Work Text:
having xavier as a roommate doesn’t necessarily cause you any problems in your everyday life, but boy is he a rather peculiar man from time to time.
sharing space with him is an overall easygoing and even enjoyable experience due to his reserved and borderline reclusive nature.
he’s quiet, rarely has guests, and doesn’t pester you. he’s also quite domestic, which seems to indirectly benefit you. his areas are well-kept and consistently clean. he stays on top of household finances and shopkeeping. he enjoys cooking and often feeds you.
when you’re gone for the entire day from morning until night, either at work or shuffling through campus, you come home to an extra serving waiting for you. though, he’s never anywhere in sight.
( admittedly, you did eat his extras without permission the first time, but now, he delegates them to you in space-themed bento box you think he’s had since he was a boy. )
considering he sleeps quite early in order to wake up at the first breath of every morning, and you finally consume your second meal of the day alone in the dimly lit kitchen at 11:30 pm, there’s never an appropriate time to thank him.
so, you instead leave a sticky note that reads, ‘thank you for the food. i ate well!’ on the coffee machine, the first place he looks each morning.
you know this because every day, promptly at 7:15 am, you’re roused from your slumber by the pleasant aroma of coffee brewing and clinging to the air, seeping through all the walls.
it’s a habit of his that cultivates comfort, a sense of home.
you don’t even like coffee, but his routine is oddly like an alarm, a signal to your body that the day is beginning and rising with him. shortly after his brew begins, your eyes flutter open, humming contentedly as you take in the scent and stretch the sleep out of your limbs.
xavier is kind enough.
he doesn’t make many demands of you and asks for a reasonable amount to rent his spare room.
of all the people and places you could have secured last-minute housing for university, you’re quite fortunate to end up with xavier.
he’s a simple guy, not one for many words, communicating in mostly happy hums, gentle sighs, and soft nods ( when you actually see him come slinking out of his bedroom or enter quietly from wherever he spends his day, that is. )
but despite being mostly pleasant and tolerable, he still has these oddities that make you quirk a brow at him, utterly perplexed.
firstly, he nitpicks the number of paper towels you use at once.
on one of the rare occasions you mutually linger in the common space other than tuesday, you have the audacity to wash your hands in front of him — dry them, no less.
naturally, like any other, you grab paper towels to dry, and you feel his eyes locked on your side profile, watching diligently from the dining table. his eyes, little seas you can drown in, shamelessly bore into you. he analyzes you carefully — judges you.
you meet his eyes slowly, unusually nervous. you feel as if you’re being heavily and thoroughly scrutinized. his displeasure pierces the air with terrifying persistence.
“uh…is everything okay?”
“you use a lot of paper towels at once.” he notes quietly, never tearing his gaze from yours. “it’s pretty wasteful.”
he admittedly didn’t state it with malice, only moderate concern at best. when he says it, you look down between your palms where a bundle of paper towels are bunched.
you can admit it’s more than you actually needed, but it’s such an odd thing to want to observe and take note of, such a specific behavior to apply feedback to.
you look back up at him, blinking slowly.
“sorry?” you offer half-heartedly. “is there a certain amount you’d like me to use at a time?”
you try your damndest not to let the severity of your bubbling agitation show, but you hear it slip in the way you offer him a careless apology and defensive inquiry about a solution.
to your dismay, xavier only hums, ignoring your attitude and seriously considering your notion. “ideally, paper towels should only be used for spills and messes, so as to not permanently stain our cloth towels. considering there are two hundred and eight sheets in total, at an average cost of five diamonds per roll, making each sheet worth just under two-point-five gold, it’d be objectively more cost-efficient and environmentally friendly if you…placed a cloth towel there specifically to dry your hands and include it in your laundry cycle regularly. that’s what i do. it’s…the most reasonable option.”
“uh…huh.” you say it slowly, trying to wrap your mind around why it took a boy who hardly ever speaks so many words to arrive at a simple conclusion: put a hand towel there instead. “i’ll put a towel there. i’m sorry for being wasteful.”
he nods, his hard gaze softening and moving back to previous stimuli. “thank you for acknowledging my concern.”
in truth, you don’t even get a chance to add a towel. xavier does it himself. the next time you’re in the kitchen, you notice he’s left an additional towel hanging right next to his, identical.
the sight of it causes you to shake your head and chuckle to yourself, lips tilting into a grin.
peculiar boy.
coupled with his obtuse observational interests is xavier’s odd attachment to tiny, mundane instances inside his routine.
specifically, everyone coming home on time.
every tuesday you only have a single class in the morning, and you also have a day off from your part-time job. so, you usually stroll back into the apartment by mid-afternoon.
xavier is never there when you arrive, and you don’t know much about what he does with his time during the day. at most, you know he’s already graduated university.
you know he must make decent money considering his capacity for keeping the entire house’s basic needs met. you figure he has to do something during the daytime.
that, or it’s nepotism.
what it is? you’re uncertain, but he always carries a backpack stuffed full, and his laptop is always tucked securely under his arm within a protective sleeve.
xavier is a habitual creature through and through, dancing in the spaces of predictability with perceivable glee.
he arrives back home by 4:30 consistently. by that time, you’re usually engrossed in a book, spread out on the living room floor studying, or curled up on the couch watching dramas whenever he finally arrives. you never make eye contact or redirect your attention from what it’s already fixated on, but you do always absentmindedly greet him the same way each time: “welcome home.”
he always gives you a small hello and immediately retreats to his room without another word.
sometime around six, he emerges from his room and comes to the common space to ask if you want dinner.
tuesday evening is the only occasion during the week you’re able to try the things he makes fresh, rather than reheating them. and you both sit in an incredibly comforting, idle silence while you eat.
there’s never expectations to entertain one another or engage in meaningless small talk. you compliment his meal, thank him, and tell him you ate well.
it’s never a lie. xavier is an exceptional cook.
but on one particular tuesday in question, he comes stumbling into the apartment at 2:45 pm, significantly earlier than usual, and he’s in an evident frenzy.
he comes in, kicks his shoes off at the door with little regard ( entirely unlike him ), and moans begrudgingly as he shuffles back toward his room, defeat loud and palpable.
“welcom—” the greeting dies on your lips, hearing his long string of audible dread and looking after him as he scurries down the hall. “xavier?” you call after him.
you watch his tall figure pause and turn back towards you when he hears you, his ceruleans eyes round and wide with apprehension and fear. “yes?”
“rough day?” you ask him softly, trying not to overwhelm him even more. “you’re home pretty early and you have this distinct look of terror.”
you try to joke lightheartedly, but he sighs in response, looking down at his feet. “it is a rough day and it’s only going to get worse. i don’t know what to do.”
“do you need help with something?”
“i…i think so? i have friends coming over. i’ve never had anyone over here. i don’t…do that. i’ve never made that much food. i feel like i won’t be able to get done in time and clean myself up.”
“you seem really stressed out about this. how many people are coming?”
“…two,” he answers sheepishly. “but additional mouths to feed means more time and honestly, i don’t have any time. i left work early so i could try to make this happen, but now it means i’m going to be behind on the schedule i put together for my project and this is…it’s…it’s fussing up my routine. that's making me stressed. i’m sorry. i’m sorry . i know i’m just blubbering and prattling right now.”
