Chapter Text
It was a universal truth that men fucking sucked.
That truth repeated on loop as Momo stomped toward the train station with her laptop bag and a suitcase full of the majority of her belongings. Momentarily, she found the strength to stave off angry tears by letting the mantra escape her with words that got her a nasty side eye from a woman with a child…
Several eyes nervously tracked over her tense form in the train car. And of course they would; she was a thirty-five year old woman standing rigid and unhappy, mascara streaking down her face, lipstick smudged by her own obvious finger tracks, wearing her favorite, satiny, black dress (one of those sexy little numbers that always got her laid after a date) and growling randomly at varying volumes.
Oh, she was also muttering all the different ways she was going to disembowel and torture her most recent ex-boyfriend until he begged for her forgiveness. Which she wouldn’t give.
Because men fucking sucked.
Shuttling to the other side of Kamigoe City, where the buildings became familiar and well-trod by her past footsteps once again, Momo cursed him. And herself.
How could she be so fucking stupid?
Moreover, how could this have happened for a third goddamn time?!
‘You think you fucking know a guy,’ she thought mutinously to herself in the back of an Uber, the address spilling from her lips without conscious thought. The driver took her silence in stride, offering to allow her to hook up to the bluetooth audio and play whatever she wanted for the fifteen minutes that she would exist in that car. Thanking him as politely as possible, she asked for silence, claiming a headache.
It wasn’t a lie, not really. This whole day was a fucking headache.
The eggshell white door on the small home, situated so nicely just outside the bustle of the city (but close enough for work or anything else she could want), waited for her like an old friend–or perhaps a beloved cousin or aunt, reliable and ready to invite her inside and listen to her woes.
And, woah, did she have some woes.
“Dating for a whole year–wasted an entire year! Living together for six more months on top of that! But noooooo, he couldn’t have possibly told me that our life goals were incompatible before I had invested eighteen months in his useless ass!” Momo shouted at the ceiling, reclining back into the plush couch that had resided in Ken’s home for years now (picked out by Momo, of course, Ken couldn’t be trusted with decorating, and he insisted on his silly sci-fi posters—always said that he liked whatever she picked, anyway) and bringing the soju bottle up to her lips to take another lady-like swig.
Next to her sat her best friend in the world, his own soju bottle on the low table in front of them, half-drunk but forgotten in favor of her stocking clad feet. Gripping her ankle with strong hands, he dug his powerful thumbs into the arch (her heels long since abandoned–actually she may have left them in the Uber) and hummed thoughtfully, “Did this one not like how much money you make?”
A moan poured out of her while she searched her tipsy mind for the specific reason that she’d ended up here. Again. Staying with Ken. Like always.
At least he never let her down.
In hindsight, there really were a lot of reasons that she could have dumped that douchebag, honestly. But the most important definitely had to be–
Waving a hand dismissively at the mention of another ex, Momo wailed, “No, he claimed that he never wanted children!”
Ken scoffed and shook his head at that, muttering, “Ridiculous. I thought you were excited about this one? I mean, this is the longest that you’ve lived with a guy that wasn’t me pretty much… ever? Didn’t his profile say how he ‘always wanted to be a family man’ or something?”
Pointing an almost accusatory finger at the sweet boy she went to high school with, Momo groused, “That’s exactly what it said. Fucking bastard.”
“Fucking bastard,” Ken agreed dutifully, like a best friend should. Not at all like her group chat with Miko and Muko, who were on a date of their own and simply replied, ‘told you so, babe’. You know, unhelpfully.
“What an idiot,” he continued over her groan as he worked his way up to her calf (they always ended up in this position when Momo had a trying day–which was completely normal after years of close quarters living), “Anyone with half a brain would kill for the chance to have a family with you, Momo.”
He’d whispered it, and the tipsy woman wouldn’t have caught it at all if she hadn’t been listening so intently to him. Heart aching with longing that she was no stranger to, she clutched the peach soju bottle between her breasts with both hands until she couldn’t take it any longer and had to take several gulps to distract herself.
Yeah, so… she’d been crushing on him for way too fucking long. Years. Literal decades—plural.
But the dork who she’d rescued from the bullies in second year of high school had grown into some kind of glasses-wearing dream boat all of a sudden during college. With dark curls that she knew were soft (the man actually used conditioner! Conditioner!!), and those round frames that made his eyes huge and reflective in the low light of the living room–coffee tones, with deep shots of black espresso and flakes of candied clover honey floating in their depths. He always smelled nice too, like pencil lead or ink (he was constantly drawing, not just for work), and expensive cedarwood body wash that made her want to snuggle into his side at every opportunity.
