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"That's when you know you found somebody really special, when you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably share a silence."
- Pulp Fiction
The crisp winter air swirls in your lungs as you stroll leisurely down the streets of Gotham. There are hints of spring floating about, and it shows in the freshly sprouting buds of green on the once bare trees. You gaze at all the couples huddled close as they travel, their hands gently yet firmly clutching at the others’. They all seem to be in the midst of laughter as you scan their faces. You feel slightly sick at the joy radiating from each passerby, and the shared glee for the holiday seems to go around you. You feel awfully alone.
Like a premonition, you think of a boy with tufts of hair as white as the untouched snow accumulated on rooftops. A lazy sigh escapes you at the thought. You allow yourself a brief daydream of Respawn and how you would spend the holiday with him. Just the two of you, cuddling in your apartment, warm and safe from the frigid winter air beyond your front door. Or, maybe, you would walk together and become one of the many water drops in the vast ocean of relationships that flood the streets.
Your fantasy is rudely interrupted by a man and a woman swapping spit in the middle of the sidewalk. You hear others scoff and groan in disgust as they walk by. You huff in annoyance and awkwardly circle around them. You pass them quickly, but they stay within your mind for several blocks. Well, not them specifically, but rather—much to your embarrassment—the image of you and Respawn as that couple. If that ever did happen, you would prefer for that to be a private moment, but truthfully you would allow him to kiss you anytime, anywhere, in front of anyone, if he offered to. When you're at your loneliest, you imagine him doing a lot more than that. Would he even do such a thing? You can imagine either scenario and they are both equally plausible. You suppose it would depend on his mood entirely.
It would be much more likely to occur on the days where he is loud and unapologetic.
It's kind of hot, honestly.
It's gross, yes, and you would never forgive yourself, but Respawn hasn't spent much of his life living in a normal society. He doesn't know social norms, so he would be willing. He wouldn't care, probably. You might tell him that there's people watching, and he might tell you to hush while slipping his hand between your thighs.
On the days where he's quiet and far more reserved, he wouldn't dare. He wouldn't so much as kiss you while there are others in the room. He's only like that when his sleep, or lack thereof, was plagued by nightmares of his childhood. It's days like that where you wish to cradle him in your arms and let him cry into your shoulder, if he let himself. It's days like that where your more perverted daydreams—which you always have and have long given up on trying to stop thinking of them—consist of this:
You're straddling his lap, in your bedroom, sometime during the evening so that it's dark. You're completely alone, just you and him, and it's quiet outside. Sometimes it's raining, or there's a storm to provide ambience to the moment. He's sitting on your bed, with his back against the headboard. His head is pressed into your chest, or into your neck, or he's resting his forehead on your shoulder. Either way, you're gently holding the back of his head and sheltering him in your loving embrace. He's crying in every version. Maybe that's part of the appeal. He's clinging to you for comfort, and perhaps the love he feels in his heart is so overwhelming and foreign that he cries out of joy, or perhaps he is shaken by memories. Still, his sobs into your bare skin are mixed with moans, and the most thrilling part of this fantasy is the way his eyes roll back and his hands tremble around your hips yet remain firm in their grasp.
But you only think of such things when the night is at its darkest point.
You shake the vivid imagery from your mind as you feel your face burning despite the cold.
Walking up the stairs to your apartment, you are unfortunately met with the sight of more couples kissing. Even worse, some of them are just resting their foreheads together, or nuzzling their noses. You didn't take the elevator purely because you didn't want to be stuck in a confined space with some lovers that just can't seem to keep their hands to themselves, even if there is someone watching. Especially if there is someone watching. Shivers rack your body, followed by a wave of nausea, a rush of anger, and just the slightest pang of sorrow. You are completely aware of your hypocrisy.
You feel a wave of loneliness pass over you as you enter your apartment and lean your back against the door. You glance around at the depressing living quarters.
Random pairs of socks are thrown haphazardly on the floor, there are dirty dishes in the sink, a fresh bouquet of roses on the coffee table, and the leftover takeout you had for breakfast this morning.
A fresh bouquet of roses?