“xavier,” you say softly, giving him a sympathetic smile. “it’s okay. i get it. i hate when my day gets thrown off, too. i’m not doing anything particularly important if you want help with making dinner. are there things you need from the store or anything? i can take care of that while you wash up and relax for a bit.”
he’s quiet for a moment as if he doesn’t know what to say. he just stares at you with an unreadable expression, nods once — quite curtly — and turns back toward his room. you don’t take it any kind of way, knowing he often responds pretty similarly.
you figure he just isn’t used to requesting or receiving help, but it’s fine. you can and will follow through.
xavier doesn’t realize what a load he takes off your shoulder by providing you with regular meals. in your mind, the least you can do is eat well, be mindful of your paper towel use, and offer helpful hands when applicable.
later when the two of you are prepping dinner and simultaneously trying to make the apartment feel ‘guest ready’, you keep noticing him glance over at you, but he doesn’t speak. actually, he hardly says anything at all the entire time you work together.
it’s such a strange contradiction. he presents himself as shy and reserved because he simply dosen’t speak, but when he does speak, he seems to talk a mile a minute or be unnecessarily long-winded at an average speed.
there isn’t really an in-between thus far, and you’d lived with him for nearly a year.
unable to endure any more of his silent but blatant gazes, you snap your head to him, a little curious and also frustrated. “why are you staring at me? did i do something again?”
“no,” his head shakes as he blinks, seeming a bit taken aback by your tone. “i was…thinking that i’m really grateful that you were willing to help me with this. i don’t have enough time to finish all my work. i don’t have enough time to see my friends or have dinner with them. i don’t have enough time to spend with myself. but i’m trying to do it anyway because…it matters, you know? but i was…in a panic earlier. i get really stuck on my routines. inconsistencies just make my brain itch. i was feeling really overwhelmed and your offer to go gather the things i needed just so i could shower and breathe for ten minutes…meant…a lot to me. so…thank you. also…i’m sorry…for staring. i have this really bad habit of not knowing what to say, so i say nothing or… everything.”
to his apparent surprise, you giggle. his eyes widen a bit at the sound.
“yeah, i noticed that about you, actually.” you place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “no problem. we’ve been here together for a while now, yeah? it’s only natural that sometimes we need to rely on each other. it’s kind of like how you leave me your extras from dinner for when i get home. i…otherwise would only eat once a day most days. i move around a lot. i forget about it, and by the time i get home, i’m too exhausted to make food. i’m grateful for how you’re willing to help me, too.”
you didn’t expect to see his face flush red or for him to look down as if staring at his feet will make the bright, rosy tips of his ears disappear.
“yeah…no problem. i guess you’re right.”
“so…what is it that you do for work? what’s so time-consuming that you essentially have no life outside of it?” you ask.
although you’re curious about his line of work, you ask him for his benefit, so he doesn’t feel embarrassed for feeling flustered after your exchange. you’re starting to figure out that although xavier appears and presents as if his lack of social involvement is a personal preference and choice, being a loner is not just a stylistic choice but an inevitable outcome.
he’s clearly socially inept.
when you guys eat in thick silence, it’s not because he’s wading in an endless sea of comfortable notions and doesn’t feel the need to speak. he doesn’t know what to say, so he opts for absolutely nothing.
small talk is likely not something he’s familiar with or perhaps even cares about. he has to be coaxed out of his fretful foundation just to express that he needs help. he communicates in grunts, nods, and sighs because it’s easier than navigating a flow of back and forth in conversation.
“i’m a video game designer. i…work on actions and movements mostly. the physics of it all. when characters engage in combat or how they interact with certain parts of the environment in open-world games? i’m part of the team that goes behind creating things like that. we give the characters life and motion. it’s…pretty cool considering it’s been my dream job since i was young, but it’s a lot of hard work. we’re working on a really important game right now. it could put our team on the map with. so, i have to do my best. i can’t let my team down.”
you hum, impressed. “that’s actually really cool. i kind of figured you were a nerd in some capacity. you’re a cool nerd with a cool job.”
he laughs then, light and quiet but saccharine sweet. “i wouldn’t say i’m a nerd. i have a deep understanding of my personal interests. it doesn’t make me nerdy. just knowledgeable.”
you nod in agreement but hum in protest.
“no, it doesn’t make you nerdy, but telling someone they use too many paper towels and proceeding to itemize the cost of a single sheet on a whim is…not, not nerdy.” you explain, clicking your tongue.
he pouts. “i thought that information was relevant to helping you understand my stance.”
“i would’ve understood even if you didn’t explain, xavier. it’s your apartment and you buy all the paper towels. it’s not wrong for you to, without explanation, tell me to be mindful of my excessive use.”
xavier looks you over, his expression contorted by perceivable perplexity, lips pursed and eyes just staring at you while blinking blankly. “but you clearly were bothered by me bringing it up. that’s why i elaborated like that.”
nonchalantly, you shrug. “i wasn’t bothered you brought it up. i just thought you were being peculiar. and you still haven’t been able to escape those allegations, by the way. it’s alright, though. even if we end up having to indict you for your oddities, i’ll still accept you.”
it’s quiet between you both then. xavier seems to have nothing else to offer to the little exchange, and that’s fine with you because when you peek at him again as he’s chopping vegetables, you notice his tiny smile.
and you note that the subtle little smile doesn’t leave him for the entirety of the evening.
you sit quietly on the opposite side of the room, midding — uninvolved but happily present — observing him engage with his work friends, jeremiah and ulysses. he seems quite comfortable with them. his speech becomes fluid, easy, and even exciting at times. you see a little sparkle in his eyes when they talk about games and how jeremiah is close to finishing is personal passion project.
xavier must love gaming a lot. you wonder if video game development is really his dream activity or just the dream career, and maybe his real passion is something more novel and less technical.
regardless, you can’t help the sheer feeling of pride that swirls around in your chest seeing him like this: attentive, involved, lively.
it gives you a subtle little smile of your own.
and you note that it doesn’t leave you for the entirety of the evening.
among all other observations, the characteristic of xavier’s that confirms the strength of his quirkiness is how he’s suddenly far too concerned with how you spend your tuesdays.
it starts the week after you help him prepare his tiny dinner party for his friends, the most peculiar aspects of his behavior. it’s all because on one particular tuesday in question, you never come home after class.
your friend and co-worker, tara, has a date with a girl she’s been flirting with for a while, and you agree to switch shifts. today in exchange for a day you don’t have class and you can stay home, a fair and even trade. you’re tired, hanging on by a thread, but you really need the extra time for the week.
( you work as a waitress at a small restaurant near the university. most students dine between classes or on their lunches. it’s a small but heavily populated establishment. when you volunteer to work on busy days, your boss advances you what you make for that day at the end of the night. it has its perks and its pits. )
while cleaning off the table of a guest who just left, you receive repeated text messages, making your brows furrow as your phone shoots signal after signal in quick succession. who could possibly be texting you this urgently?
no one ever does.
you glance at the time. 4:32 pm. xavier usually wanders through the door right around now. your expression lifts in light shock as you see he happens to be the source of the incessant sounding.
