Work Text:
Click.
The front door to your work building shuts with a snappy click. You take a step into the night, cold raindrops tapping down on your head.
Tip tap tip tap tip tap.
The world around you is a mix of purple and blue hues, the desolate road and far buildings’ forms before you all swirling together. The small parking lot ahead is merely a packed square full of various cars.
Maybe everything appears swirled because of the rain. The wet atmosphere. The water.
Or maybe…
…
A replay of your day crackles in your mind's eye, the tape beginning to roll for what feels like the 50th time this evening.
The silence outside is loud. It's just you.
Tip tap tip tap tip tap.
Just you and the rain.
But it wasn't supposed to be.
You had a date.
Had.
Pain stings at the basin in your eyes.
You were supposed to get out of work early. You had it all scheduled and figured out. You had it planned for weeks in advance. But your boss had other plans. Plans that he failed to tell you about until an hour before you had to leave.
The pool below your eyes builds.
Tip tap tip tap tip tap.
It would've been fine if this were any other day. You're used to your boss's poor communication.
Except today, you were supposed to go to dinner with Cross.
Cross is always so busy, but he made time just to go out with you. He's been texting you throughout the week, sounding so excited.
But then work became insane. And you couldn't leave on time anymore.
So you sent Cross a text. A fucking text. Imagine setting up a fancy dinner date for somebody, figuring out all the plans, making time for someone despite your intense schedule, just for the other person to cancel at the last possible minute. Because that's what you just did to him.
And now you feel like such a bitch.
All the colors swirl. Dance. Shimmer.
Such a fucking bitch.
A droplet rolls down your cheek.
There it is.
You blink. Hard.
More drops fall. They're warm.
You shouldn't be so upset.
And yet, the droplets continue to trickle down, dropping to mix with the cool water striking the pavement below.
It's all so overwhelming. Today was overwhelming. Today was loud. Today was stressful. Today was—
Something bumps against your back. It feels solid.
“Pardon me.”
You glance back, your arm quickly wiping at the stains running down your cheeks. The rain will hide any streaks you miss, so who cares.
Somebody is standing behind the entrance door, holding it half ajar, mere inches away from you.
Ah. You're blocking the door.
“S-sorry! My bad,” you say, quickly shuffling aside. They give one of those small “co-worker smiles” before hurrying past you towards their car. Their pace quickens to a jog as the rain grows heavier.
Tip tap tip tap tip tap.
Y'know, you should probably stop anti-aura farming and head to your car already.
Speaking of which, where did you park? In the back? Probably?
Your footsteps sound clicky and wet as they travel through the parking lot, searching for that familiar make and model. You reach the back of the lot, standing near the side of the road as your eyes survey each unfamiliar vehicle.
A car suddenly whizzes by, its tires running over a puddle.
Sploosh!
Water sprays up, coating your work attire in a heavy layer of road water.
You freeze, your eyes squeezing shut.
That did not just happen.
Moments pass.
Yeah, it did. Okay.
You take a deep breath. The air smells faintly of wet dirt and vegetation.
Okay.
It doesn't take long to find your car. It was somewhere in the middle row, not the back. Whatever. At least you found the damn thing.
As you slam the front door shut, you have the sudden realization that you could've used your keys to find your car. Simply hitting the lock key would've turned the headlights on.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Okay.
The car starts with a loud stir from the engine as you turn the key, willing yourself to find what little patience you have left. Your body shivers against your sopping wet clothes.
Your foot hovers over the pedal. But it doesn't press down.
Instead, your hands reach for your phone. You don't ever remember getting a notification. Did Cross get your text?
You click on your message app.
Your text to Cross still hangs at the bottom of the text threads. Along with the small indicator reading Read right below.
Oh no. He left you on read.
He must be upset.
And you can't even blame him.
Looking back at it, your text is so blunt… You were so overstimulated when you wrote it, so you kind of just…
God.
…
Just go home.
Your headlights roll up to your dimly lit apartment building. Small rocks kick up against the vehicle as you glide into your usual parking space, but their sounds are drowned out by the constant tapping against your car's roof.
Tip tap tip tap tip tap.
One water-filled trek later and suddenly you find yourself in front of your apartment door. You turn the key in the lock, the door cracking open with a hollow, cheap, creaky sound.
You close the door behind you.
Deep breath in.
The air smells familiar. Faintly of roadwater from your clothes, but nothing more.
And out.
You shiver in place.
Ugh. You need to get out of this water-soaked uniform stat. Maybe a quick shower would do you some good. Help clear your mind a bit. Because honestly, this brain fog is ridiculous.