Your body stills and the tears that were beginning to blur your vision retreat rather quickly. The sound of shuffling suddenly becomes clear to you, and you realize it's coming from your bedroom. You don't think you've ever rushed to enter a room so quickly.
And there he is, sitting on your bed, glancing around.
Without giving much thought to the reason for him surprising you, you lunge forward and pull him up into a hug. He laughs in shock and remains frozen for a few moments, before his arms wrap around you. This is a bold move, for both of you.
You aren't dating, but you aren't just friends, either. You share physical touch much more than friends do, that's for sure. But it's rarely intimate like you wish it was. Actually, you have no business daydreaming about sex with him because kissing is still something that feels awkward to merely suggest, let alone actually do. You've made out 3 times in the span of this odd relationship. You have not gone further than that. At most he holds your waist underneath your shirt, but only for a minute or two. Then he retracts his hand like he's been burned.
So, you should hesitate before moving back from the hug to pull him into a kiss, but you don't.
He makes a noise of surprise and his shoulders jump up, but then he leans in and hesitantly wraps his arms around you. Albeit, his movements are awkward and jittery, like he's unsure if he's allowed to touch you. You grin slightly and separate from him.
When you pull away, his face is dusted with pinkish tones and his eyes stare downwards, flicking across the floor.
“Oh, uh,” he blurts suddenly, “I got you these.”
He reaches back to the bed and grasps a heart-shaped box that you hadn't noticed before. Immediately, you want to question how knows about the holiday, considering his upbringing meant he probably didn't celebrate holidays as a kid, if he even knew of them. But you don't want to bring that up, so you take the box and smile brightly. His shoulders relax.
You yawn and look out the window. You're shocked to see orange hues spray across the wall. Sunset already!
Your stomach makes a faint grumble.
You ponder the idea of cooking with Respawn. A romantic candlelit dinner with him sounded both lovely and dreadful when you take off your rose-colored glasses. The probability of him having any cooking experience whatsoever is highly unlikely. It might be a nightmare, or it could be fun. You suddenly clutch his hand and yank him out of your room towards the kitchen. He follows obediently, and waits for you to speak when you bring him to the stove. You crank the dial so that the front left burner begins to heat.
“Have you ever cooked before?”
He shakes his head slowly.
“Would you like to try to cook?”
He nods his head even slower.
“Perfect! How does spaghetti sound?”
This time, his head does not move, but instead his mouth.
“Sure.”
You spend several minutes collecting the ingredients as you try to remember what goes into spaghetti sauce. He stands and watches until you ask him to fill a pot up with water and place it on the burner. You drop all the ingredients on the counter at the same time he places the pot on the burner.
The next quarter of an hour is chaotic. You can't remember whether you're supposed to salt the water before or after it begins boiling, the pot almost boils over and those little rebel droplets that are somehow the temperature of the sun keep landing on your arms, and Respawn doesn't seem to feel it. You can't find the vent button for the stove to get rid of the steam so you have to open a window, the pasta seems reluctant to soften, somehow you both have tomato sauce on your shirt, and you almost knock seasoning on the floor. You would have had to vacuum and sweep for a good 5 minutes each, if Respawn didn't have the reflexes of a Greek warrior. His hand caught the container and put it back onto the counter so quickly you were unsure if you had ever bumped it with your elbow. You don't think he even looked as he did it.
Soon, however, your troubles are over. You sit next to him with a plate of spaghetti in your lap. You wish you had an actual dinner table in your apartment so that you could sit across from him. Unfortunately, your only options are the couch, which runs the risk of stains, or the kitchen counter.
You're sitting on the kitchen counter. So is Respawn.
He doesn't seem to mind, though.
The sunset is nearly over by the time you are eating, so you watch the last minutes of daylight retreat from your apartment together. You don't talk, but you don't feel the need to, oddly enough. You're comfortable sitting in silence.
But only with him, you note.
You don't really want to tell him what you're thinking anyways, because you've gone back to the fantasies you thought up on your way home. You try to keep them appropriate, because the boy you're thinking about is right next to you, but that only makes it worse. You clear your throat and turn your head so that he can't see your face. He doesn't say anything.
