that possibly be true? he has the air of someone who has lived a long life already, someone who has already been tainted by the disappointments of late teen years. maybe that's her own poor judgement showing; maybe she should have been smart enough to ask. and it doesn't bother her, necessarily: age has never really been a problem, and give or take a few years, what's the big deal?

but still--her eyes narrow. )

I'm in my twenties. ( --is what she ends up saying, slowly, like she can't quite believe it. and then, abruptly, she laughs. ) You're fifteen?

( sure, he'd given a rather generous range, but still--it makes so much more sense, now, in some ways, and in others, makes her wonder about how painfully childish she is, to be able to relate so much to a boy still in his teens. that doesn't bother her very much. her hands continue through his hair.

that makes it easier, somehow, to admit-- )

You don't have to worry, anyway. I can't get knocked up in this place unless we both want it to happen--and! I think I've just figured out how we both feel about it.

( another bright laugh, but this one is tinged, slightly, with regret. )

I'm sorry. You don't hate me now, do you? You're not allowed to, anyway. We're fine. Nothing to worry about.

[discarding]

[Midousuji had mentioned his mother before, yes—but he hadn’t specifically gone into anything too deep, hadn’t unearthed or exposed his trauma. he’d thought about it, of course, privately, and without intention—when he’d learned she was an orphan; how that gave a certain context to the lonely gloss in her eyes, framed by sloped eyebrows and a kind, hurting smile. nothing like him, nothing like he could ever be, but a different model of a human being he could at least understand—it had clicked, suddenly.

Midousuji’s eyes thin shut and he tilts his head so his temple brushes the soft, lean flesh of her stomach, finding himself surprisingly susceptible to how she toys in his hair. he’s always been adverse to touch, so prone to being overstimulated, and so resentful and distrustful of other people… so it’s hard not to lean in, when it’s just right. the depth of it soothing is striking.

but when she says that she’s in her twenties, Midousuji’s eyebrows raise, and he lifts his head, though his hands are still delicately folded below and on either side of her navel.]

Ha?

[her question makes him reel back a little, and he blinks a few times in rare, rapid succession. he can’t even answer her initially, because before he even thinks of how to respond, she gives him the humiliating, reeling knowledge that she can’t even get pregnant? it makes sense he wouldn’t know—it’s not like he had any reason to inquire about contraception or things related to that, so disinterested in sex as he was until….all this.

he screws up an odd, indignant frown about it, then she laughs in that way that’s got a dreary wind that Midousuji can’t place. he tilts his head, and sinks his head back down, chin denting her skin between his thumbs as he peers up at her. sulkingly, yes, brattishly perhaps, but he’s maintaining eye contact despite his indignation. it’s a good sign.]

…You shouldn’t have mislead me there like that. I’m dehydrated, exhausted and all side-ways brained from everything that’s happened, you know…

[it’s a lot to process—he’s really only been awake for maybe thirty minutes, and in that timespan, he’s lost his virginity to his crush (which is a gross subject—feelings), had two orgasms, and has been faced to process two high bandwidth emotional items: that he’s lead her to feel she doesn’t matter, and that apparently, she’s somewhere in the neighborhood of anywhere from 4 to 9 years older than him. not to mention the brilliant brain fiasco of facing potential fatherhood, for a second.

but, of course, she apologizes right after he says this, and he blinks, feeling his cheeks heat at her question. they’re fine? she doesn’t care he’s so young? this isn’t done, as soon as it’s started?

why does that feel like a win? his heart flutters, and it makes him grumble, lips pursing in a pout as his eyes go downcast to literally navel-gaze. he idly strokes a finger across her stomach, repetitive and anxious.]

…I’m not sure I could, [Midousuji admits honestly, extending his thin fingers to gently reach and enclose around Aerith’s hand, rather than nervously pet her belly—a twitch of hesitation proceeding the motion.] Hate you, [he clarifies in a dodgy mumble, tucking his stressed brow against her body.]

Also, [he begins again, quietly, tapping his long nail beds against the back of her hand twice, but subtly,] …I’m almost 17. Not 15.