But Momo hadn’t been the only one to notice. And they had always been “just best friends”, besides. Living together since fucking High School! Hell, they had the same last name–that, perhaps more than anything, killed her. Granny stepped in when they found out about his awful, shit-tastic parents and forcibly moved him into their koseki.
Ken Takakura (very happily, with tears in his big, brown calf eyes) became Ken Ayase.
Not by blood. Certainly not by marriage. Family nonetheless.
Hers. At least a little. He’d kept the name even after moving out on his own (their own, alright, yes, Momo piggybacked with him–not like either of them could afford rent just out of college on their own).
Momo had tried to shove all those emotions and longings into a tight little ball, compacting it until her feelings for him were unrecognizable from the outside as anything other than that of a relative (though anyone who asked if they were siblings was shouted down riotously.) A best friend.
She’d dated total chuds and losers that looked like her old favorite actor, Ken Takakura (may he rest in peace), but none of them came close to the level of kindness and chivalry and strength that her Ken could provide. Studying together, going to the same college right after High School, helping each other hunt down jobs, sharing shitbox apartments and going grocery shopping and paying fucking taxes!
It would be a completely fair assessment to say that some of Momo’s relationships evolved strictly out of desperation. To get out of Ken’s hair, out of his way; to not lose her shit when she saw him getting ready for a date, to not blurt out that those “love you”s before bed were more than just friendly, or that she wanted him with a hunger she’d never known elsewhere.
So, she’d moved out a few times, after dating some guy for awhile. But then it would fall the fuck apart and, because he was the only man who actually meant what he said in this world, she’d be crawling back to Ken’s comfortable embrace.
As friends.
No more, no less.
“Anyway,” she segued like a goddamn mastermind, jesusfuckingchrist, “It takes so fucking long for these meatheads to show their true colors. Dating is for suckers. God… he wasn’t even that good in bed. But I was willing to compromise, so long as we got along and had a baby before I turned fucking forty!”
“How magnanimous of you,” Ken said sarcastically, those artist’s fingers pulling and smoothing along the muscles of her leg, making it hard for her to snap back around another relieved moan (last time she wore fucking heels, she could tell you that!) “You shouldn’t settle for less than you deserve just because you want to have kids, Momo. Especially not in the bedroom,” her best friend sucked in a breath and his hands stalled over her knee for a few silent moments until moving carefully up to her overworked thighs.
“Mmmm,” she sighed, taking another overlarge gulp of the soju while scooting nearer so he could reach more of her, his fingers scraping delectably over plush skin as he inched closer to the hem of her black, fuck-me dress. He’d stop just below the edge, as always. Respectful. Appropriate.
Annoying.
“It takes so long to see if a guy is worth it, you know? If only it was as easy as it was with you–” another gulp of fruity spirits to shut herself the fuck up, and then she tacked on, “I mean—we’ve known each other forever, been besties forever. I know everything about you and we work out problems as a team! But all the dudes I find reveal themselves to be duds before we’ve even been together more than a year most of the time.” Yeah, Momo, no way will he see through that incredible smokescreen.
“I thought you got along great with that programmer?” he asked, voice low and raspy as he concentrated on her thigh. His digits were sinking deep into her chubby skin and it was getting very difficult to not sound like a fucking porn star while he handled her legs. Shiiiiiit, he was good at that. Probably did it to all his girlfriends. Lucky bitches probably got farther than the thigh, though.
Oh yeah, the programmer. The one who kinda, sorta, maybe just a little (okay, a lot) looked like Ken but with rectangular frames.
“He had a wife.”
A hiss escaped the man she’d tried and failed to replace dozens of times over, “Oof, uhhh… sorry. Forgot.” He grimaced and dug his fingers into muscle as a quiet apology that Momo was all too happy to accept on her own behalf.
Turning to watch the movie he’d put on so as not to end up tracking the slow pass of his fingers after he switched to the other leg, Momo thumbed at the sticker on the soju bottle and muttered, “S’okay.” Alien. They must have watched this together a thousand times in the past nineteen years. He knew that she didn’t hate it, but also that it was easy for her to tune it out–good for nights when you got dumped and just wanted to bitch and eat ice cream (the half pint that he’d eaten and the one and a half of his pints that she’d eaten lay forgotten on the hardwood floor below).
Fuck, he knew her too well.