After gathering up a comfy pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt in your arms, you head off to the bathroom where you spend the next half-an-hour standing under the warm water, letting it drown out your headaches of the day.
—Okay, that's an exaggeration. It was more like 15 minutes, because bills are expensive. You ain't flat-out broke, but eh.
Just as you're toweling yourself off and pulling on your sweatpants, you hear a distinct sound at your front door.
Knock knock knock.
Who the hell…?
You pull your sweatpants all the way up. You can’t exactly say you’re in the mood for visitors at the moment. Maybe if you ignore them, they'll go away?
You reach down, pulling your fuzzy socks up, the fabric reaching just above your ankles. They have a little paw pattern on them, like cat paws; they're cute, what can you say? And they were on sale! Win-win.
Knock knock knock.
The sound is a bit louder this time. You choose to ignore it. Yes, you're physically home, but mentally?
You're on fucking Mars. Sounds cheesy, but you get the point.
Knock-knock-knock.
Holy shit, that one was loud. It even made you freeze up for a second.
Goddamn.
Pulling the t-shirt up and over your head, you make your way into the main room, where the front door lies, staring into your soul.
Knock knock…
This time, the knocking sounds more hesitant. Like the person realized they were too harsh the previous time.
Knock…
One singular knock.
You tear the door open.
“What do you—” Oh.
You're met face-to-face with a worried-looking skeleton. And a large bouquet of roses. And a mysterious grocery bag.
Cross?
Sure enough, there he stands, fancy suit, bow tie—the whole shablam. If he had hair, it’d definitely be neatly combed back. His suit's colors perfectly complement every inch of him, the dark tones coordinating with the purple bow tie nicely. Not one wrinkle is out of place. He's even got a small handkerchief tucked away neatly in his front pocket. He kind of looks like one of those cute butlers you see in movies.
The unexpected sight of it all practically gags you, cutting any dialogue you had prepared short. But it isn't just because of the nice attire. It's the sheer expression on his face.
Cross's expression goes from mildly surprised when you open the door, to immediate concern once he gets a better look at you. His brow bones furrow slightly, setting the worry into his skeletal facial features. His eyelights watch you closely, staying strictly on your eyes.
Truth be told, your expression can't be all that inviting if we're being real. You don't even fully know what face you're making, but it probably isn't what he was hoping for.
Cross breaks the silence.
“hey…”
You stare back into his eyelights, struggling to register the fact that your bailed-on date is currently standing at your front door.
“Hey.”
“is everything okay?” His eyelights flicker down, looking you over once. “you look… i dunno…”
You blink.
“Thanks.”
“no, i—not like that!” Cross visibly cringes at himself. “that's not what I meant. you look wonderful.”
You look down.
Cross is in a fancy suit. And you're in sweatpants and fuzzy cat socks.
“Do I?”
“yes! you look very cozy. it's just…” Cross trails off, eyelights searching your face. “you look tired.”
“Tell me about it…”
You both go silent for a moment, unsure of what to say. The silence begins to grow uncomfortable.
Cross shifts in place.
“well i uh, i wanted to give these to you.” He holds out the bouquet of roses towards you. Delaying for only a moment, you reach out, accepting the bouquet with a quiet “Thanks.”
Cross smiles when you take them in your hands.
You can't help the small smile that makes its way onto your face as well, seeing how happy his own gesture made him. But your smile quickly droops.
Cross takes a small step forward, his voice coming out gentle.
“are you okay?”
Your tired eyes move to meet his gaze, his eye sockets growing worried once more. Your eyes feel blank. It's hard to put any emotion into them, no matter how much willpower you attempt to muster.
You glance down at the bouquet of beautiful roses in your hands. They’re all in pristine condition, as if freshly picked and trimmed.
“What are you doing here?”
Cross blinks.
“i’m here to see you…? but i can leave if this is bad timing,” he quickly adds, “we can always reschedule, i'm totally cool with that, too.”
Now you blink.
“You still want to see me?” Your words come out more aghast than intended. They sound desperate and defeated, which strangely bothers you, for whatever reason.
Cross's brow bones furrow once more.
“of course i do.”
You fidget with one of the rose stems, running your finger along its smooth grooves. The thorns that had once adorned its full, luscious stem have been removed, leaving a soft handle in their place.
“I thought you'd be mad at me.”
“what?” Cross's eye sockets widen. “why?”
“Because…” Because you stood him up last minute and he didn't respond, rightfully so? Because of an unreturned text? Because you couldn’t get your work shit together, and now your problems are being forced onto Cross?