Instead, he chuckles.
You don't look at him right away, you just move your eyes to the side in hopes that you'll catch a glimpse out of your peripherals. But you see nothing, so you reluctantly turn your head. He's looking down at his plate and failing to contain a smile.
“What?” Your voice is timid. He shakes his head and tries to insist that it's nothing through his huffs of laughter. You ask again, louder this time, and he looks at you and grins.
“No, nothing, it's just- y'know…you do this thing…” He trails off, and you notice that his face has become faintly red again. You wait for him to continue. Suddenly he turns to face you, as much as the small counter space allows.
“Remember a few weeks ago, when I was over here? And we were on the couch, watching some movie?”
The memory floats in your mind, and it doesn't help the scenarios that you briefly pushed to the back of your mind when he chuckled. He was at your house for the entire day, and the whole time, no matter how much you tried to distract yourself, you kept gawking at him and squeezing your thighs together. He was in normal clothes, nothing special, and he wasn't even being flirty. But apparently he didn't get much sleep at his own place—wherever that was—because he showed up with perfectly messy hair and the hottest, most pathetic tired eyes you have ever had the pleasure of holding eye contact with. The disheveled look really suits him.
You had put on a random movie and snuggled up to him with the intention of tearing his pants off. Or him tearing yours off. You just wanted the feeling of your bodies pressed against each other to make his heart flutter. But the movie went on and on and nothing, so…
“You basically threw yourself on me? Does that jog your memory yet?”
His smirk was cocky and you wanted to kiss it right off his face. You deigned to admit remembrance of that incident.
“Yeah? Well, right before you did that, you went still and your breathing became shallow. You looked really lost in thought. I would've been worried but…you did the same thing last month when I backed you up against the counter and blocked you in with my arms. You remember that, don't you?” His tone has shifted from shy to slightly condescending as he forces you to recall all your acts of ungovernable desire. However, you recall all of these events ending with him leaving abruptly, with a bright red face, before it could escalate.
“And you definitely remember yanking me down to make out against the counter? You went still and silent before, too. And you were doing that just now. Staring off into space and getting lost in whatever daydreams you're having. About me, probably….perv.” He fakes disgust, but then he grins at you once more. Your poker face crumbles and tiny giggles begin to spill out of you. Then you go completely silent, and you take in a deep breath.
“I was imagining riding you,” you say coolly.
It's his turn to be embarrassed now.
You weren't completely aware of what you were going to say until you had already said it. Your heart rate picks up slightly, but besides that, you're completely calm. Respawn is completely frozen beside you, and when you turn he's staring straight and his shoulders are tense. His eyes are wide. They are moving around the room and you can tell he's intently thinking about what you said. You hear squeaking and look down to see him gripping the plate with both hands. You also see the painfully obvious positioning of the plate over his lap to hide the extreme effect you just had on him.
“Good to know.” He clears his throat and swallows.
You both laugh, but it's more from nerves than anything. The atmosphere has shifted from romantic to something more charged and it seems the temperature has gone up several degrees. You turn your attention back down to your plate.
The spaghetti isn't anything to write home about, but you enjoy eating it purely because you know that he helped make it. Even if neither of you knew what you were doing, you still managed, and you trusted that it would work out in the end.
The air is thick with love.
Hopping down and taking his plate from him, you sneakily glance at his lap and note that you were right about the plate hiding his very obvious arousal. You fail to contain a Cheshire grin appearing on your face.
Then, just like the times before, you pounce on him.
Dragging him to the bedroom while you kiss him sweetly, you hear the faint sound of rain hitting the windows.
“Oh,” Respawn suddenly pulls back as you stumble over to the bed.
“What?”
“I meant to ask,” he places a kiss on your lips, “Will you be my Valentine?”
You both fall back onto the bed, laughing while it happens.
“Yes, I will.” You manage to say as he peppers dozens of kisses on your face.
As he does so, the sun goes below the horizon, just like it will tomorrow, and the day after that, and you hope that he'll be there with you for every single one.