4:32 pm | xavier:
are you safe? you’re not at home.
it’s tuesday. you’re usually home when i get here.
my routine is thrown off.
you roll your eyes reading his messages. he’s being hyperbolic and overdramatic again, but for what? is it really so important that you’re there just to say two words he hardly acknowledges only to hole up in his room until he’s ready to make dinner?
maybe this is his attempt at humor.
you chuckle at the thought of it. xavier is so socially awkward that his jokes don’t even land; they just float in the air, suspended by complexity until someone gets it.
4:34 pm | you:
you’re being incredibly dramatic. i’m at work. very alive and well. making money to keep feeding us.
4:35 pm | xavier:
objectively incorrect. i buy all of our food?
4:40 pm | xavier:
look. no one was here to welcome me home and now i’m back but don’t feel an ounce of welcome about it.
you laugh at his response, very heartily, right in the middle of a restaurant, inwardly beaming with pride because he made a joke. and it was actually kind of funny. only kind of.
you start to wonder why it matters so much to you if he grows into himself and becomes comfortable enough to speak freely and easily. why do you feel so invested in his character development? regardless, you hope to see him come out of his shell more. it’s becoming of him.
4:42 pm | xavier:
will you make it in time for dinner or another long night?
4:44 pm | you:
probably not. it’s pretty busy and we’re already short-staffed. another long night. aiming to be back by ten tonight. i have homework due at midnight.
4:45 pm | xavier:
okay…understood. godspeed.
work goes by as it does.
it’s always the same formula and equation, just different bodies and times of day. you finally come strolling home at 10:05 pm. you’re dead tired and knowing you still have to finish your homework and submit it is making the exhaustion feel heavier than it probably is.
when you head inside, you expect it to be dark, only the light above the stove left on as per usual, but instead, all of the lights are on. the tv is chattering with excitement, playing some kind of variety show, and there’s a spicy, thick aroma in the air that makes you pause briefly to breathe it in.
it’s so pleasant. and warm. you walk in, greeted by a scent that feels like a long embrace.
as you stroll through the door, you look to your immediate left where the open layout kitchen is placed. xavier stands next to the stove, chopping vegetables carefully on the counter.
“welcome home.”
he announces it casually, just as you always do for him, but doesn’t tear his attention away from his task.
you don’t know what exactly this is, the shift in his behavioral pattern. you aren’t sure what to name the feelings that attach to it, either, but you appreciate it because today you have an anomaly of your own.
you understand it right then: what he means when he says he came back but he didn’t feel welcomed home.
you’re always only ‘coming back’ but walking in and being welcomed by him, it feels more like ‘coming home’.
you note that there might just be a difference.
your voice is tepid and content when you finally speak.
“hey, you’re up pretty late.” he only hums in response. you wander over to him, keeping a good grip on all your belongings. “cooking dinner at this hour? pretty unlike you. huh, your routine really did get messed up.”
his lips quirk. “yeah, i worked more when i came home instead of eating. i’m still catching up from last week. but i noticed i was starving and then i realized it was almost ten. so i figured i might as well just commit to a curve in my routine. but…what about yours?”
his inquiry surprises you a little because he’s initiating small talk with you. at first, your lips just part. “my…routine? uh…yeah? it got thrown off majorly today. i have an assignment due by midnight. i thought i would turn it in by this afternoon, but i got paid in advance for this shift, so that was nice.”
xavier abruptly stops cutting his carrots and places the knife down calmly. and then, he just looks at you. it was a very normal look that you could give anyone: stranger, acquaintance, or friend.
it was just a simple look, but for some reason, when his eyes meet yours, your heart starts to pick up its rhythm, and you swear you can hear the thump of it crescendoing in your ears.
he’s so…handsome.
it’s not that you’ve never looked at him before. it’s not that you aren’t already aware that he’s a good-looking man. anyone with eyes and reason can see that. it’s just that right now you’re looking at him and he seems like his features have changed, like someone raised the saturation and clarity on his existence. his jawline seems sharper. his soft, blue eyes seem more potent, gleaming cooly. his lips are supple, pink, pouty, and curved quite romantically.
he looks like a walking beckoning for affection.
his pearly hair is tousled, all in disarray, like he’s been running his fingers through tirelessly. his clothes seem to cling to the thickness of his frame, outlining the definition of his thin but muscular build.
he quite obviously works out. you didn’t notice that before, the way fabric bulges around his arms and shoulders. his feathery lashes flutter around lapis when he blinks, all that angelic beauty swirling around so casually. you haven’t looked at him this thoroughly before.
god, he’s pretty.
“you should make sure you respect your resting day routines. you seem to work really hard with…everything you’re doing.” xavier’s voice is soft and caring, cradling his own declaration tenderly.
smiling, you nod, swallowing down how flustered suddenly you feel inside, hoping the quickening of your breath doesn’t give it away. “i hear you. it was a one-time thing anyway. now…need help?”
“don’t you have homework?” his voice is perplexed. “go work on it. i’ll call you when i’m done.”
to this, you reject his suggestion with a shake of your head. “no can do. i think i’m too tired and will take my loss with grace for the sake of a decent meal before midnight. i’ll ask again…need help?”
you don’t say what you really mean right then: i think i’d rather spend time in silence with you.
it looks like he’s only barely started, likely working on a base for some sort of soup. he has so many scraps laid out everywhere.
xavier clears his throat. “uh…yeah…yeah, i do.”
“on it,” you say resolutely. “let me put my stuff up and change. it’ll only take me five and i’ll be back to help.”
after that, you don’t see xavier for the rest of the week.
tuesday is really the only day your schedules coordinate enough to see each other even in passing.
you don’t miss how disappointment settles in your chest every single time you wander inside at ten or eleven and you don’t see him standing there in the kitchen, back turned to you, nonchalantly welcoming you home.
you don’t miss the way you stop yourself from texting him and telling him exactly what he told you: look. no one is here to welcome me back home and now i’m back but don’t feel an ounce of welcome about it.
but on the following monday, you receive a surprising notification.
1:08 pm | xavier:
i would like to formally request permanent assistance with dinner on tuesday evenings. unless work or other contractual obligations prevent participation. it is much more efficient with two sets of hands. and since we both eat, it’s the most ethical and fair.
his formality makes you giggle, as it’s so aligned with who you now understand him to be. once again, smiling fondly to yourself, you think of what a peculiar boy he is.
his request at its core is perfectly fair. he does buy all the food and cook it but you both enjoy the fruits of his labor. so if it’s a regular thing, you realistically should help him without a single qualm.
that’s the line of reasoning you offer for the sheer speed of your response, agreeing to give away all your foreseeable tuesdays to him: in all fairness.
1:09 pm | you:
sure thing xavi.
you don’t miss the way it’s the first time you’ve ever called him by or given him any kind of nickname. you don’t miss the way you feel nervous to send it, as if being denied casual exchanges with him will have a significant impact on your emotions.
now you’re the one acting peculiarly.
for three weeks, on three consecutive tuesdays, you and xavier rally together in the kitchen, pick a recipe to follow, assign your roles, complete your duties, and successfully make meals together around six o’clock.
for three consecutive tuesdays, you sit together at the table and eat well, sometimes in silence, but sometimes in comfortable, slow-paced conversation. the most surprising evolution is the budding presence of his attempts at small talk.