[if that. uh. helps. his face burns. his body, also, still burns. his heart burns, and he doesn’t even have the emotional clarity or self awareness to recognize it. his bold, confrontational and antagonist persona—more “Midousuji” than “Akira,” though it’s not like the former is a total construct, either—is fallen to the wayside, leaving him feeling feeble, out of his element.

but the reason he finally felt unblinking in her calling him by his given name says more than all in sum. regrettably, however, even so, he can’t just say what he feels. what he wants. “good, then be my girlfriend.” even in all this confusion, this lack of emotional self awareness, Midousuji knows, and has known, he has no desire to constrain Aerith. which is puzzling, because he wants control—his lively, ugly sides want to possess.

however, he trusts Aerith enough to have done this for a very clear reason: she does not want to control, shape, or tame. and her own subtle wildness has been one of the many factors that pull his eye to her.

and so, what is the right thing to do? or to say? especially when Midousuji, despite sore and irritated from the risk lead in pregnancy, is also so inexperienced. and shit, twenties? what does that even mean? he’s not worried, if she’s not.

but can he justify such a significant demand?]

I hope so, [he mutters, and turns his head, no longer smothering herself in the soft sweet of her flesh.]

Actually…let’s…maybe…[his glance up to Aerith is brief—and it chases away with an irritable scowl.] …the floor is stupid. Was stupid. Let’s…

[Midousuji then lurches back up, pushing himself on his palms, peering down at Aerith.]

…at least, [his head tilts.] go to your bed? Unless you’d prefer I go? I fell asleep on accident, but we got biblical.

[bloomly]

( it takes a significant amount of self control not to just shout out to him, to dig her fingers into his arms and demand that he stay, because there is no part of her that thinks it would be a good idea, or that he would respond in a way that's good at all. she knows him, even if it's only in the little snapshots of himself that he's willing to give her, and those, at least, she's studied a thousand times, like a private photobook that only her hands are able to open. he wouldn't like having her boss him around like that, and he wouldn't like being told to stay as though he doesn't have any choice in the matter--and really, when it comes down to it, it isn't even really about him at all, is it? there's just a fear of being left behind that's been instilled in her since the beginning: and now, with everything that's happened, it's almost grown to enormous, unmanageable proportions.

to feed it a little, though, she lifts her hands up--moves them out of his hair, and touches his arms, a brief, reassuring slide of her fingertips against them before she nods, briefly. she's slept on worse, honestly, but why bother suffering if there's a bed involved, anyway? she pushes up onto her elbows; the dress, unbuttoned, falls to either side, which makes her laugh a little, despite being so clearly exposed. )

No, I want you to stay. ( a small beat, as she pulls her legs up, knees to her chest as though she's about to rise--but instead, her gaze falls on him, round and curious. ) Is that okay?

( even if it isn't--even if he refuses, something that will sear inside of her, she still has to get up; her legs feel wobbly, uncertain of her own balance, and when she finally manages to stand, her hands move to brush all of her tangled hair over her shoulders, collapsing down her back. there really isn't much she has to offer him, which is where her thoughts go: there's a wardrobe in the room, left from the previous tenants, where she's been storing most of her clothes--she's used to not having much, so there isn't a lot inside of it. even zack's clothes, or cloud's clothes, aren't here--she hasn't borrowed anything from them, would feel terrible if she had.

it's a strange feeling, thinking of zack. with midousuji here, it feels--bittersweet, somehow, like watching memories fade away.

her face doesn't show much: there's a flicker of sadness that washes over it, but she's facing the wardrobe now, tugging the big doors open so that she can find the thin slip dress she usually sleeps in, here, and swap it out. that means there's a moment, of course, where her arms shrug out of her unbuttoned dress and her hands move to unhook her bra and toss them both inside and she's naked, there, with her back to him, tugging the other dress over her head as she talks. )

Make yourself comfortable, okay? You get to sleep against the wall.