Clearing her throat, she tried for a casual tone and mumbled, “Maybe I should do IVF? I could raise a kid on my own–if the old bag could do it, then it must not be that hard. You could be an uncle, huh?” Flicking her eyes over to Ken, she saw a small frown on his lips, and rather than get inevitably chewed out for implying that parenting would ever be so easy, she kept talking, “It’s stupid expensive though. Would wipe most of my savings. And I know you don’t want me to live with you forever… “
“You know this will always be your home, Momo,” her best friend in the whole world snorted, moving deviously slowly—only to tickle her under the knee instead! This thoroughly dismantled her shitty mood and she kicked at him wildly, twisting on the couch cushion and unfortunately ending up even more on his lap with her thighs wrapped around his midsection. Of course, that did nothing to stop Ken, who’d been wrestling with her since they were teens.
“N-nooo! You–nnnnahahah–you little shitweasel!” She struggled like a giant tuna in a net, straining with all of her not insignificant mass against capture, dropping the mostly empty bottle of spirits onto the floor carelessly, where it clinked against their abandoned spoons and luckily did not break. Ken had one arm wrapped around her waist as they writhed and he giggled. Her hands were on his face and chest, shoving him viciously away while his other hand was locked underneath her thigh–teasing fingers pinching and digging into her well-known tickle spots because he was an absolute cretin!
“What was that about being an uncle, Miss Ayase?” Ken grinned madly down at her, as though he wasn’t also a goddamn Ayase, undeterred even with her fingers spread all the way across his evil, dumb face, “I think the only one who should be saying ‘uncle’ here is you! Ha!” With faster, harder motions, he tickled her maliciously, breathing heavily around her palms and going so far as to worm his head against her grip until he could lick her fingers like a nasty ass little perv—
“Grossss,” Momo exaggerated, absolutely not turned on at all (her fast heartbeat was strictly related to the nonconsensual tickling, really), “Get off, you disgusting–” While he laughed breathlessly, his tongue still squirming between her fingers (not that she was thinking about it), Momo latched her ankles at his tailbone, flexing and pulling Ken by his fucking hair (was that a moan? No way) and flipping them both off of the couch entirely.
Landing hard on the floor, crushing the empty ice cream cartons beneath their combined weight, all the air rushed out of the man at once when he ended up being the one on bottom, breaking their fall while Momo triumphantly sat up from her straddling position. Silky, ink-black hair was still in her clutches, and her other hand rested imperiously on Ken’s Adam's apple; she felt like a queen. Imagined the soft sheets of her bed spread around him as he gasped for breath, throat flexing in a very distracting way against her fingertips.
“I win,” she whispered, forcing a not at all nervous smile onto her lips and holding him down between her legs. She weighed more than he did, even if he had gained a surprising amount of muscle in his skinny arms since they were kids. He was at her mercy.
It took everything in her to not rock against his pelvis.
Ken caved instantly, obviously knowing when he was beaten. Almost frantically, his huge hands bracketed her hips and held her up firmly, putting more space between them, “Okay, okay! You win! I bow before your greatness, you are the superior Ayase, whatever! Just get off before the soju gets everywhere.”
Grumbling, but unable to come up with a decent cover for staying seated on top of him–her best fucking friend–Momo got up, bending to grab the bottle (it had only spilled a tiny bit, having been nearly empty to begin with) and set it on the table while Ken rolled onto his stomach, panting in sheer relief.
From his position on the dark wood, cheek pressed flat and shooting her a half-hearted glare behind askew glasses, he whined cutely, “You know that wasn’t fair at all. Cheater.”
“I can’t hear you from atop my throne, inferior Ayase, I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up,” she teased him in the way that had long since become traditional after their squabbles, placing her foot jokingly on the small of his back (and stubbornly refusing to acknowledge how her heartbeat raced.)
“You heard me, I called you a cheater!” Ken groused sourly, pouting at the floor.
“Sounds like someone’s a sore loser,” she shot back with a smirk.
Momo strongly suspected that her friend let her win this time, considering the reason she was moving back into his house for the, ohhhh, about the fifth time again, now? He was a huge softie underneath all that puffed-up, nerdy bluster. Removing her foot, she held a hand down to her defeated opponent–forgiving, charitable, not at all just wanting to feel his hand slide into her own.
As he rolled his eyes, Ken got to his knees with a groan and then (warm, rough callouses on the knuckles from constant use, so strong—) grabbed her hand to haul himself upright to standing. Facing each other, even without her heels, Momo was nearly an inch taller than him, and from this close, she could almost count the deep flecks in his soil-dark eyes and the many freckles dotting his face and neck. Shit, he was looking at her so kindly, even behind the feigned scowl.