“i don’t know how i feel about this recipe.” xavier admits after devouring the meat he’s made. “i don’t care for this marinade at all.”
you, mouth full and consumption bordering barbaric, look confused. when you swallow, you have to inquire about why he feels this way. it’s quite delicious. and you can’t fathom him not liking it considering he ate all of it.
“what? you didn’t like it? how ? i think it’s incredible. probably your best yet. the meat is so, so tender and it’s very flavorful but not overwhelming. it pairs really well with this little sauce we made!”
“you enjoyed it?” xavier asks. you notice then that he’s biting his lip rather nervously. “or are you only saying that because we spent a considerable amount of time on this one?”
you grin, rolling your eyes. “why would i lie? you’re a good cook, xavi. seriously…i’ve never not enjoyed the food you’ve cooked. you did really well on the meat. and judging by your happy plate, i think you know that.”
you figure out quickly that it isn’t that he doesn’t like it, but that he wants someone else to say he did a good job but doesn’t want to ask directly until an opinion is already offered.
he even seeks praise awkwardly. how endearing.
he doesn’t speak, only lowers his head with that subtle smile you’ve come to find yourself craving the sight of.
admittedly, you enjoy this blooming tradition that the two of you are building. you feel excited for him to come home, eager for him to finish resting up and come out at six, ready to get started, ready to talk to you or just stand by your side. moreover, you really enjoy not eating dinner alone.
you enjoy his proximity even in your settled silence.
it always feels more like home when he’s here and you are, too, both parallel or perpendicular to the other.
“this is nice.” you tell him warmly. “i kinda like our new tradition.”
“oh,” he breathes softly. “i…”
his head rises quickly and he looks at you, those icy eyes you’ve grown particularly fond of now slightly widened. you don’t know if you’re just seeing what your own unspoken feelings want to see, but it looks like longing looking back at you. his hand rests on the table and you glance down, only for a fraction of a moment, considering reaching your own out to find the answer to a theory you’ve constructed in the last few weeks: you think his hands might be incredibly soft.
“well, um. i…that’s…good to know. i think that maybe…um, i…”
( your mind begs you to let it be known that he’s stammering and you’re staring, but your thoughts are ever so slightly somewhere else. )
you notice when he washes his hands, he pats them dry lightly with his towel. delicate. and he always opens the drawer below immediately after to pull out a tiny bottle of hand cream. every single time. habitual. he applies a dollop and rubs it all in gingerly. he makes sure to get all the nooks and crannies of his hands, the dips and the divots. thorough. patient. soft. satin. he seems to care a great deal about his hands, takes good care of them and the things they touch. you lick your lips and look away.
“i’m sorry…i…uh…don’t know what to say i think and…”
you cut him off. “is it a mutual understanding?”
“what?”
“do you…like our little tradition as well?” a slow, timid, soundless nod. you respond with tilted lips. “then…you can just say…i like it, too.”
he doesn’t take his eyes off of you, but the look he gives you is becoming clearer, and you can’t look directly for too long or you’ll melt right before him.
xavier turns out to be a lot like the sun, and if you aren’t careful, your heart might try to become like spring and bloom for him.
“i…like it, too.” he says finally.
humming, you turn your attention back towards your food, looking away, and for the first time, being the one with nothing left to say.
all the things you want to say officially teeter off the cusp of amiability and drop straight into a giant vat of arousal.
after a moment, your body becomes so hot you can’t stand just sitting there anymore, so dinner ends abruptly with xavier telling you to leave your dishes and he’ll take care of them.
you only nod and offer him a quiet thank you and a friendly goodnight. then you wander off to your room in a daze wondering if he noticed you squirming in your seat.
he’s so domestic, you’re about to cum off the strength of existing in the same house as him.
( and that’s not good because you’re always in the same house as him. )
the things you watch him do in the kitchen, it’s all just so homely.
there’s a kind of strength in a man who appreciates homemaking that makes you weak.
telling you to make sure to preheat the oven, putting on his mitts to check on the food, setting timers, and tying an apron around his waist. cutting vegetables. using measuring cups.
‘slice, not dice. here, let me show you. watch.’
the way his triceps and biceps flex at the motion of his very intentional cuts, the way he’s always rolling up his sleeves, even when they’re short-sleeved shirts like a goddamn tease, basically begging to be turned into a husband and a father overnight.
it’s sickening.
you officially want him so bad you want to throw up.
the orgasm you have in your room — stifling the sound of your moans and the sound of you quietly calling out his name when you did — spells it out quite clearly for you even if you don’t want to acknowledge it outright.
you like him. a lot.
it’s absolutely sickening.
on thursday, another anomaly occurs in your schedule. a few actually, and all of them are pleasant.
the first anomaly is relaxation.
you don’t have class and since tara keeps up her end of the deal, you have an entire day at home to enjoy your alone time. but, as usual, you wake to the pleasant aroma of coffee. you smile even harder knowing there’s nowhere for you to be so you can move as quickly or as slowly as you like.
it means that maybe you can go have coffee with xavier before he leaves for the day. you don’t even like coffee, but you like him. and that’s more than enough reason to get you out of bed, tidy yourself a bit, and go sauntering out of your room to ask for a cup of hot liquid you’ll never consume.
( you’re more of a tea or hot chocolate kind of person, but there’s a first time for everything, and maybe having coffee will taste better if drinking it means spending even a fractal of time with him. )
this initiates the occurrence of the next anomaly.
“good morning,” you say pleasantly.
a yelp. a jolt. a wince. a hiss.
a “fuck, fuck, fuck”.
a resounding crash.
the sound of shattered ceramic.
xavier clearly isn’t expecting you to be up or to greet him. you wince at the sound of glass and lean over to see that he’s dropped and broken the mug he was holding: your mug. your favorite one. the one your grandmother made for you with her own two hands.
there’s coffee pooling everywhere, all over the floor, and xavier moans dreadfully.
“shit!” he exclaims. “you scared me. i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean…i didn’t mean to break it. i’m sorry. i really am.”
the mug means the world to you, as your grandmother’s much older now and unable to craft little items for you like this anymore. it’s the only one of its kind. the only one that would ever be. and now it’s in pieces on the kitchen floor, a little sea of java surrounding the sad, jagged portions of loving sentiment.
“i’m sorry i scared you.” you say softly, trying hard not to cry. you don’t want to make him feel bad. you don’t want him to feel bad at all. “it’s okay, xavi. it’s okay. i’ll get towels.”
once you grab towels and come back to help him clean it up, he’s deep in a spell of unnerved groaning — a long, drawn-out whine that goes on under his breath for a while.
“please don’t be upset.” he pleads, frowning. “i’m so, so sorry.”
you smile softly, shaking your head. “i’m not upset, xavi. are you hurt at all? from the coffee? i heard you hiss.”
“i’m okay. it splashed on me, but it didn’t burn me or anything.”
you place the two large towels down to soak up all the liquid on the ground. xavier focuses on picking up each piece of the broken mug. as you watch him through the top of your eyes, you wonder just why he’s using your mug to begin with.
“i’m not used to you being awake so early.” he admits, slightly embarrassed of how a simple good morning resulted in this. “but…good morning to you, too.”
you just can’t help it. you giggle. peculiar boy.
