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The whirring of the vacuum slows down, and then stops, after you turn it off. You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand and observe your hard work: you've removed the dishes from the end table, vacuumed the carpet, put away various miscellaneous items (well, put them on your bed, really), and even dusted the coffee table. It's a lot of effort for just one guy, but you don't want him to think you're a messy person.
As you're wheeling the vacuum back to its spot in the corner, you hear a knock on the door. That must be him.
You shove the vacuum in its spot and hurry to answer the door, giving yourself one last glance in the reflection of the TV screen before you do. You give your baggy, high waisted jeans (you would've worn sweatpants, but you weren't sure if that was too informal, so you decided not to) with your cute orange sweater a once-over, brushing the sweater down to make sure you look presentable. It's not like you're afraid of your guest, you just want to be a good host, is all. You take a deep breath, let it out, and answer the door.
“Hey, Choromatsu!” you greet, “I just finished getting ready.”
Once you lay eyes on him, your nerves disappear almost entirely. He looks nervous enough for the both of you, stuff as a board and wearing an expression that reminds you of a deer in headlights, like he didn't expect you to answer, or like he didn't expect you to exist in the first place. You step aside to let him in.
“Hello, (Y/N),” Choromatsu squeaks out, “Your, um, your apartment is very nice.”
“Aw, thanks,” you chuckle, even though you know, from living here for as long as you have, that that's not true. You're glad he thinks so, though. “Sit down, I was just about to put some popcorn in the microwave.”
He follows your instructions, but does so very carefully. He refuses to touch any furniture other than the couch, and when he sits down, it's like he's trying to touch the couch as little as possible. On the coffee table is the manga he lent you, and as you step behind the kitchen counter to grab a bag of popcorn, you see him staring at it.
“I finished it,” you say from the kitchen – it can hardly be called a kitchen, actually, it's barely a separate room from the living room – as you peel the plastic from the popcorn bag, “I thought it was really good, honestly. I thought Hana and Keiko’s romance was really sweet.”
“Oh, um,” Choromatsu clears his throat as you put the popcorn bag in the microwave, “I thought so too. At the start I thought they'd try to force Hana and Kichiro together, but then in chapter three when Hana says Kichiro is like a brother to her, I was so relieved. I'm glad the writers didn't go for such a contrived plot as the previous book. This plot feels a lot more sophisticated, and…”
Choromatsu pauses when he realizes he's been rambling, and the room is only filled with the sound of the popcorn in the microwave for a moment. A few pops turn into many all at once, and then there's only a few every second, their sound almost rhythmic. “Sorry,” he squeaks out, rubbing the back of his neck, his back still ramrod straight.
You laugh to yourself as you take the popcorn out of the microwave, holding it by the corner of the bag as to not burn your hand. “Don't apologize,” you reassure him as you reenter the living room, “What were you saying about the plot being sophisticated?”
“Well, I… I think that the previous book required a lot more suspension of disbelief. We're just supposed to believe that Hana can't recognize her own mother?” He's so caught up in his rambling that he doesn't notice you sitting down next to him. “I mean, seriously. And why does Hana just forgive her after all of that? It just feels rushed. Like they didn't really know what to do with these characters. Which is really a shame if you ask me, because Hana is such a compelling protagonist. Putting her to waste like that is a crime, really. But this one, it's –”
Choromatsu finally notices that you're sitting down next to him, criss-cross with the open bag of popcorn in your lap. He opens his mouth to speak a couple times, but ends up closing it again – he sort of reminds you of a fish, in this moment.
“What? Can I not sit down in my own home?” you joke, grabbing the remote to find the show you agreed on before he got here. You don't have a ton of interest in it, but it seems like something Choromatsu is pretty passionate about, so you conceded, as long as you got to pick the show next time.
“Well– of course you can! It's your home, and– and, you know, I think you should be able to sit wherever you want,” he declares.
“Wherever I want, huh?” you chuckle at his phrasing.
He stammers for a minute, eyes wide and cheeks beet-red, before he just scoffs. “Just put on the first episode,” he replies, petulant. You're not sure you've ever seen an adult man pout before, but you can't find any other words to describe the expression Choromatsu is making. You set the popcorn on the end table, out of your lap. You expect him to maybe relax a little more by the time you look back, but he hasn't, still straighter than a lamppost.
“You're gonna watch the whole thing sitting like that?” you comment, a grin still plastered on your face. “No way. C’mere.”
“I'm perfectly fine,” Choromatsu insists.
“Dude. Come on.” You roll your eyes and take hold of his arm, pulling him towards you. He lays against you as stiff as he was before, maybe even a little more. “I didn't invite you over to watch anime so you could study it.”
Choromatsu seems lost for words. He's not pouting anymore, but his lips are pressed tightly together. You realize, maybe a little too late, that his head is on your chest, and this is maybe the first time he's come in contact with a boob before. Trying to calm him down, you place a hand on his shoulder, which makes him flinch.
“Is this comfortable?” you ask, a little gentler than you've spoken previously.
“Yes,” he replies, matching your tone.
You scroll through the menu of endless streaming services before you find the one you're looking for. Then, you have to scroll through that to get to the show you've both agreed on, and, between the shitty, half-responsive remote and the slow internet in your apartment, that whole process takes about five minutes of endless button-pressing. Part of you wants to be frustrated with it all, but you've never seen Choromatsu so calm and so scared at the same time. He wants to be close to you, but he's terrified that you'll find him strange. And you do, sort of, but you like him despite – or maybe because of – that fact. You set the hand you previously placed on his shoulder on the top of his head, gently running your fingers through his thick, dark hair. It's a risk, but when he relaxes even further into you, you know it's worth it.
Finally, you press play on the first episode. It's hard to pay attention, though, when you're so focused on Choromatsu. You wonder what he's thinking right now. Is he scared? Nervous? Relaxed? All of those things at once? In your arms, Choromatsu is like a nervous, wounded animal, and you're doing everything you can to convince him that you're safe.
“This is nice,” he admits, his voice shaking a little, “I like this.”
You raise an eyebrow at the admission, but you allow your expression to soften when you remember that he has no experience in this department. He's flying blind, so to speak. “I'm glad,” you reply, “You know, I could order a pizza, or–”
“No!” he yelps, and then he clears his throat. “I mean. I'll be okay for a little while. Let's just, um, stay here and watch the show?”
You hear his message loud and clear, and turn the volume up, carding your fingers through his hair. You don't even care about the show that's on right now. You're just glad you ended up like this, the two of you in your own little world.