Work Text:
Cherry blossom leaves were swaying lethargically in the air as a picturesque sunset reflected off his newly drawn tree house design. A majestic jungle tree base, with plenty of flowering azalea, or as his friends called it, 'azalea baba', countless accenting jungle vines, and even a very cosy cushion sofa. It was a perfect place to relax, with structural integrity, for his professor's sake, and homey touches, simplified and stylised in his quintessential art flair.
His designs looked incredibly simple, at first glance, but once one looked back again, the lavish pencilled details always made the sketches come to vivacious life.
One of the cherry blossom leaves fell on his notebook and woke him from his ephemeral stupor. He could post a drawing tutorial on his channel later; for now, he'll just pack up his supplies and head to his dorm.
Blake King, or just Blake colloquially, is an architectural student who gained a bit of traction while posting his drawing tutorials. He was a perfect blend of enthusiastic, skilled and just a tad too oblivious, and it seemed people online loved that sort of thing. Satisfied with the positive feedback and gradual design improvements, he just kinda kept posting, and it became his thing.
Well, sort of.
He wasn't super popular, not a celebrity by a long shot, but when he walked through campus, he had the unnerving feeling of being watched. It wasn't like being spied on, or frighteningly judged in anything he did; no, it felt kinda like admiration.
Hearts in eyes, pink cushioned amazement, or whispered words of praise. It was quite strange, but he always chalked it up to his growing following. Might as well enjoy the perks, right?
Wrong.
That's what he would've said months ago. Before the Pink Catastrophe— all his blue pillows were stained a bright pink, or the Gift Overstimulation—when he opened his closet, gifts poured out in endless waves, thankfully mostly soft plushies. His roommate Wykull kept getting increasingly irritated because their mail was clogged up with pink sweet-perfumed envelopes, filled to the margins, with increasingly desperate pickup lines and poorly worded, quite perverse flirting attempts.
1. Today, though, was too much.
"Wykull. I'm telling you, the professor has something against me!" he half-shouted indignantly, tiredly slumping into the living room sofa. Not even the cerulean pillows provided any comfort in his misery.
"Dude, your tree house was super cool; I don't get what he's on," Wykull, his best friend and only ally on the whole campus, patiently reassured him.
"Right? I even added the fancy ladders he loves to rant about so much, ugh, waste of my energy today" Blake curled up further on the sofa while Wykull swiftly slipped into the kitchen.
A few minutes later, he emerged with two cups of chamomile tea and a tray of cookies.
"Here, we can also watch those cute animal compilations if that helps you feel better?" He stood up and was just about to grab blankets for them when a new envelope slipped through the door.
Cherry red. With a teddy bear holding out a heart-shaped quartz sticker. Enough—
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Blake ignored it. Today was not a day for jokes; he just wanted to cuddle up in his favourite blanket and watch wholesome videos with his best friend.
And he did that, for precisely fifteen minutes until another envelope appeared, dusty pink, smaller print, more inconspicuous.
'Maybe they just really want to be my friend?'
Twenty minutes later, another. Fuchsia pink, in-between shades, but still tenacious in their beliefs, a little blocky cornflower peeking out.
'It's fine, only three envelopes, I can reuse them for miniatures later, and recycle the rest.'
The letters didn't stop. By the time they finished a few compilations and decided on a movie, a pile in their foyer was apparent.
Wykull noticed. He always did, especially with things closely related to his best friend, and with concern swirling in his amber eyes, he grabbed the topmost envelope, blush pink with a little heart stamp, and handed it to Blake wordlessly.
As one receives their failed assignment grade, with barely concealed trepidation, he slowly unwrapped the cherry-scented letter. While he softly traced the handwritten words, he felt as if the walls were shaking with anticipation, waiting for his reaction with every passing second. Weird. He must be getting sleepy.
Wy scootched closer, deeply curious what saccharine poems the secret admirer could be writing for his best friend.
There was a quick pause. A breath. A moment before—
"Are you a redstone torch? Because you make my sticky piston extend," Blake read out loud to the dorm, stifling his laughter for a second.
Just a moment after, they burst out laughing, and the whole room was filled with raucous laughter. His day suddenly became infinitely better when he learnt what Ender rods were, and he decided he should definitely install a game called Minecube or something like that.
The remainder of the evening was spent reading and rating the cringe pickup lines, bouts of boisterous laughter, and cheap takeout boxes.
