Work Text:
He shouldn’t overthink this. He knows what you want, after all—the same thing. He’s known what you want.
Desperately, the thought of kissing him keeps cropping up in your mind before being swiftly covered with noise, making all attempts for him not to find out your true desires. Since it's normally so easy to read you, it's like something is wrong with his powers.
He feels floaty and weightless, intensely so. This sense evades his control, like his awareness of your thoughts in the first place.
If he really tried, then he could focus on the movie just a few feet away. You’re sitting on a futon, your sides just barely grazing each other.
But there are more important matters.
Too soon and yet not soon enough, a commercial flashes on the screen. He has three minutes and forty-five seconds.
‘Hey.’
Your turn your head with a raised brow. And for no reason he can define, he looks away, down at his socks. With the contacts, seeing your skeleton isn’t a problem, so it’s hard to say why he can’t meet your eye.
“Yeah?”
Your voice makes the sensation much more intense.
Ah. I’m nervous.
“You know that I can’t read minds,” you chuckle. “So, I need you to tell me what’s on yours.”
Right.
Two minutes and zero seconds.
At least he can meet your inquisitive gaze with a forced neutral frown. He knows that he’s blushing—it’s most likely as plain to see as his hair.
Would it be pointless to ask to do it, knowing your thoughts? As far as he’s concerned, this type of thing shouldn’t be taken lightly. If he catches you by surprise, he can’t predict your reaction.
“Kusuo?”
He grimaces the slightest bit. He sort of lost track, but he can’t have more than a minute left. He glances at your lips, fleetingly out of habit.
Surely he’s done all sorts of things more nerve-wracking than this.
But more importantly, he has never felt more comfortable around another person.
Purposefully, he inches closer, so your shoulders aren’t just touching but your sides are pressed together. He says with the straightest face he can manage, ‘…Do you consent?’
Your lashes flutter. “Con-Consent?”
The vase sat beside the TV shatters as the movie resumes. He tenses alongside you, almost as surprised. He lost handle on his power for a second.
Humiliated, he raises his hand—not very high—and restores the vase. The movie has resumed; maybe he could use mind control and try again some other—
Suddenly the screen freezes as you pause it. He forgot this was on DVD.
Now, you share each other’s undivided attention. Instead of moving away, you’re right in front of him now, crossed legs touching his own. He doesn’t remember when proximity to you became an irrelevant discomfort.
It looks like you understand, beneath the worry. In fact he knows you do, because it’s all over your thoughts, but after psyching himself up for the past week—the three minutes and forty-five seconds was simply the final stretch—he refuses to back down.
‘…Kiss.’
You blink a few times, lips parting. “Y-Yes—Yes, I consent!”
‘That's being dramatic.’
“Says the one who just broke a vase,” you quip. He actually doesn’t have a response to that.
Your face inches closer to his, along with your hand, your fingers, brushing against his cheek. Feeling uncharacteristically panicked and not trusting his strength, he sits in place until you’re close enough to feel your breath.
His gaze flits down to your lips. This suspense is both unnecessary and killing him.
He inches close, and closes the distance as his heart leaps from his chest to his throat. His eyes shut, breathing in all the sensations, cherishing it while your thoughts have come to a screeching halt.
That’s concerning. He pulls away to make sure his powers didn’t affect you through some kind of transmission, but, searching your eyes, nothing is wrong.
No, everything is right as it should be.