( --which will essentially trap him there, unless he wants to crawl over her while she's asleep. there's some amusement in her voice, at least, as she pulls the slip down entirely, smoothing it out where it covers her hips and hits mid thigh. a comfortable thing to sleep in, especially without panties: her hands are gathering up her hair as though to pull it into a ponytail or something, when she turns to face him again. )

Do you want something to wear? ( this is definitely a tease. ) I have another dress in here, if you want it.

[discarding]

[Midousuji’s heart does a funny little hiccup with the way she brushes against the sides of his of his upper arms, blinking down at her. as she pushes onto her elbows, Midousuji crawls back, his hands sheepishly folding across from each other, wrists atop one another, his bony knees up in front of them as he curls up. his fingers tense in awkward clawing. Midousuji isn’t laughing—he’s anxiously staring, face turning red. he glances away sharply, pursing his lips.

when she asks him, Midousuji’s eyes are back on her again, though, and though his face is still dusted with blush, his eyes are just as wide and curious as hers, though it’s the confusion that makes his brows, very subtly, slant backwards as he tilts his head.]

Why are you asking me? Of course that’s okay—it was my suggestion…

[Midousuji knows he makes it clear without even having to say anything he’s withdrawn and distrustful of intimacy, but is it so bad that doing something as intimate as fucking someone might not illuminate that boundary doesn’t apply, here?

—or. well. okay. he could probably have sex with someone in some weird other circumstance and absolutely not want them to touch him the second it was over, and boot them out, or see himself out. but this is different. this is someone important.

boggling both pensively and attentively, he watches Aerith get up, his thoughts knotting and snagging over each other. but, they do so somewhat sluggishly—he’s sure his thoughts will peter out as exhaustion works its way deeper, once his pulse stabilizes. or you know, once Aerith just casually reveals her naked body to him. that certainly does the trick, his thoughts halting abruptly. and with her back turned to him, he’s free to stare in stupid, slack-jawed awe, his fingertip hooked against his bottom teeth from when he’d been more contemplative and less…observant. he sucks in his lower lip, pressing his knees together as he stares off to a far corner of the floor, her sleek and delicate curvature burned in his mind.

when she tells him to get comfortable, Midousuji shoots up rather suddenly, and trips as he scrambles to her bed. the wall is fine. good, even. cozy. and he can press his back up against the brick if he ends up overheating from the shared body heat, or the way his hormones and body collaboratively seem to have a death wish on him. and as she smooths her dress, Midousuji’s already escaping under her blankets in an antsy panic, and he does exactly that—he presses his back up against the wall, yanking the blankets up near his chin simultaneously.

when she asks if he wants something to wear, he glances down, then back up.]

Um.

[yes. great response. he makes a face at being offered the dress, and rolls his eyes away thoughtfully. he wouldn’t actually mind that—he’s not afraid of that kind of thing. not his brand of fragility. he glances back at her, and blinks.]

I could, [tumbles out awkwardly, and Midousuji realizes that was probably a tease, but he’s too off-guard to come up with a normal, witty retort on the fly. especially with her standing there like that, expression still with a healthy, glowing flush, flesh soft even to the eye, pretty in her simple little night dress. it’s so intimate. it’s so intimate, he can’t be clever. so he just elects not to.] …If…that’s…all you have. But. Naked’s fine too. If it’s fine with you, I mean.

[sleeping naked isn’t a thing Midousuji does, really…but given the context, and the fact that his sweaty clothes need a wash, it’d be okay. less cozy, but he’s not confident he’s going to be resting well. even if he gets to sleep, he suspects it might be brief. then just a lot of wide-eyed, anxious and lonesome staring into the dark.]

[bloomly]

It's fine with me.