Momo’s bottom lip quivered as the emotion of the day came crashing down, a deep inhale all it took to trigger a shaking sob.
“Come here,” her best friend rumbled soothingly, pulling her into his rail-thin arms and crushing her into his chest, nonsense noises of comfort escaping from lips that dipped to the crown of her head in light kisses. This, understandably, only made her heart ache more, and she tucked her face into the hollow between his neck and shoulder, breathing in the familiar graphite that had always clung to him.
Minutes went by slowly, long and full of choked cries, filled with the pass of gentle fingertips along her spine and wretchedly loving humming noises that vibrated against her wet cheek.
“Why? Why does this always happen?” she mumbled, rounding the bend back to sense and coherent language, sniffling as she nuzzled into his grasp.
“Because the guys you date are more beefcake than emotional maturity, love,” Ken whispered with no bite to it, in just that particular way that could ease a warbling, wet chuckle from her tired lungs. He only called her that when she was upset–Momo tried not to fixate on the bloom of heat that it caused in her ribcage.
She’d wanted, so very much to be a mother. For years. To have a couple kids and a husband that gave a shit. Dreamed of it so desperately that some mornings hurt with the fierceness of her wishing.
“Do you think I could do it on my own? If I really wanted to?” she asked, frightened and small and feeling so unlike herself, but with his arms around her, she could be brave enough to ask.
“You can do anything, Momo. You’re a genius,” her boy scoffed simply, squeezing her in his arms before softening, “And I’ll always be here to help. Long nights, blow outs, appointments, whatever you need. I promise.”
He offered it so easily, like he’d planned it from the start, maybe since they were kids. It stabbed at her, how much she continued to take from her best friend. She always knew that Ken would be a huge part of her and her children’s lives, of course he would—but he was offering to do the things that a partner and father should be doing in his stead, just because of their friendship.
With his lips hiding in her chestnut hair and listing softly (perhaps even drunkenly) at the shell of her ear, she could almost imagine him planting a kiss there before moving down to her neck, like a partner would.
Hiccuping, Momo clawed at the back of his sweater, burrowing deeper into his arms and barely breathing out (pulled raw from her throat, the horrible, quiet truth that had been in the back of her mind for fucking years), “Maybe I should just give up.”
Wide, long-fingered hands suddenly wrapped over her hot, shame-filled cheeks, pulling her away so that Ken’s shocked, injured look filled her field of view, and then his forehead pressed firmly into her own. Digits sweeping over her tender, red ears, he never closed those coffee-colored eyes, peering through her pain and reflecting it back at her as though he felt the ragged beat of her heart like his own.
“No,” it was the softest whisper, a dance of breath across her lips while her best friend in the entire goddamn world appeared to lean in to her for world-tilting moments.
Then she was held once more, his hands around her back while his mouth pressed kisses in much safer locations; her hair, the top of her head, against her eyebrows and so very nearly onto her sore eyelids.
“Don’t give up,” he muttered, almost angrily in his fervor, “You were meant to be a mother, Momo. I know how long you’ve wanted it, please, don’t give up on that.”
Borrowing his strength, she felt a little less numb with every squeeze and rock of his body against hers. Ken was always so warm, like a kotatsu in the winters they spent at the Shrine with her grandmother–feet kicking against each other as they fought childishly for more space before finally settling, legs entwined to nap in the heat.
His hands worked through the silken strands of her hair, coaxing deeper breaths and calm to break her tension and fear. With each sigh and shuddered inhale, Ken breathed deeply, the beat of his heart and the movement of his chest turning into her metronome and bringing her back from the edge. As always.
They held each other for a long time. Long enough that her feet started to get pins and needles from standing still.
Momo was about to withdraw, to cross her arms over her chest and sit down on the couch, to pretend like she was interested in the film this time around—
“I’ll do it.”
Freezing in the circle of his embrace, she could scarcely breathe. Confusion warred with the absolute certainty that she knew what he had meant, but she could not speak or move toward either conclusion.
“If you still want one, I’ll give you a baby, Momo,” his whisper was like a trumpet in her ear, in the silence of the house, of the quiet scene on the television, suspense ringing heavy and pregnant through her brain.
The words were fuzzy, slightly slurred and infused with the muffle of sleepiness.
They weren’t real. Of course not, couldn’t be, and it was wrong of her to even entertain the idea.