“if you want…you…you can pick one of my mugs to take in its place.” he offers, biting his lip.
you nod and say okay for a few reasons: 1. you absolutely want something of his and it’s a microscopic guilty desire you have. 2. he seems like it’ll bother him a lot if he can’t rectify the situation in some way. you saying it’s okay doesn’t appear to suffice. 3. see reasons 1 and 2.
as he’s showing you his plethora of available mugs, you catch yourself smiling. he has all of these mugs of his own, but…he was drinking his morning coffee out of yours.
you survey them all and find only one that stands out. it’s a white, ceramic mug with the word ‘create’ etched messily into it. it’s oddly shaped, looking nearly homemade. irregular. odd. it’s the most xavier mug of them all. that’s the one you want. you point to it.
“i’ll take that one.” you chirp.
for a brief moment, he hesitates, pouting cutely, but his lips slowly tilt upward. “of course you will. that one’s my favorite. i made it in my high school art class, but…okay. okay. a mug for a mug. you can keep it. drink your coffee out of it well…and frequently…or it might start to feel neglected. it’s an extroverted kind of mug.”
if you knew it wouldn’t result in one of the most blatant forms of rejection you’ll ever face, because xavier is nothing if not brutally honest, maybe you would have kissed him right then. it would be hard not to if you knew with unearned confidence that he wouldn’t push you away.
but, instead, you quietly take the mug and you’ll use it well just as he asks. and maybe he’ll try to sneak in a hidden smile by just lifting the corner of his lips. and maybe you’ll spot his dimple because of it, the one that likes to hide the same way your feelings do. and maybe the sight of it will make your heart flutter and your breath hitch. and maybe it ( in its own way ) could be just as good as a kiss.
a homemade mug for a homemade mug.
you have a feeling you’ll keep it closer than anything else.
“want to have coffee before you leave for work?” you ask, even knowing well that you’ll be wasting even more than he has, even knowing how upset he’ll be if he figures you out.
but it feels worth it when he nods, offering you that coy smile you silently plead for nowadays. and you both do, in the soft lull of the morning, sit at the table over a cup of coffee. you even steal glances every now and then. when he asks why you haven’t touched your drink, you lie and say you prefer it with creamer, to which he turns his nose up in disgust.
“creamer is a forbidden substance in this house.” he informs you. “but…if…if it really is a dealbreaker for your coffee enjoyment…i’ll make sure to get you some. what kind do you like?”
the next time you go grocery shopping for us, honey? why don’t you just ask me to pop the question right now?
you don’t care for coffee. you don’t care for creamer, but you care very, very dearly about the prospect of xavier getting any kind of special thing for you, with you in mind, with the purpose of making an experience better for you. it makes you feel special to him.
( you know plenty of special things he can give you to make the experience better. and it didn’t even cost money. he can use his perfect hands as much as he likes. )
“hazelnut,” you lie with a smile. “that’s my favorite.”
the third anomaly occurs much later in the day when you’re home alone and you’re lounging in the living room, wondering if thursday will get to be a second tuesday with xavier since you’ll both be here.
unexpectedly, there’s a knock at the door. your brows furrow. you didn’t order any food. you didn’t expect a delivery. xavier always tells you if anyone’s dropping by.
when you walk up to the door and peep out, you see a remarkably handsome man standing on the other side.
you open the door carefully, revealing a boy, likely around your age, with soft lilac hair that seems to take on a pearlescent tint in the light. a blend of amethyst and carnelian in his eyes and standing there with a kind smile that seems like it might dissolve anything in sight that just so happens to perceive it.
he even has little dimples on his cheeks as he beams so pleasantly.
he, much like xavier, is very pretty.
“hi…can i…help you?” you ask timidly, not fully coming outside the crack in the door, only your head and a portion of your torso poking out.
( he might be attractive, but he’s still a stranger. )
he scratches the back of his head. “oh…uh, hi!…my name is rafayel? i just moved into that unit about a week ago.” he explains, jerking a thumb back towards his front door, #1103r, right across from you and xavier’s #1104r.
“oh! i didn’t even know the unit was empty.” you laugh. “welcome to the complex…and the hall. it’s fairly quiet, so i hope you aren’t a partier.”
laughing, he shakes his head. “a baker and a painter, not a partier. i spend my spare time making sweet treats. you might smell me baking a lot, though. i…uh…i actually was coming to ask if you had butter? or margarine? i’ve started making cupcakes, but i didn’t get butter at the store, and i didn’t want to leave out…because i already started. so, i figured i could come to introduce myself…and ask a neighborly favor?”
he puts his hands together in a small plea.
wow, the boys in this building really do enjoy wholesome activities.
smiling, you nod. “sure, give me a second. i’ll be right back.” when you come back to the door with an entire package of butter, he smiles wide, making his eyes crinkle. “i hope that’ll be enough.”
“more than, i’ll bring back what i don’t use.” he promises. “ah, you’re a lifesaver. thanks!”
“happy to help. welcome to the building, rafayel.” now, the exchange should be complete but he’s still just standing there. “well…if that’s all…”
“what was your name? did you already tell me?” he asks suddenly, confused. “sorry, i wanted to say your name, too, because it seems respectful since you said my name, but i was trying to rack my brain for what you said your name was…”
“i didn’t.” you clarify, chuckling at his spaciness despite knowing you’ll lie. “it’s…hunter.”
“hunter. hm, i like it. it suits you somehow. anyway, thanks, miss hunter the neighbor. rafayel the baker will see you again soon to return his butter hostage and maybe offer a treat forged from his deepest gratitudes.” a lopsided grin and a wink.
when he leaves, you close the door and stand there for a moment, recalling the entire exchange. he’s handsome, a bit spacey, but so friendly…so friendly he’s flirty. you’ll never complain about having eye candy for a neighbor, but…you don’t want xavier to get the wrong idea…if rafayel starts talking to you more…
you quickly shake the thought away, reminding yourself to return to reality from the depths of your delusions. xavier is not interested in you in that way by any means. he, at most, wants to become friends, which is understandable for a person he’ll be living with for an additional year. that’s fair. you want to be friends, too.
( you just also want him to talk you through his day while he’s fingering you, that’s all. )
the next anomaly occurs at five pm when xavier arrives home much later than he usually does. for him, thirty minutes late is a lot. it throws off his routine.
“welcome home.” you say casually as he finally comes waltzing in.
you try your best to appear as if you’re as unfazed about his entry. you try not to make it disgustingly obvious that you aren’t just there relaxing anymore; you’re waiting. for him to come home. to welcome him back. this time, though, he doesn’t respond curtly as he ducks back towards his room. you hear the rustling of plastic bags he sets down on the kitchen counter.
he then wanders over to you and lays a heavy palm flat on the crown of your head.
“hey,” he breathes.
in movies or dramas, this is the moment where your world freezes, just becoming so petrified that even time doesn’t dare to move. you gulp hard, your heart racing even more so than it usually does over him.
what are you supposed to do?
“did you…enjoy your day off?” he asks. “did you rest enough?”