( there's a note in her voice, something that lifts up, slightly, almost like she wants to say something else but stops herself--almost like it's better that whatever it is gets tucked into her thoughts, gently thumbed in there like a favorite page of a worn novel, to rake her eyes over later. in truth, really, she's thinking about his clothes--even some of her own are scattered, tossed across the floor, and she ought to gather them up and set them aside for washing, later, should at least pretend like she'll get to it before he leaves in the morning so that he doesn't have to wear them back home.

and there's another thought, another folded corner, but this one feels more like it's marked with pins, holding it in place the way that butterflies get stretched to corkboard: in the morning? he'll leave then, won't he? will he leave before she even wakes up?

maybe that's partly the virtue of keeping him by the wall. it's a trap, but not really; it's a pleading, maybe, some silent wish to have him stay at least long enough for her to wake up and see his face. if he wants to scramble then, make some excuse or even insult her, at that point? it doesn't really matter. she just wants to know that she won't be abandoned while she sleeps--won't wake up and find him missing, the way she's found others before. a silly little wish from a silly little girl, but then, she can't be mature about everything. maybe there are some things that she can't grow up from.

midousuji is already tumbled under the blankets, pulled up to his chin like he's watching a horror movie, and it makes her smile--carefully, she moves to switch the lamps off, to douse the room in utter darkness instead of the hazy, near-night glow that it had been previously. now, like this, her bed and the shape of him are just lumpy shadows while her sight adjusts; carefully, she steps her way to the mattress, pulls back the covers from the far side and eases her way beneath them. rather than give him any amount of time to adjust, she slides: inches and wiggles her way across the bed to him, facing him despite knowing very well that he'll likely hate it.

just for a moment. she stares up at him in the dark, eyes round and warm and surprisingly fond--there's something terrifying here, about putting so much of herself in another person, but she's never learned how not to. )

Will you hold me? ( there's no sense of shame, or embarrassment in her voice: but it's soft, quiet like it has to be, in the dark. ) Just until I fall asleep?

[discarding]

[Midousuji watches, indeed, like he’s some hapless moron of a victim in a horror film, as Aerith approaches. his round, wide eyes roll their dark, velvet irises to her in the dark, trying to parse her frame, and with trepidation. but despite his appearances, it’s a juvenile giddiness that informs this tension; nerves, yes, but mostly, excitement. the sort of embarrassing giddiness that makes him want to jump right out of his own skin; disgrace any skin he’d ever thought he’d had in the game.

except, well. you know, the…recent obvious.

when she peels the covers back, Midousuji lifts his hands away from their hems, fingers fanning out in passive surrender, though the gesture is a little comical in its gratuitousness—not that that’s at all unlike him. but at least the gesture isn’t abrupt, and startled. rather, it’s measured and slow, and Midousuji peers at Aerith eagerly as he ignores the incessant pounding in his grotesque, wide rib cage.

when she inches towards him, he continues to stare with a delayed, processing wonder—and in a similarly belated fashion, he very carefully lays the blankets across her torso, right at her shoulder, but not over it, to cover her arms.

she stares at him, and he stares right back, wondering how it’s possible that when he can only barely see her, her eyes still shine so brightly, carrying so many stars and warmth. he blinks at her in utter bafflement, and says nothing, too beside himself to work a script. he finds that her gaze draws him in, in the way that scares him—or maybe more accurately, used to scare him. now it’s more like an enveloping, warm comfort. like a blanket. the way she looks at him—he thinks he understands it, a little better, though admittedly, not completely.

when she asks if he’ll hold her, he blinks again, his thin eyebrows raising suddenly enough to crinkle his brow a bit. he can see her more clearly now, vision adjusted, and it makes the whole experience feel all the more sideways as he continues to struggle to digest his current reality. this aftermath.

his jaw drops, just a bit, as he almost says something—and quietly, slowly, it closes again, his gaze briefly dodging. it’s now he realizes (at least, in full clarity), that despite even the love for his own mother, he’d never returned her hugs. how his first time hugging anyone had been just recently, stupidly hammering his pelvis into Aerith with some dumb, animal abandon. it’s rare he feels imposed by his own unknowing—rare that he feels unconfident, and even more rare does he feel as he does now additionally, so afraid of executing a Normal Human Function incorrectly.