In her abdomen, there was an insistent clench, his words repeating like a siren song in the desperate emptiness of her womb.
Drunk. He was drunk–hell, they both were!
Slinking out of his arms, even as he attempted to pull her closer for an overlong second, Momo cleared her throat aggressively, rubbing her bare arms (the goosebumps meant nothing, alright, she was just… surprised.)
“Th- thanks… Okarun,” she mumbled, thoroughly disoriented by the whiplash of emotions and the shock of… whatever that really was, “I, uhhh, I think I’ll go to bed.” His fingers trailed over her elbow before he let them drop like stones toward the floor.
“Y- yeah,” Ken rasped, throat audibly tight. Momo stared at his tongue when he wet his lips and dragged a hand through his already mussed up hair. Looking around blearily, obviously still out of it, he gestured at the mess their wrestling had made between the couch and the low table, “Umm, I–I’ll clean this up. Good night… Miss Ayase.”
“Cool, thanks… Night,” she cast over her shoulder at him, already on her way to the bedroom that Ken always kept ready for her–the master bedroom. He told her that he didn’t know what to do with the extra space, so it was all hers.
The halls were lonely and empty without their usual “love you”s filling it as their footfalls landed, soft and tired, headed to different rooms.
As empty as her stomach, where her heart was plummeting into an open chasm of yearning that Momo tried not to notice while she slid under a familiar comforter.
Overwhelming silence was her only companion in the cool bed, moonlight spilling around the curtains. Ken hadn’t changed a thing–but it was clean, like she belonged here, like he knew she was going to fail and be back once more. It was equally comforting and discouraging.
And what was with that earlier?
“If you still want one… I'll give you a baby, Momo.”
Phantom fingertips lit upon her stomach, her breasts, down her thighs. Half-remembered dreams that had never been fulfilled. Hot, gasping breaths at the column of her throat, wet lips that had never touched her own.
She ignored them.
It would be fine. He was drunk. Everything would be normal again in the morning.
The savory scent of grilled salmon perfumed the air of her bedroom, rich and mouth-watering after a night wherein she’d devoured only ice cream and peach soju.
Groaning, Momo clutched the comforter over her head, surly in the piercing sunlight as her tummy twisted sourly. As far as headaches went, it was only a dull throbbing. After drinking damn near a whole bottle herself, she got off lucky, really.
Of course her perfect roommate and best fucking friend was up ungodly early to cook breakfast.
As she shifted comfortably in the bed, Momo realized that the distractions and drunken wrestling of last night had exhausted her so much that she hadn’t even peeled out of the fuck-me-god-please-fuck-me dress before crashing.
Ugh, she was gonna have creases on her skin.
Stupid dress. Didn’t even work.
On her ex. Not Ken. Of course it didn’t work on Ken, that would be—
Beautiful—
“Okaaaayyyy, time to get up,” she grumbled mutinously at her inner monologue, swinging her legs off the edge of the bed and reaching behind her back to pluck at the hidden zipper of the dress. Stripping out of the garment and letting it fall to and stay on the floor (she’d get it later… probably), Momo wobbled her way to the en suite bathroom so she could scrub the fuzz off her tongue and the smell of fruity spirits off her skin.
Padding to the combined dining and kitchen area, stretching her arms high and popping her spine deliciously, Momo walked in on a comforting scene.
Her best friend stood at the hotplate and griddle, flicking seasoned fish back and forth until they were charred (exactly how she liked it), wearing a black apron that had a cow being abducted by aliens on the front (she would know, it was a gift from yours truly) and humming while he stirred a small pot of miso soup with his other hand.
Plopping down with a groan–because when the hell did they start getting old and achy–at the short table, Momo adjusted herself on her cushion. Not a guest cushion, of which Ken kept several on hand; no, this was her cushion, with little cats wearing sheets and pretending to be ghosts on it. And those were her cup and chopsticks and bowls set out in front of her usual place.
It was like she’d never left those six months ago. Like she hadn’t just crawled back after another horrible mistake.
Ken puttered around the kitchen, turning off and unplugging countertop appliances, transferring pots and food to appropriate containers, cleaning as he went along. He was a pretty great roommate in that way. Not like Momo was a slob, mind you, she just… cared a little less about if the dishes got done immediately after a meal.
He turned around, arms overladen with bowls and plates (those old days working at a restaurant in college coming in handy even now) and arranged everything perfectly between their spots–side by side as always. A giggle tore from her lips as she was reminded exactly what the apron said, “Take me to your feeder”, and caught the quick grin and flush that took over his neck while he scooped some fluffy, sticky rice onto her own teal plate and then his red one.
