Chapter Text
You stare at the popcorned, dusty ceiling of your bedroom. Blankets and sheets splayed about on the bed but they never actually touch you. Thoughts of warmth and smoke, lingering hours after having indulged your heart.
You ached and yearned to see him, the pit in your stomach failing to be filled with chocolates or romantic movies and stories. It only makes it deeper and hungrier. The fake warmth of the heater drove you mad and you finally caved.
You went to see Grillby.
Even just thinking his name drops a ball of fire in your gut. It burns and boils, yet it feels right. You're hungry and tired, but you cannot sleep for more than a minute. He keeps you up.
The smell of him: smoke, herbs, spices and cinnamon, most of what he smells like makes no logical sense - but when passes you by close enough it is what you smell. The flickering and swaying glow of his flames. How his glasses glint and shine brightly with each movement he makes. His smile as he hands you your milkshake.
It drives you crazy. It frustrates you. You want to kiss him, but you can't. You want to hug him, cuddle him, see without his glasses. To see him blind as a bat when he searches his bedside table for his glasses with his hand. To wake up to his cooking - always something comforting and flavorful. To convince him to hire some workers and take a break for a change. Steal one of his shirts as a sleep shirt. Sit on his couch and fold yourself into his side. Watch stupid Mettaton shows and old movies. Take each moment with him being just as happy as you are. Go on honeymoon in his favorite country. Dance with him under the moonlight, giggling and smiling. Be with him as an old bitty and still enjoy being in his presence more than anything else in the entire universe. Ride with him on his motorcycle, pulling yourself closer to his back as the stars twinkle and smile down at you while you enjoy his heat. Draw patterns upon patterns on his back to calm him down. Go out and grab some sweets from Muffet's using your employee discount. Build a blanket dumpling and pass out cradled in his arms. Lose to him in card games - whether you're better at them than him or not - just to hear the proud and happy crackle of his flames, just to see that smile of his. Surprise him by buying him tons of things for any holiday then proceeding to pamper him with love. To indulge yourself and pull him into a kiss, one filled with every confession you made to him at night. See his blue blush, and to see his scars and pepper them with light kisses. To become an emotional pillar for him and to allow yourself to be completely open and heartfelt with him. To be in that perfect give and take relationship. . .
The pit in your stomach yawns, increasing it's ever-annoying depth. You sit up with a heavy huff. You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand and stand up. Toes curling into fluffy carpet as you do so. It's the direct opposite of Grillby's hardwood floors, polished to perfection.
You're slapped in the face with your thought continue to linger on him, but it does not surprise you. It's him.
Him with his soft eyes and velvety voice. Him with his impeccable fashion sense. Him with his need to be on time. Him and his penchant for making sure everything is clean and in its proper place. Him and his never silent self. Him and his kindness and warmth. Him and how he deals with rude people.
Him and you. . .
"Maybe seeing him again will help," you suggest to yourself in a whisper. You know it won't - it will only make it worse when you go away again.
Away from his warmth and comfort, into the cold, starless city night.
It only ever gets worse whenever you go, but when you finally do see him - it's as if the pit never existed in the first place. Everything is perfect for those few hours and you wouldn't have it any other way.
You step to your closet, grabbing a pair of jeans that were hiding in the top of your closet, along with a red long sleeve shirt. You pause a moment then grab your old leather jacket with a fluffy hood rim too. A pair of short-heeled black ankle boots are grabbed too. You exhale shakily as you start to change.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," you mutter. It's not hard to believe, you just don't want to admit so easily that you're so whipped.
A pain makes itself know and you trip while putting on your pants. You pause with that task and grasp at where your heart is with a wince. The pain was sharp and sudden with no explanation.
It's going to be a long night. . .
The bell chimes merrily with your arrival. Heat hugs you firmly with cheer as monsters and humans alike look to greet you. A chorus of drunk hellos from strangers. You're fairly sure half of them are drunk off their asses. Gaslight-esque lights glow peacefully above the chattering mass as they hang from the wooden rafters. The smell of expensive beers, drinks, and greasy comfort food overwhelm you. The wine red booth cushions contrast beautifully with the dark wood everywhere. Shimmering liquids in bottles of every background, shape, color and type rest on shelves behind the bar. Everything fits with the California bar theme and mood - even the people dining and drinking. Even you.
Noting that the bar is full, you take one of the tables with red tablecloths adorning them. Granted every table has a red tablecloth.
Not a second passes before a milkshake is set down in front of you, the crackle and snaps of fire catch you off guard. He's asking you a question you're sure of it. You look up and see him. Your breath catches when you find Grillby leaning right over you. He tilts his head in that cute way of his and it kills you immediately.
"Hi," you splutter in a moment of utter stupidity. He smiles kindly in greeting, his "silent" question still hanging in the air.
"Couldn't sleep, that's all," you remedy after a moment. Grillby seems satisfied with your answer when he nods. He goes back to work - if that actually includes entertaining Sans, you are unsure - leaving you alone.
You continue to watch him silently though. Your main hand holds the milkshake in an odd triangle from the top, you nudge your hand with your face as you drink. It's relaxing.
The rumble of laughter, the two televisions in the front and back corners of the bar, then the sound system blaring music - it effectively drowns your thoughts in absolute contentment. The warm bubbly feeling of soda rests in your stomach. You feel nothing but that fat, happy warmth filling the pit in your gut that was empty and starving minutes ago. And watching Grillby as he paces about behind the bar, pouring drinks and flickering cheerily at each joke cracked. The bubbles pop inside of you, before being replaced by millions of fiery sparks that fill you. Blankets of joy and ease rest on your shoulders, making you lean forward to make your elbows rest of the table.
You stare at Grillby, a soft smile gracing your face as you take in every detail of him. As if you never met him before in your entire life. It feeds that bubbly-mess in you. You make the unconscious decision to stay the rest of the night based on that warmth. So you stay there at the table as customers start to filter out. You drink the milkshake to the whipped cream every single time he refills it. It's too warm to be cold anyway.
It's just the two of you now. Sans having just left and everyone else left hours ago. This isn't an uncommon thing to happen, in fact, whenever you come late at night you stay until it's just the two of you. Alone in the middle of the city, it's not uncommon at all. So Grillby doesn't even question it, he just goes up to the front and flips the open sign to the closed side. Then he sits down across from you, both of his arms resting on the table - seeming to reach for you.
"How's your day been?" you ask him, moving the milkshake straw from your lips. You can't see Grillby's eyes behind his glasses at this angle - too much of a glare - you can't tell what he's thinking besides from the state of his flames. The flames that dance before your eyes, reflecting on every surface and lighting the entire bar. The flames that never stay silent for even a second.
"Busy," his voice is like fog rolling over stones: deep, slightly raspy, strong, velvety, and one you can never forget. Your back shudders slightly and you bite back a sigh, by physically biting down on your bottom lip. You nod in acknowledgment, not trusting yourself to say anything. A silence follows, but it's no uncomfortable - it just is.
You slump forward, pushing the chair back as you rest your head in a nest of hair, hood fluff, and your arms. He doesn't even seem taken aback, he simply lets you gaze up at him. Everything is warm and fuzzy as he reaches forward to move a piece of hair that had fallen out of your face. You stay still, breathing softly in the dull drone of music hiding behind his fire.
Neither of you say anything. . . nothing at all. A veil of rose drapes over the moment - coloring everything this romantic hope.
And you're filled with peace.
You're at peace with your situation, your feelings, your heart, your soul, this moment. Everything fits perfectly and makes sense. This is how it's supposed to be. . .
I love you.