“um…” your voice trails, mind still entranced by his hand resting on top of your hand. it’s such a gentle gesture, so tender and timid, like him. such a well-suited affection for his temperament. “i had…a relaxing day. it was nice.”
you manage to speak, but you stare ahead, not bold enough to look up at the face he’s making while he touches you. he finally lowers his hand to his side and inside, you scream about it, protest profusely to the removal of his closeness.
“what about you? was work okay?” you ask, breathing returning to normal as he heads back to the kitchen to unpack his things.
the first item he takes out is a little bottle of hazelnut creamer, and your heart is so warm you think it’s become nothing but a puddle of adoring liquid.
“work was less stressful. we’re close to done with this project. so now there’s not as much silence in the office. everyone is slowly starting to act like real people again. it was driving me insane. when intense projects happen, it disrupts my routine so much. people stop saying good morning. i don’t feel comfortable saying anything more than i already don’t. and i think the secretary hates me because i kept messing up my report and printing it incorrectly. it created unnecessary work for her and it wasted a lot of paper. i made sure to pick some up while i was at the store to replace it, but…” he stops suddenly and frowns. “sorry, i just realized i was rambling again.”
you can’t hide your loving smile even if you bother trying. “you’re talking about your day. there’s nothing wrong with that, especially if the person you’re talking to wants to know all the seemingly useless details.”
xavier has this habit of just peering at you at times when you respond to his long-windedness with openness to experience. and boy were you dangerously open to experiencing him.
“and…do you…?” he asks you slowly, his head tilting to the side. “…want to hear even the unimportant details?”
you shrug casually and nod once. you decide on an endearing response with a touch of humor to soften the landing for your heart as it’s doing its somersaults. “i don’t mind hearing about your day in great detail…it’s like listening to an audiobook for free. or a podcast.”
“you…” he rolls his eyes, lips quirking. a soft shake of the head. “anyway, what’d you do today? stay on the couch engrossed in your dramas?”
“i cleaned up a bit, did some homework, met our new neighbor, and binged on a drama, yes.”
his brows bundle together. “we didn’t already have a neighbor?”
“that’s what i said! i didn’t know the unit across the hall was empty, but he came by to ask if he could have some butter and introduce himself.”
xavier’s face scrunches up, slightly disgusted and confused. “butter? like…to just eat?”
“xavi, what?” you ask, bubbling a laugh. “no, dummy. he’s a baker. he started making cupcakes and realized he didn’t have any. he said he’d bring back the excess.”
again, a repulsed display of emotion. “i don’t want any food back after it’s left this apartment. there are all kinds of new germs and particles on it now. why would i consume that or allow you to? what kind of person do you take me for? god only knows what he does in that unit. and if he double dips? if he sticks his fingers in his mouth and touches the container without washing his hands? ew. there’s no way for us to even verify. the number of available and unfavorable possibilities is disgusting in itself. and bakers seem like the…‘lick their fingers clean’ type, so…he can keep the butter. i’ll get us more.”
you purse your lips together, clasping them shut to keep your amused smile from showing how endearing you find him to be and also to keep from laughing at the severity of his seriousness, at how comical all his particularities are but adorable in the same breath. peculiar as ever.
“okay, if he tries to return it, i’ll reject him.”
“that would be best.” a familiar, curt nod. “i’m making dinner in a little while…do you…want to help me? or will it throw your relaxation routine off?”
you snort. “xavi, i don’t have a relaxation routine. the relaxation is disrupting the routine in a good way. but yes…what are we making?”
and there it is again, that little smile that makes you want to clutch at your chest.
having a second tuesday is another wonderful disruption to the routine.
the following tuesday, you’re giddy as you head home from class. you aren’t sure what moment does it for you, but you’ve settled comfortably into the fact that you like xavier, that given the opportunity, you’ll peel back every single layer of his existence to taste and lick and know every part of him.
it doesn’t bother you to be just friends and roommates with him, though. you guys live together. even if something comes of it, if it goes south, it’ll really destroy the living dynamic you guys have cultivated, which is quite comfortable. gentle. tender. safe.
besides, he reserves special kinds of platonic affections for you that suffice.
as you approach the building, you see your neighbor, rafayel, struggling to balance a tall stack of white, flat boxes while he tries to open the door to the building. you jog up and hold it open for him.
“ah, thank you, miss hunter the neighbor.” he says graciously. “saving me yet again.”
rafayel is nice enough but he seems to be quirky in his own way. you’re starting to wonder if it’s a prerequisite for being accepted for housing in this place.
as it stands, though, tensions are high between your household and his.
when he returned the butter, rafayel was immensely offended by xavier’s suggestion that he ‘tainted the butter with his baker’s breath’ and the stern demand that he take it back, to which xavier’s lip curled in disgust as he emphasized that he especially didn’t want it then.
it ended with rafayel leaving the butter by the door and sitting it on the ground, both oddballs unwilling to claim the absurdity.
you ended up picking it up and throwing it away.
while it was a comical event all around, seeing the two of them standing in the doorway trading glares over the sanitation of butter was amongst the strangest things you’ve witnessed.
“do you need help, rafayel?” you ask with a laugh. “you look like you’re one, fragile step away from it all crumbling down.”
he sighs. “if you don’t mind and it won’t taint your precious hands to touch my baker’s boxes, then yes, you may help me.”
“for the record, i have absolutely no stock or stance in the butter sanitation conundrum. i am but an innocent bystander. so, no, your baker’s boxes aren’t at risk of tainting my hands.”
you roll your eyes at him. “you’re really dramatic, you know.”
“criticizing me is not helpful.” he notes. “and i’m not certain, but i thought you asked to help.”
“fine,” you grumble, grabbing a stack of the boxes out of his hands. “what’s all this for anyway?”
he smiles triumphantly. “i got my first big gig as a freelance baker. i’m making fifty fishie cupcakes for a five-year-old’s birthday party tomorrow.”
a playful smile. “wow, that’s really cool. congrats on that one. are you excited?”
“excited…is certainly a word. maybe not one i’d use to describe this, but a word nonetheless. if you can’t tell by the thick layer of perspiration and sweat gathering on my forehead, everything is great and not stressful at all.”
you pout, oddly concerned for his results. “are you going to be able to pull it off?”
“well, the thing is that…no?” he laughs and so do you. “my friend thomas was supposed to be my helper so i could pull it off, but apparently chasing skirts is more important than making and icing cupcakes for a child’s birthday party. i wouldn’t know since i respect the brotherly code of conduct and would never, but it’s fine. i hope he gets laid.”
you nod. “me too…but i hope he has a hard time performing. he shouldn’t have bailed on you. this seems…important to you.”
“ah, miss hunter the neighbor is quite observant, rafayel notes.” he narrates himself in the third person. “it is pretty important to me. but…just to me.”
that upset you deeply. you know what it’s like to have your dream not be taken seriously. all this time, you’ve been in school to join the hunter’s association of all things.
no one really sees the benefit or believes in what you want to do. you have a heart condition, after all. you’re basically out here trying to prove your entire family wrong, that you’re capable of developing a strong, steady life without needing endless aid.
you hate the idea that rafayel is clearly very passionate about baking, about doing this kind of custom work, but his friends aren’t supporting him, and now he’s scrambling.