Your fingers run along the rose stem once more.
“...You left me on read.”
Cross stares for a moment, expression unreadable. He then tilts his head quizzically.
“did i? i coulda sworn i…” He trails off, pulling his phone out of his dress pants pocket. A few bony taps later, and he's holding the screen out with his messages app pulled up for you to see.
Sure enough, he sent a small string of worried, yet reassuring texts in a row, all ending in an Error. Message not sent. The final message mentions something about him popping over to check on you.
He was worried about you.
‘why didn’t it… oh god.” Cross's eye sockets widen in realization. “i teleported. i teleported while texting you back. it messes with the connection sometimes.” He slides the phone back into his pocket. “that’s my fault. i'm sorry if i stressed you out.”
“No, I should be the one apologizing!” You cannot believe he's actually apologizing right now. “I fucked everything up! We had this planned for weeks, I canceled our plans so bluntly, I was being such a bitch—”
“hey, hey!” Cross's brow bones crease as he reaches out, placing a hand on your shoulder. “don’t say that about yourself. please.” His please sounds sincere. Like he's genuinely hurt by you berating yourself. “...because I think you're perfect the way you are.”
Cross glances down.
“...cat socks and all.”
You give his shoulder a light shove, to which he laughs.
“what? they're cute!”
“Yeah, but not paired with a dude in a fancy suit cute!”
Cross's smile slowly dies down as he blinks.
“i can change into something more casual if you want—”
“No! You don't have to. You already came all the way here.”
Cross stares, thinking for a moment.
“...i'll be right back.”
“Cross! Hold on—”
And he's already teleported.
You're left standing there alone for no more than 30 seconds before he returns. Wearing a purple hoodie and grey sweatpants.
“You didn't have to do that!” you say, readjusting your grip on the bouquet.
Cross's simple expression doesn't change.
“but i wanted to.”
“But you…”
His hand returns to your shoulder.
“i wanted to,” he quietly repeats. After a few silent moments, you nod.
…
Oh, you should probably let him inside. The dude's been standing out here for like 5 minutes now.
“Would you like to come inside?” you sheepishly ask, stepping aside.
Cross smiles.
‘i'd love to.”
His entrance into your small apartment brings nothing more than a few awkward shuffles and floor-staring. You two haven't actually gone on any “official” dates before, yet here you are. In your apartment. Alone.
Cross also seems to realize this predicament, because he immediately occupies himself with gazing around the small space, taking in his surroundings a little too enthusiastically.
You stroll over to the kitchen, where you pull out a small vase. Filling it with water, you then place the bundle of roses inside. It's a snug fit, but it works. You let it reside on the countertop for now, until you can figure out where to keep it. Honestly, with how full the vase is, you may even have to split it into two separate ones…
The silence between you and Cross now brings your attention to the thing still in his hand.
“What's the bag for?”
Cross grins.
“i brought food! figured you hadn't eaten anything yet.” Cross follows you into the kitchen, setting the bag down on the counter and rooting through the contents inside. “hope you like parfaits. i thought we could make some together.” He begins setting the items from the bag onto the counter: a carton of strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, a tub of vanilla yogurt, a small bag of granola, chocolate chips, and a can of whipped cream.
You gotta hand it to him, the dude came prepared.
“I love parfaits,” you smile, watching as he pulls the ingredients out one by one.
Cross glances your way, a knowing smile on his face.
“...i know. you told me a while back.”
He remembered? Something as small as that?
Something in your chest flutters.
Is it anxiety?
No… this feels too comfortable. It's something else.
Fondness?
Appreciation?
…Whatever it is, it's nice. Notable.
Assembling the parfaits doesn't take long, but it's fun nonetheless. You two added a couple layers of yogurt and berries, before topping it all with whipped cream and chocolate chips.
After finishing off the dollop of whipped cream on his parfait, Cross glances over at you with a mischievous smile. You're busy placing on your final layer of strawberries, cutting the green, leafy tops off of each one you place in your bowl. He takes the opportunity to sneakily spray a dollop of whipped cream onto your nose.
You jump at the unexpected sound from the can, but quickly turn to glare at Cross, who is already giggling.
“aw, you look so cute!” he laughs, wiping a small glop of it off of you with his finger and licking it off.
Your eyes narrow.
“Oh, I'll show you cute.”
You snatch the can out of his hands, immediately spraying him in the face. Unfortunately for you, his reflexes appear to be much faster than yours. Instead of spraying in his face like you'd hoped, Cross opens his mouth, catching the stream with his tongue. He then swallows it with a triumphant grin. And another giggle.
