atlas !!

toji starts buying two of everything without realizing. two drinks, two sets of tableware, two seats on the plane. when you point it out, he simply shrugs. “it makes sense, since you’re always around.”

and it does. you are. somewhere along the way, yours and his stopped being two separate categories. things blended. bled. one toothbrush became two. one key became a spare. he didn’t assign you a drawer, but your clothes take up more space than his do.

now he’s sitting by the kitchen counter, lights dimmed, papers spread out in an unruly mess that makes sense only to him. his hair’s grayer at the temples and there’s a softness to his face that wasn’t there before — age, maybe. peace, possibly. or both.

you laugh and pad over barefoot, press a kiss to the faded scar on his mouth. his hand finds your waist like muscle memory, and you slide into his lap without thinking twice (pun intended).

he lets out a quiet “hnn” but doesn’t complain.

you sip your wine, let your head rest against his shoulder. “so,” you fix his glasses, perched on his nose like he’s fighting the idea of needing them.

“when do you plan on finally asking me out?”

@miiyas this is how it feels to be moots w u btw

THE WAY I GIGGLED EEEEE THANKS CHLOE HEHEEE

“if ‘yer stomach’s hurting that much, jus’ stop eatin’.” osamu frowns at you, pointing the ends of his metal chopsticks at your slouched form. you give a shaky nod, slowly lifting the spoon closer to your mouth before taking slow chews.

“don’t wanna,” you muffle out, wrapping one arm around your stomach in pain. “‘s too good.” osamu sighs dramatically at this, setting his chopsticks down beside his bowl and heads towards the kitchen. he takes a few minutes before coming back, picking up his chopsticks and taking a few left over bites of his dish before going back, a faint beeping noise dragging him.

… what the hell is he doing ..?

despite your overthinking, he comes back to you with a small mug, the tag of a teabag hanging loosely over the rim. osamu sets it in front of you and takes his seat again, lifting his chopsticks to reach for a side dish.

“you ate too fast ‘n that’s why ‘yer whinin’ to me ‘bout your stomach.” he chews lazily and keeps the ends of his chopsticks in his mouth, staring down at the various containers of side dishes as if he was in a predicament.

oh, you think, staring at your boyfriend, then down at the mug. the colors of the herbs are seeping out to the warm water, the tag revealing the expensive brand that osamu only ever uses when guests come over.

you slowly pick up the cup, the gentle porcelain warm on your fingertips. a small grin hides behind it as you slowly come to the realization that yes, osamu will force you to lay down later and yes, he will rub your stomach with his big warm hands, soothing it until it gets better.

stinky rat man with socks!! yes please!!