“do you have to be a talented baker to be a baker’s assistant?” you ask, biting your lip.
the flame in rafayel’s eyes twinkle. “not at all! you just need two hands and a decent enough ability to follow a series of simple directions.”
nodding resolutely, you smile. “then consider me self-appointed as the baker’s elf. let’s go get these cupcakes made, rafayel the baker neighbor.” to this, he beams.
“miss hunter the neighbor is starting to seem a bit like a friendly neighborhood fishie herself.”
making cupcakes from scratch is no fucking joke.
there’s so many steps. it really is a series of simple directions, but if those simple directions are off even by a small margin, it ruins the batch and you have to start again. you didn’t realize how time-consuming it would be. in fact, you didn’t really keep up with the time at all, but when you catch a glimpse of it on his television, it’s already eight ‘o clock, and your eyes widen.
“shit! i need to go to my apartment.” you tell him urgently. “are you okay from here or should i come back?”
rafayel shakes his head, grinning. “you’ve done so much. i just need to finish working on these last fifteen. i got it. thank you so much. you didn’t have to help but you did. it means a lot.”
“no problem, but next time, i expect to take home one of my own.”
he laughs. “next time?”
“rafayel the baker neighbor seems to need help a lot.” you say with a shrug before ducking out quickly. “see you later!”
even though you’re only across the hall, you feel like you’re going to walk in and be in an insane amount of trouble. you haven’t even bothered looking at your phone.
when you walk in, xavier is sitting on the couch, but his head snaps up to you immediately.
“you’re okay!” he says, relief evident in his voice as he rises to his feet. “where have you been? i hadn’t heard from you in hours and i got really worried about you.”
he walks over to you but keeps a small distance between your bodies, looking you over for any sign of harm. your entire face heats up. you feel yourself shrinking before him as you take a breath.
“sorry,” you say, looking down at your feet. “i was across the hall. i was helping rafayel wi—“
he cuts you off, brows knitting together, lips in a frustrated pout. “the unsanitary baker? why?”
“if you would let me finish…” you snap, giving him a hard look. “his friend bailed on helping him and he got his first big order as a freelance baker. i was home so i helped. i was really busy so i wasn’t keeping track of time well. you wouldn’t believe how hard it is it make cupcakes from scratch.” an exasperated sigh leaves your lips just recounting the last few hours mentally.
he’s not looking at you anymore when he speaks next.
“you baked cupcakes with him?” he asked. “like…you baked them…together?”
you feel confused but nod. “…yes? that’s what ‘helping’ would entail in this situation. he was stressed and i felt bad because i know what it’s like for no one to truly believe in you.”
“fine,” he spits, lips set in a hard line. “i hope it got done. dinner’s on the stove.” he walks past you toward the hallway then, his back turned. “and please wash your hands before you touch anything.”
then…he just walks straight to his room without another word, leaving you feeling perplexed by his response.
his bedroom door closes a little harder than usual and you fear you may have made a grave mistake by hanging out with rafayel, especially when it’s abundantly clear upon their first interaction they’re unlikely to get along.
maybe he feels like bailing on cooking to hang out with rafayel and not even letting him know is a jerk move and you agree.
since that event, the rest of the week is very awkward.
even though you don’t see each other often on weekdays already, you have this inkling that xavier’s avoiding you at all costs. he even stops making his coffee. he just slips out into the early morning. you wake up close to ten am, very late, for every day it occurs.
an obnoxious disruption in your routine, and he doesn’t make dinner at all. you go to bed pouting and hungry.
but another anomaly occurs when tuesday rolls around again: you wake to find that your class has been canceled. ever the diligent student, you check your emails daily. when you finally get around to grabbing your phone in the morning, it’s the first thing you do.
to your surprise, the one class you have is canceled due to the professor being ill. you take great pleasure in this because the regular routine in the home is now also back in motion.
you wake to the heavenly scent of colombian swimming in the air.
you wander out into the living room. xavier leans back against the marble counter, sipping quietly from a dark-colored mug.
“good morning,” you announce quietly, making sure not to frighten him.
his eyes dart to your presence, and you just pause where you are, unsure if proceeding any closer is safe.
“morning,” a short and dull response. “you’re up early.”
you shake your head, playing with your hands nervously. “i’m always up this early. the smell of your coffee wakes me up every morning. i just usually stay in my room and get ready.”
“oh,” his voice is small. after a long pause, he asks, “is it bothersome?”
to answer, you smile lazily and offer another small head shake. “not at all. it’s actually my favorite alarm. very quiet and very pleasant. i’ve been waking up late the last week nearly. my routine…was thrown off.”
with all the gall in the world, he scoffs. “since when do you care about keeping a routine?”
“what?” you ask softly, voice slightly wounded and face fluttering into confusion. “what do you mean?”
“you skipped out on our routine last week and that didn’t seem to matter to you at all.” he states simply. your guilty eyes look at your nervously shuffling feet. “so, what is it? why did you hang out with him and bake with him?”
you’re not sure if it’s the irritated tone he’s now choosing to take with you or the underlying insinuation that you, a grown adult, owe him a reasonable explanation for why you exert autonomy and choose to help others. as if you did something morally reprehensible by helping rafayel.
you’re not even certain xavier is actually, fully angry that you bailed so much as he’s angry about who you were with and what you were doing instead, which is still unfathomable why it’s his business.
yes, you should have let him know and you can own that because you know he probably waited a while for you to show up and you never did, but you’re not going to stand here and let him reprimand you for hanging out at your neighbor’s unit just because he’s decided he doesn’t like him for quite literally no real reason at all.
“um, are you my father?” you ask, your face scrunching up in frustration. “he’s our new neighbor, xavier. he needed help. i’m just being kind, and i like hanging out with him. he’s funny an—”
he cuts you off, setting down his mug. “you like hanging out with him?”
“yes…?”
it’s silent between the two of you then, his eyes going blank and glossy. “why? what’s so special about his place? why would you prefer spending tuesday there?”
you’re genuinely appalled by his response.
you expect he may not like the idea of you hanging out with someone he dislikes, but he’s not your parent or your partner, and he’s only become a friend recently. the way you feel like you’re being forced to justify your very simple, very innocent actions of helping rafayel is absolutely unacceptable because no matter how many times you say it, telling xavier you did it because he needed help and it was important for him to have it isn’t a sufficient explanation for him.
but it’s the truth and it not being enough for him is not necessarily your burden to bear.
“xavier, i don’t owe you an explanation as to why i had a good time hanging out with him and helping him make cupcakes so his first, real order can lead to more. i don’t have to explain anything i choose to do with anyone. i don’t owe you or your ego elaboration.”
“well…” his voice trails and he’s quiet for a minute as his skin slowly reddens and he nervously bites his lower lip. when he looks at you again and speaks, his voice is incredibly soft, unbearably wounded, and pained. “i want an explanation anyway. because i thought you liked spending your tuesday nights with me, but you went over there instead of staying to see me and make dinner together. and you didn’t even tell me. just left me waiting on you. what’s that about?”
the sheer shock and confusion of his confession must be evident on your face. you feel your mouth part as if you want to speak but you don’t. your brows knit together, trying to make sense of his stance so you can properly answer his question.
your heart is racing wildly because it seems xavier may have developed feelings of his own…toward you.