Maybe this media thing isn't as bad as it seems. For now.
2. The next instance was a little weirder, somehow.
Blake had a lecture quite early today, so he decided to go grab a coffee on campus to fuel himself before having to listen to the grating voice of his professor.
He slowly approached the quaint shop, shivers running down his spine as he felt the starry eyes adoring him again. Blake looked around suspiciously, and against all odds, ignored his innate instincts and went inside.
"Just a latte to-go, please," he said to the barista with deep circles under his eyes, a blue visor and a brown cube-like name tag with 'Safurn' scribbled messily on it.
"Early lecture?" He asked, looking strangely at some peculiar customer sitting in the corner booth, trying to be covert, but instead being very obvious. Maybe a friend?
"Yeah, you know how it is," Blake said, and went to reach for his wallet when Safurn suddenly interrupted him.
"You don't have to; another customer has paid for your order already."
"Huh?" He pointed to the door, but before Blake could look properly, the strange figure was already gone, the doorbell chiming mockingly, laughing at his pathetic attempts.
Blake didn't catch much, except a glance at smooth raven hair and a glimpse of white bandages wrapped around his wrists. Strange.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
"Does this happen often?" he asked the barista inquisitively as he took his order cheerfully.
"You'd be surprised," Safurn remarked tiredly, turned around and went to serve other customers, nursing his left arm briefly.
With that, the doorbell mellifluously chimed behind Blake, unsuccessfully masking his timid smile and a newly acquired spring in his step.
When he finally sat in his lecture and had proper time to examine the cup, he noticed a little drawing of two initials, B & R, surrounded by dainty red hearts.
He didn't have the heart or courage to throw away the cup, so he kept it on his nightstand, along with a fresh pair of crisp white bandages.
3. The letters gradually stopped coming. Or, more precisely, slowed down in frequency day by day. Sometimes there was a stray petal pink envelope he didn't quite remember on his pillowcase, behind his keyboard, or even next to his toothbrush that one time…
'Man, I'm getting so scatterbrained.'
…but it didn't happen that often anymore.
Blake didn't miss them, not entirely, but he did keep a few, redstone torch pickup line included— for research purposes and humours' sake— in his confidential, overly sentimental drawer. He reread them sometimes, slowly letting his fingers skim the words, trying to feel the intent, to connect to those corny words, even if for a moment, to understand. He was an artist at his core, and there was artistry even in things misunderstood, or even some better left unsaid.
He saw potential in every pen stroke, in every doodle.
Sometimes he spent hours replying to them in his head, fantasizing.
Blake didn't let himself ponder the implications; he was simply enjoying the friendly gestures. Pink and blue clouded his dreamy haze deep into the night, glimpses of raven hair under cherry trees, the cloth-like feel of bandages gently grasping his arms, even the vetiver scent clinging to crispy black towels.
While pink started slowly permeating into his livelihood, and frequenting the café became his morning routine, Blake enjoyed his afternoons studying, drawing, filming content, and hanging out with Wykull when they had time.
His life did take a turn for the better recently, with his channel prospering wonderfully, many creators asking for art commissions, even if he found himself drawing cherry blossoms more than he realised— one user requested them a lot for some unknown reason; he didn't mind, though; he still snuck in some azalea babas and vines as a pure stylistic choice.
Not only did his life gradually accumulate a comfortable sense of fondness and fullness, but his secret drawer was also slowly getting more bothersome to close. Nostalgic paraphernalia, mostly consisting of aforementioned letters, clogged up the cabinet so much so that he had to clean out a separate one.
Every week it inspired a new sanctimonious artefact, and the newest edition—a snow white hoodie string, perfectly folded in the corner.
It beguilled him; memorising all the ridges and thread patterns by heart.
Acquiring it made for a spectacular day.
Maybe that's why, foolishly, he decided to download Minecraft. It was a quick, impulsive, late-night decision, and he would regret it even more if Wy didn't offer to teach him the basics.
At first it went quite slow; we don't talk about the waxed lightly weathered cut copper stairs incident, but after the awkward adjustments, numerous ideas for builds were basically stamped behind his eyelids, the new sketchbook he found on his desk and probably must've bought impulsively— was just proof of his burgeoning expertise.
A few months in, his humble art channel turned into seasoned building tutorials, and his notifications were blowing up his phone constantly.