Taking off the silly apron and setting it aside, Ken sat down heavily (his knees popping in the process) and began to push the majority of the grilled salmon onto her plate as well. This would bother Momo if it bothered him, but enough chopstick fights between them while she stole his portions had proven that Momo was the more voracious eater, and this was his quiet acquiescence.
They fell into a rhythm from there; Momo complimenting his cooking and Ken wheedling her to try it herself sometime (which was rude, she knew how to cook, damnit!), Ken stealing cheeky chunks of natto when he thought she wasn’t looking, Momo swiping a few extra strips of salmon in return, and all while they hummed and asked about work or what the other had planned for the week.
“I’ve been called in on a project for this company, they want a spring design that appeals to the youth while also being traditionalist in nature–”
“There’s been talk about more service overtime, just until we get this game released. I’m getting pretty sick of pulling a cot out and sleeping in my office, though–”
“Miko and Muko wanted to go see a movie on Saturday. You in?”
“Of course, I’d love to see them–it’s been a couple months. Do you know if they decided to adopt that outdoor cat–”
"They did actually! Her name is Mochi! You should stop by and meet her sometime—"
"You're off till Monday, right? We should do something fun this weekend. Granny has been asking to see both of us, you know–"
“And then he had the nerve to ask if we were still going to fuck! Like, asshole, I just dumped you for being a liar! No, we’re not gonna fuck–”
“I can’t believe you dated him for as long as you did, Momo. He was a complete tool, remember when he came over for board games and kept grabbing your ass in front of me?”
“Yeah, yeah… you were right. Is that better, dork lord?”
“Much,” he said around a smirk, bringing his bowl up to his lips to drink some of the steaming soup.
It was as she watched the path of his adam’s apple that Momo remembered—
“If you still want one… I'll give you a baby, Momo.”
Like a volcano had taken residence in her gut, Momo overheated, dropping her chopsticks mid bite. Ken looked over at the clatter and set the bowl down carefully, concern evident in his eyes.
“Momo, are you alright? I didn’t miss any bones, did I?” His huge hand rested firmly at the small of her back, and she flinched hard, some of her soup spilling over the lip of the bowl when her elbow caught the table.
Forcing an awkward, explosive laugh, she slapped her palms onto incredibly hot cheeks and tried to think of what to say.
What the fuck was she supposed to say?
Last night they’d been drunk, she was fresh off a breakup, and it could be laughed off as something stupid between best friends.
If she brought it up now… completely sober…
Would he remember? He’d been just as drunk as she was.
“Man,” she exclaimed, buying time, “Last night was wild, huh?” Maybe she could get him to bring attention to the gigantic, pregnant elephant in the room first, if he even remembered.
His soothing touch stilled on her spine, and suddenly she could feel the line of tension through his limb, how he must be hunching his shoulders in nervous apprehension.
Oh yeah, he fucking remembered.
“Uhhh, y–yes,” he choked, pulling his hand back slowly and reaching for his chopsticks again, “It c–certainly was. Been a while since I’ve seen you, errr, that drunk.”
Really? He was leaving it up to her? Fucker.
Digging her nails into her skin, Momo took a deep breath and plastered a wide, friendly smile in place on her lips, trying to seem casual (failing, oh god, was she ever fucking failing) as she said, “Ha, hahah. Hoo boy. Imagine if you’d been serious, huh? I mean, you’d be a great dad, and I’ve known you for… what, twenty years? We even live together already!”
Ken didn’t respond. He didn’t look at her, those trapped brown eyes pinned to the half-empty plate in front of him while he sat, still as a statue.
‘Look at me,’ she growled in her head, ‘Look at me and tell me it was a joke so I can let you go already!’
“It’s silly, right,” Momo weakly chuckled, the smile slipping. God, why was she so desperate over this bullshit! If only they hadn’t drank so much, this was so fucking awkward–she was going to ruin everything because she couldn’t ever get over this stupid crush, and it would be all her fault for pushing him to feel responsible for her!
Like fucking always.
“Ken?”
He was white-knuckling his utensils and the table edge, jaw set and still not fucking looking, quiet as the grave that would surely house their long friendship. Meanwhile, Momo was standing at the edge of a cliff, and nothing had ever felt as important as this one goddamn moment.
So, why couldn’t he just fucking say someth—
“I meant it.”