“wait…wait…” your voice trails, you’re still looking up, eyes blinking rapidly and narrowing, not in a sinister way but dubious.
as it stands, your current theory that he might have feelings for you, is unfounded and is permeated by perplexity.
“is…is that why you’re upset?” you ask him. “because i ended up helping him and missing one tuesday with you?”
he sighs and nods, frustration exuded in his body language as if you stated the utter obvious simply to upset him. “you told me you liked our little tradition to cook together, but then picked another guy to make food with the very next week? an unsanitary one at that? and…and…you know what? i want to do that with you. making dinner isn’t fun on my own. not on tuesdays. not if you’re not here with me, and especially not if you’re not here because you’re over there and want to be there more than you want to be here. with me .”
your question comes out suddenly, your tone layered in urgency. “xavier…do you like me?”
he just stares, mouth slightly agape, looking as if you’ve asked a stupid question yet again. a soundless, ‘you’re not serious, right?’
his next comment confirms your intuition and also attests to your ability to read his expressions clearly now.
“are you really asking me that? are you oblivious? after all this time? as if it wasn’t completely obvious that i do.”
you snort. “xavier, if you liked me all this time, it was absolutely, undeniably, irrevocably not obvious.”
“i gave you a hand towel that matches mine and placed them next to each other.” he details with a flat voice and a roll of his eyes.
you look at him, growing progressively more flabbergasted by his position in the ongoing argument. he lives in a delusional mental world where he thinks his feelings, in all their silent conquest, are thoroughly known and understood. even though you’ve never spoken to him about anything of the sort.
“xavier…you do realize you criticized me for the number of paper towels i used, right? i thought you were just…solving the problem you created.”
he has the audacity to groan. “i’ve made dinner for you to eat when you come home since the first time you left me a sticky note apologizing for eating my extras.”
“yes, because you always make excess. that’s what you said!”
you huff, arms folding over your chest. he can’t seriously believe he has a little avalanche of decent examples of his ‘liking you’ being obvious. there’s just no way. he would have to be completely disregarding every other aspect of objective reality except his own thoughts and perception in order to come to the conclusion that placing a hand towel on a bar or letting you have the extra food he makes regardless are his attempts to court you.
“i got upset when you filled in for a coworker on a tuesday instead of coming home and i was only distressed because you weren’t here to tell me welcome home. i told you i didn’t feel welcomed without it!”
now his voice is raising, aghast and disbelieving.
you shrug, just staring at him with flat affect and dawning freshly picked neutrality. “i thought you were joking and finally developing a sense of humor. i was proud of you.”
a squeak. he’s watching all his ridiculous reasonings be debunked and he just continues trailing down the list of them, much to your dismay.
if he’d shut up for a moment, you can get off the topic of what would have made it obvious and move on to something way more important, much more impactful.
is he going to kiss you soon or what? so peculiar. he’d rather argue you down than take his shot with you and watch himself hit a bullseye.
“i gave you my special mug to keep for your own because you said you wanted it.” another eye roll.
“you broke my own special mug and told me to pick the one i wanted! i thought it was an eye for an eye. a mug for a mug!”
he gestures towards the refrigerator. “i brought creamer, a banned substance, into this apartment for you.”
“it’s creamer, xavier, not a confession. please be serious.”
this time, his voice is small and sheepish. “i started giving you…head pats.”
you can’t refute the intimacy of that one. you know it. he knows it. the smug smirk on his face not only knows it but is gloating about it. “fine, you got me there, but that still isn’t enough to infer romantic interest.”
“i blatantly asked you to make it a permanent date with me to make dinner together on tuesdays. how much more obvious do i need to be?”
you furiously shake your head, protesting his claim. “no, no! you formally requested assistance with dinner on tuesdays. the word date was not aforementioned. you made it seem mandatory . in fact, you said it was only fair.”
now, he’s blushing furiously, the tips of his ears going red.
“it’s not mandatory, per se. it’s just the principle. and even still, you say that as a counter, yet you went over to his place instead of coming home to be with me…doing the cooking we agreed on and mutually enjoyed.”
you scoff. “but it’s not mandatory to cook?”
“well cooking isn’t mandatory, but it is mandatory that you genuinely like me back if we’re going to be doing domestic things like making meals to eat together. consistently. and openly. so when you do it with me for weeks and tell me entirely unprovoked that you like doing it with me, it gives the impression you want to be domestic with me. i only spend time at home, so i take that very seriously. i was starting to feel played with.”
you won’t lie. all of his nonsense is just that: nonsense.
but the idea that you left him feeling like you were giving mixed signals or like you were stringing him along for the fun of it deeply wounds you inside, because you also like him a hell of a lot.
you would never go off and be intentionally confusing.
“i wish you had said it clearly. we would have been on the same page a long time ago probably. i wouldn’t be spending a single tuesday there if i knew why you wanted me here.”
xavier grumbles, “i genuinely don’t understand how you didn’t notice.”
“i genuinely don’t understand how you could possibly think i would?” you counter, the statement falling from your lips like a question that requires clarification.
he steps closer to you, and for the first time, you see something new in his eyes: determination, passion, need, and desire.
your breath catches in your throat when one hand goes around your waist, pulling you closer to him, the other cupping your cheek.
your heart.
that’s all you can hear is your heart thumping in your chest as if it might combust.
“how is this for being crystal clear? i like making dinner for you and with you. i like that our hand towels are matching and next to each other. i like that the smell of my coffee wakes you up in the morning…i want to be the one that wakes you up in the mornings. so…with that being said, it’s tuesday and i want to make dinner with you tonight. if you want to make dinner with me, understand that you’re consenting to complete romantic affiliation.”
“understood,”
it comes out with no hesitation, your eyes glancing between baby blues and pretty, tinted lips begging and beckoning.
“so, you’ll make dinner with me and consent to romantic affiliation?” he confirms, a lopsided grin forming. his choice of words begs a chuckle from you.
you nod. “xavi, are you seriously asking me that? are you oblivious?”
“can i kiss you now? i’ve been dying to.”
you pout, feigning a great deal of disappointment and concern. “if you don’t know the answer, then maybe i really should go back across the hall…”
his grip on your waist tightens, a soft thumb caressing your cheek and there’s that subtle smile you adore. “we’re definitely kissing because you have to be quiet. like right now.”
you laugh. “wow. that one was actually funny.”
“what?” he asks, thrown by your response.
“oh, nothing,” you sing. “c’mere,”
smiling at your urge to draw him in, he leans down then, no longer willing to waste time being idle with you or staring into each other until you can’t take it. when his lips touch yours, the only thing you can think about is how soft they are, how smooth, silk against velvet.
all you can think about is how gently he keeps you against his torso, how shyly his lips move with yours like he needs to test you out and know how you feel, like his lips have more to offer, but much like his conversational skill, you’ll have to coax him out of his timidity.
when you both pull apart, you reach your hand up to touch his, tugging very gently on his fingers. he obliges your silent request for his hand, watching you with an enamored gaze, moving his palm from your face and allowing you to tangle your fingers together.
you officially love his hands very much. you felt it on your cheek and now you feel it wrapped around every space between your fingers.
the most peculiar thing of all about xavier seems to be just how correct your theory is: his hands are like satin, and they take immaculate care of anything they’re tasked with touching.