his gaze shyly peers back up to her, and he suddenly juts an arm outward, long and sinewy, trying to hide how his breath shudders so subtly with its every exhale. and his arm would give that tremor away, if it weren’t so dark—but perhaps it might anyway. she’s annoyingly perceptive.

the way he holds his arm straight up like that creates kind of a cape with the blanket, indicating his invitation to her. he swallows, trying to think of how to accept, how to mitigate, how to earnestly and truthfully just…express. with accuracy. there’s some implication there—that it’s a favor to do something as small as hold her until she falls asleep, like she’s still some terrible burden. but maybe, so too, she simply sees him for the type of person he is—skittish of intimacy, and maybe just respecting the way she perceives his, not inaccurate, boundaries.]

…It doesn’t have to be so brief…

[whether she takes it on herself to move in or not, Midousuji, awkwardly hinged like some under-greased machine, extends an arm to close it around her middle back, pulling her closer into him.]

As long as you don’t mind that I don’t know how to be this way. It’s not like I don’t like it.

[it’s his failing, here—not hers. he pauses, and tilts his head (to an angle that’s just on the cusp of uncanny and disgusting, as usual, the fuzz of his hair pushing against her sheets), peering at her curiously.]

The way you talk to me… Really, how do you think I feel about you?

[well. ok. that’s less of an earnest admission, and more familiar angling as antagonistic, or defensive. he swallows, glancing away as he tries again.]

I…

[words.]

Iiiiii…

[WORDS, DAMN IT. WORDS!!]

…None of this is just…some coincidence, you know…

[now anxious, Midousuji unintentionally squeezes her, just a bit, trying to outlet some of the rising tension in his body as it swells uncomfortably.]

I’m…

[his voice dries up, his throat too tight with nerves. to cope, he’s looking away again.]

…glad…to be here. Now. This way. With you.

It’s good.

I think…you misunderstand me.

But, I think, that’s my fault. Not yours.

[bloomly]

( it's an invitation that does not come free of its own caveats. she can tell with the way that his arm lifts, the way that it stretches out almost like it's some kind of mechanical outcropping, something that billows up the covers enough to keep them from getting trapped between them. it's not even that she minds, at least not really, that it's not something so simple; she hadn't imagined that it would be. she's spent too long trying to get close to him, and having him balk at every turn, to think that she can just put her arms around him and listen to him breathe, or that she can press her face into his neck and hide away there, an urge that happens so rarely for a person like her, who loves to turn up towards the sunlight. it's not even that she's ashamed of what they've done, which she imagines, in some perceptions, that she should be: there is a person out there, somewhere, trapped in the fate that they made together, a person that she may never see again who deserves more than just the simple promise of her loyalty.

but it had been different then. but this is different, now. there is no zack fair here to wrap his arms around her; there is no cloud strife to hold her hand and promise that things will be okay. there is no tifa lockhart to pet her hair and soothe her when she's upset; there is no one here anymore but the person that cares enough to wrap the covers up around her shoulders, the person that came when she thought she could ask no one else to. he's still the person she called when she sat up on that roof and wanted to disappear into the night sky, terrified of it all the same--and now he's the person that pulls her in close and tries to make her feel better, even when she doesn't deserve it.

at least it feels that way, at first. when she slides in beneath his arm and tucks herself up against him, he says it doesn't have to be so brief. it's exhilarating, as much as it is scary--to be able to trust someone, like that? to be able to have faith in them?

and then it starts. it's like leafing through a bush to find sweet raspberries there, but when reaching in, the thorns pluck at raw skin and make them bleed: the way you talk to me… really, how do you think i feel about you?

that's the midousuji akira that she knows--so why the sudden hammer of dread in her stomach? has she gotten it all wrong?

her breath goes shallow, hot against the skin of his bare shoulder, because she's found her way up against him, because she's found the crook of his neck perhaps the safest place to hide. her expectations aren't fair--even when he continues on, soothes over the initial wound, she almost wishes that he would blame her for something, so at least she could alleviate some sense of guilt about it all. she likely has misunderstood him. and why? because she's too wrapped up in her own worries to see clearly, here? or is it simply because she cares so much that she's terrified of declaring things with her usual playful confidence?

her arms, folded up between them, brush against his chest; it's just the lightest touch, a small trailing of fingertips like she's trying to organize her thoughts using the plane of skin there. )

I want you to like me.

