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Kamo Choso is so fucking insufferable.
You hate his stupid face. His stupid grin. His stupid preaching about niche songs that are extremely mainstream. Most of all, you hate how disgustingly listenable his music is, and how unnecessarily sweet it is that he uses your voice as his producer tag. He's an annoying know-it-all prick, an aspiring musician among the millions of others, and your favorite person to be around.
You argue with him when he spoils your movie night picks, tease him about his edgy songwriting, dunk on his attempts at nonchalance — which come off extremely cringe worthy to you yet seemingly work on others — and keep showing up anyway. You're at his DJ gigs wincing when he amps up the bass, in the crowd when he performs at the local bar for people who are way too drunk to process music, begrudgingly listening to his rants on pop culture and what counts as "real" cinema.
You should've kept your distance from Kamo, especially after he sent his last roommate running with the late night screamos, but you were a broke college student in need of a place to stay, and sharing rent with an ass was way cheaper than any of your other options.
You tell yourself that's why you stay around.
You both know that's the most obvious lie you've ever told, because you're sitting between his legs while he mixes his next song in some crappy music software. You screw with his notes every now and then, just to see him make his obnoxiously adorable pouty face.
"Stop it. This is supposed to be all brooding, and your major seventh isn't helping." He grumbles, peeling your hand from his keyboard and pinching your waist. You bite back a giggle as you squirm.
"What? I didn't do anything." You say, your voice all false innocence and poorly masked mischievousness. He huffs and mumbles something incoherent under his breath, but doesn't argue his point any further. He knows that you know that he adores that dumb almost grin that tugs at your lips whenever you get away with teasing him.
You repeat this until the sun has long since sunk beneath the horizon, and his room — which becomes increasingly populated by your things as the days go by — becomes illuminated by a sole light source: his laptop.
You shift and lean further into his chest, his body leeching all the warmth from yours. His skin is always cold, it's as if he's just climbed out of an ice bath. He lets you snuggle into him wordlessly, attention fixed on his screen, though his free(er) hand busies itself with tracing patterns on your stomach.
You allow the quiet domesticity to last a second longer before breaking it.
"I'm thirsty." You declare.
"When are you not?" Kamo mutters, loud enough for you to hear, if only barely. You glare at him, tugging at his muscled arm that's slung around your waist, its weight welcome a minute ago but no longer.
"Wrong. The correct answer was—" you pull at his arm harshly— "'I'm sorry to hear that, baby. Do you want me to get you something to drink? How about I order us some takeout, get your favorite drink on delivery, and we cuddle on the couch?'"
"You'll probably shrivel up and die before any of that arrives, baby. Delivery driver's gotta twiddle his thumbs first." He smirks, pecking your cheek and tightening his grip on your waist.
You huff. "It's the thought that counts, Kamo. Now release me you inconsiderate jerk."
"Inconsiderate jerk?" He repeats, hooking his chin on your shoulder, "That's no way to describe the love of your life. Now stop moving around like a worm."
You're about to protest, keep the back-and-forth going, until he opens a new tab and starts punching in a delivery order for your go-to drink, details down to a tee. You don't recall telling him any of the specifics for your favorite. It's enough to shut you up.
"Thank you." You mumble. He kisses the crook of your neck in response, his silent way of saying 'just doing right by you'.
He'll argue, tease, and roll his eyes at your complaints, but he'll listen.
He always does.
Apparently, you do too.
You're in his bed, swathed in his duvet with your face buried in his pillow while the morning gleam trickles into the room, slow like honey dripping from the spoon you use for mixing your tea. Kamo's already up, though it's more-so due to his poor sleep schedule than anything else. You like the way he looks when it's just the two of you like this.
Your early morning drowsiness, his late night awareness.
He rewinds the beat again, and it simmers in the air for a breath before it happens.
You're humming along — quietly, subconsciously — to his unfinished mix and nonexistent lyrics. His breath catches in his lungs, snagged on the swelling of his heart. If he makes a habit out of playing his own songs around you after that, all under the guise of revising and improving them, then that's nobody's business except for his.
You listen to his music. Not only once or twice, but enough that you can hum along to all of his songs even when you've hardly crossed the barrier between sleep and awareness. And the knowledge of that fact is beyond enough to wrap him tighter around your finger.
No one needs to know how he screwed with his song's arrangement to fit a soft recording of your humming in the background. No one needs to know he left it as an instrumental because he loved your sleep-influenced lyrics too much to write his own. And no one, absolutely no one, needs to know that it's his favorite yet.
All because it embodies you in your rawest, purest form: in the dead of the morning, sun seeping into the corners of his rooms, and you, wrapped in the velvet of his sheets and scent of his cologne.
No one needs to know.
But he knows you know anyway.
You listen closer than anyone else, and you think he's impossibly annoying.
Annoying, but yours.
Always yours.