So you spray him again, which he clearly wasn't expecting, earning him a face full of whipped cream.
Cross shrieks, jumping back with a wide smile, wiping the whipped cream off with the back of his hand. And now you're giggling with him.
It's childish and silly, you know, but it's also kind of adorable. The way his eyelights light up when you laugh, how his cheekbones warm with that pretty shade of purple…
It's cute.
You have to admit, the parfaits were a pretty good idea. You weren't particularly hungry, but the fruit and yogurt combo was tasty enough to make you push past that initial blank fog polluting your body. Some days, when you get too stressed or overworked, your body just decides to stop giving you cues. It shuts off to avoid the stress.
But this is nice. The food is nice. The company is nice.
…Cross is nice.
He's taking care of you, while keeping things fun and lighthearted. It places a fuzzy feeling in your chest, filling that blank fog with warmth.
Cross seems a little sheepish when you suggest eating in your living room, no matter how many times you assure him that it's fine—he's always so cautiously polite. Worried about stepping out of line or crossing boundaries.
But like. Bro. It's a couch and a TV. It ain't that deep. Sit down.
So you stroll over to your couch, taking a seat on the far side, arm leaning against the armrest. You pat the cushion next to you, signaling for him to come over. Cross shuffles over, parfait in hand, as he takes a seat on the opposite side of the couch. Not exactly what you had in mind, buuuut alright.
“is this okay?” he asks, scooting a little closer. Not much closer, but a little. It's something.
You look back up into his cautious eyelights. He obviously wants to come closer, but doesn't know how to ask.
You tilt your head.
“I'll do you one better.”
You scoot up against him, your arms pressing against each other's sides. Cross smiles, eyelights shyly flickering down to the parfait in his hands. You swear a light purple hue spreads across his cheekbones as he looks down, avoiding eye contact.
You turn on some light TV in the background while the two of you eat, though, the background sound ends up being unneeded. Cross is really easy to talk to. He might be a little skittish at times, but when it comes down to it, he's kind, yet easy to joke around with. It's nice. Refreshing. You even find yourself laughing as he recalls some silly tales of his “weird coworkers.”
Before you know it, a good chunk of time has already passed, and you two are well-finished with your parfaits.
As for what to do next, admittedly, you don't have much to offer here in your small apartment. But like… you have video games? Thankfully, Cross is more than willing when you suggest it. Thank god your date is a gamer. You really aren't in the mood to watch some reality TV show rip-off, or whatever shit is playing on the TV right now.
…Why did you even turn that on in the first place?
“Well, we're playing Minecraft,” you say, switching the TV to display your gaming console's screen.
Cross's nose crinkles up. (...And you have obtained new information that skeletons’ noses can crinkle. Huh. You learn something new every day.)
“split screen?” he cringes, a few amused chuckles breaking through. Oh, so he's one of those gamers, got it.
“You'll be fine, you little try-hard.” You hold out a controller. “Now take this before I throw it at you.”
Cross grins, crossing his arms defiantly.
“and what if i don't?”
You reel the controller back over your head.
“okay okay—” Cross laughs, standing up to wrestle the controller from your hand. His hand finds your wrist, closing around it and holding it close to your head. He snatches the controller with his other hand, a victorious grin on his face.
You glare, moving your free hand towards the controller. That overly-confident look on his face is kind of annoying. Cute, but annoying.
Instead of trying to pull away, Cross suddenly tosses the controller onto the couch, before encasing your other wrist in his now freed hand.
Cross grins. But then it slowly begins to wobble.
He's holding both of your wrists on either side of your head. Staring directly at you. Practically hovering over you.
You feel warmth begin to creep onto your cheeks.
Cross seems to realize the predicament as well, because his eye sockets widen as he drops your hands, a flush of purple plaguing his cheekbones.
“uh, sorry,” he nervously laughs, avoiding eye contact at all costs, “got a ‘lil carried away there.” He glances at you, checking the expression on your face.
You smile, a few laughs sneaking out. Cross returns your smile with one of his own.
Gosh. This is awkward.
“...I'm boutta decimate you,” you say in an attempt to break the awkwardness, grabbing your own controller and sitting back on the couch. Cross seems to momentarily misunderstand the word “decimate,” because his cheekbones flush with even more purple, his eye sockets blanking.
Then he blinks.
“oh, yeah, uh, minecraft.” He plasters a confident grin on his face (though its believability is questionable at best). “not if i decimate you first.” He cringes for a brief second before sitting back down next to you, picking up his controller.