( he wants honesty--she's willing to give it. but just like his arm, tremoring slightly in unfamiliar use, her voice shakes all the same. )

Do you like me?

I like you.

( like it's the easiest thing in the world to admit. like even if he says he doesn't, it's fine to say so. like she won't spend a whole night crying like an idiot if he decides he doesn't. could her intuition be that wrong? )

I’M…SO SORRY……i got COVID after a bunch of crazy irl bs… pls forgive me

[discarding]

[Midousuji feels his world go black, and so suddenly, so small.

it’s not as if this night hasn’t already been vulnerable. he’s shared his body with her—chastised himself for how she thinks of him, of his feelings—briefly went through a life-flash of fatherhood…

his arms awkwardly come around her—gracelessly, first, beneath her waist, his awkward, sweating open palm unsure of where to grasp—and his other arm comes around her torso, pulling her close, somewhat out of anxiety. and the way her scent fills his head is different, then—dizzying in a different way. why does it feel like a death knell?

at least, on one hand… the one that so fears the generosity of giving his real feelings—the risk that takes, the one that made him run from it for so long. far before Aefenglom—that nauseating, embarrassing, unifying factor of all humans. the desire to connect, and so to with it, the genuine fear of being unable to.

but he owes her that much, doesn’t he? it’s unfair to even expect a mother’s love to be without transaction.

he nuzzles into her hair, quiet for a moment, his voice low, barely above register, trembling with his jaw.]

Of course I do, stupid.

[his long arm quells its unsteadiness by grasping her shoulder, and his chin dimples a little, causing him to frown around his teeth awkwardly, closed mouth. he lifts his legs a bit, bumping Aerith’s up along with them, their legs clumsily entangling where they manage to touch.]

I’m just…

I’m…not good at it…

[why does admitting this make him feel like this? why does he feel like his face is on fire? in a different way—a painful way? is it shame? fear? part of him does want to recoil, to bail, as before, but—

they’ve come this far, right? both of them. together. he can’t discard her journey just because he’s been refusing to see that it’s his, too.]

—so much, Aerith… For a…for a long…

time…

💖 no forgiving necessary

[bloomly]

You're really not good at it.

( but there's a fondness there, like it doesn't matter. there's attraction there, like maybe it's part of what pulls her to him. and more than that, there's acceptance there: that despite knowing it, despite dealing with his thorns or encountering his brambles, despite climbing in beneath fences that tell her to keep out and words that land like walls between them, it doesn't really matter if he's good at it, or not. it doesn't matter if he's never been with someone like this or if they're going to share all of his first times together, or if he gets scared sometimes and tries to elbow her aside.

and is that too much? is that too fond, too delicate, too warm? she doesn't say it out loud, though her lips press together and instead a breath escapes, warm and heated, to the side of his neck. their legs tangle together and it feels like he's sealing something into place--after all, for him to come closer of his own accord is something special, she thinks, so special that she doesn't want to call him out on it.

so she doesn't. she doesn't call him out on the rest of it, either, though his admission makes her stomach twist and her throat feel warm and excited, like she wants to laugh but doesn't want him to get the wrong idea. it's not like she's gone around confessing her feelings to a whole bunch of different people, either: she has little experience here, too, just enough to know that honesty is really the best course of action, and that she can move past anything else. his arms circle around her in that clumsy way and she feels: oddly, almost safe, in a way.

if she laughed, if she cried--either way, he'd get the wrong idea, wouldn't it?

her nose bumps up, dots along the ridge of his jaw, and she nods a little, as if cementing it. )

...Then you'll stay, in the morning, and I'll make breakfast.

( one of her hands shifts, palms against his chest, slides down to brush near his ribs almost teasingly. )

Maybe we'll wash up together. If you're lucky.