Turns out, despite being fairly competitive, Cross is actually scared of survival mode. He shrieks a lot higher-pitched than you do whenever a skeleton shoots him, and stays indoors nearly the entire night cycle. You exploit this heavily, finding ways to kinda-sorta sabotage and screw him over. His screams are pretty entertaining, what can you say?
…You're surprised no one’s issued a noise complaint yet. Because these walls are paper-thin. And don’t ask how you know that.
After what feels like (at most) an hour, Cross's in-game character stops moving.
“hey, uh—” Cross clears his throat— “…we should probably call it quits for the night, ey?”
You glance over at the idle controller shifting around in his hands before looking back up at the blinding-screen.
“Pussy.”
“it’s like, 1 am.”
“No, it's only—” Oh my god it is 1 am.
Your eyes tear away from the game as you tap the pause button, taking in your now-pitch-black apartment room.
Well that’ll explain why the screen is so blinding. You were so locked in that you didn’t notice the time. Or light. Or lack-thereof.
Cross fiddles with the controller’s buttons, eyelights watching his hands.
A brief moment of silence passes.
“well uh,” Cross sets his controller aside, “guess i should probably get goin’, then.” He straightens up, turning towards the front door. “this was fun! thank you for—”
“Wait—” You grab his wrist. Cross's eye sockets widen in surprise.
You open your mouth to speak, but… nothing comes out.
You have nothing prepared to say.
Words fail you.
Cross stays silent, watching you motionlessly.
You two continue staring with wide eyes.
The room is silent, apart from the gentle notes of the Minecraft music playing in the background.
Cross slowly lowers himself back onto the couch beside you, eye contact becoming more intense by the second.
Your mouth opens again, but no words come out.
Your mouth closes.
Cross brings a hand up to yours, his fingers just barely grazing your skin. They linger for a moment. Nervous. Uncertain.
His eyelights finally flicker down to the hold you have on his wrist.
Oh shit. You’re still holding him hostage. That's probably why he's hovering over your hand.
You swallow hard, an apologetic laugh making its way up your throat. You don’t even know what you’re doing, or why.
Your hand releases his wrist in an instant.
But Cross catches it before you can pull away, stealing away the air needed for your laugh when a small gasp leaves your lips.
Then his other hand finds yours.
You blink.
He blinks.
You both look down to gaze at the situation your hands are in, fingers interwoven together.
His hands feel smooth against your palms. They’re bigger than you’d expected, though their gentleness is what sticks out the most. Although possessing the strength of a trained soldier, his hands hold a certain softness for you. They cradle your hands with a carefulness reserved for timeless glassware. Towards you, they resemble the steady hands of a sculptor, holding pottery with such care and adoration that they’d devote their entire life to preserving it. Protecting it. Keeping it safe and unbroken. Wishing they could mend every crack in the clay.
His palms pulse with an inner warmth as his fingers give yours the lightest squeeze, studying your every crease, every wrinkle, every callus. Memorizing. Storing the information for a later time. Wanting to remember every little inch of you they can touch.
Even if it’s only your hands. It’s enough for them. Your hands are enough.
Cross’s eyelights shift to gaze into your eyes once more. Then they flicker lower. Just below your eyes.
He’s glancing at your lips.
Amidst the darkness, you can make out a hue of purple traveling across Cross’s cheekbones, warming his skeletal features with a heat that feels alive.
A nervous smile makes its way onto your face.
His mouth curves to mimic your own.
Now you’re both smiling awkwardly.
And now you’re turning your head down in embarrassment, your face warming as you stare into your lap. You hear a small chuckle from Cross as your movement finally breaks the eye contact.
You glance back up. Cross is still looking at you. You fail to contain the nervous giggles fighting their way past your lips.
Cross returns the giggling with a few more chuckles. They have a certain anxious energy to them.
He’s nervous. Of course he’s nervous. You’ve barely even moved. He probably thinks you're uncomfortable.
Your hands firmly squeeze his as you tilt your head back up to meet his gaze once more.
“You’re such a nerd,” you mutter with a fond smile.
“what does that make you?” Cross counters, his tone holding the same softness as his hands hold for yours.
“...A cooler nerd.”
“can i call you my nerd?”
You audibly snicker, unable to contain it once again.
“i’m trying, okay?” Cross adds with a laugh.
“That was so cringe,” you giggle. “But cute.”
Cross smiles at that.
“i didn’t hear a no.”
You smile back.
“Neither did I."