One creator, in particular, piqued his interest. A dark and strange figure, with a deep timbre to his voice, seemingly quite— what's the word— enamoured with his tutorials.
Blake enjoyed his videos, even if they were quite straightforward ripoffs of his builds; the scripts and awkward lines he chose reminded him of someone. Strange.
'Similar commentary, I guess.'
No matter, he's going to place this azalea baba in the terracotta plant pot, add a few jungle vines, and for the perfect ending touch, a turquoise-cushioned sofa. Perfect.
His phone pinged.
He deleted the twenty tabs he used for research, looking through student photos of universities nearby— to find new friends, of course— and went to check the notification. The response came instantaneously.
Sure, I've been dying for a collab.<3
read 1:45 am
4. Meeting Roswo was like walking headfirst into a tornado, except nothing unpleasant was awaiting him; it was quite warm, soft, and most of the wind was just cherry blossoms and pink flower petals gently dragging Blake into a slightly too-tight hug.
From afar, he looked downright chilling and shadowy, but then he turned on his mic and the scariest thing Blake could hear was a voice crack. Those were spooky too, though.
They were currently goofing around on his private server, with the new video uploaded already, taking a quick break and asking silly late-night questions.
"If you were a Minecraft block—?" Blake began to ask curiously, suddenly interrupted.
"A block of bedrock or cherry wood planks in no particular order," came the confident reply, self-satisfied, mischievously raiding Blake's chests.
"Huh, somehow that makes perfect sense."
"And you, Blakey?" Roswo asked cloyingly, smirk evident in his tone.
"Enough of that nickname, and it'd probably be the flowering azalea baba, honestly, or maybe a diamond block," Blake hummed, wondering which other block he liked to build with as he subconsciously sorted through his quartz chest.
"Lmao- are you a diamond pickaxe? Because I'm harder than obsidian" Roswo had to take that chance, and of course it had to be with another one of those cringe-inducing jokes.
"Those words did not just come out of your mouth—" Blake was appalled, and simultaneously stifling his laughter.
"I wouldn't mind if you came in mine", came the quicksilver, witty response, always three steps ahead when it came to corny, joking flirtations.
'Does this man have a repertoire? How does he come up with these so quickly? And they seem so familiar too, for some reason…'
"Okay, enough, or I'll be forced to use one against you." Blake was giggling properly, but still unsuccessfully trying to remain composed.
"Ooh, enlighten me!" his blocky character snuck up behind Blake's, jumping around enthusiastically on the monitor.
"That was a threat; I'm not doing it willingly!" Not a chance. He'll probably embarrass himself in his sleepy state.
"You know what else you'll be doing willingly with me?" Roswo was not, in fact, kidding. Ouch. That's minus one for Blake's deteriorating dignity.
"Okay, okay, fine. You said the block was bedrock, yeah?" Blake was regretting every decision leading up to this, yet it was late, and he was genuinely having fun.
Also, Roswo was an online friend, right? They've been talking for months now, so it should be perfectly fine, yeah, sure. Not like heart arrhythmia can just occur from pickup lines. He's had enough experience with sinus tachycardia recently.
Back to the task at hand, no more absurd distractions.
He remembers, envisions it distinctly.
Flamingo pink envelope, with a little sunflower sticker in the corner, and initials scribbled in the corner, number 259, if he recalls correctly.
He would quickly go fetch it, but explaining the secret admirer situation to Wy was tiresome enough, and he's his best friend who lives with him.
'Imagine explaining it here, pure disaster. Like this abhorrent pickup line.'
Here it goes.
Breathe out. Breathe in.
"Are you bedrock? Cause I'm pretty sure I could make your bed rock tonight," Blake tries to put on some false bravado, but his voice cracks halfway, and by the time he finishes the line, both of them are stuck in a booming giggling fit.
"Are you offering?" came the wittingly quick response, smug, hilarious, and a little too close to genuine.
Though Roswo also mumbled something, a number. And if Blake listened even closer through the slight connection static, he would hear the number 259. However, it was 3 a.m.; he was obnoxiously exhausted, and a little more lost in thought.
"Hey man, we can end it here and finish tomorrow, yeah?" Roswo was a little concerned; he'd been left to stew in miserable silence for two deafening minutes.
"Oh yep, apologies, just feeling drowsy, that's all, sorry about that." Blake quickly apologised, his thoughts flying around him in an incongruous carousel.
"It's fine, sleep well, Blake, hope your pillow is extra warm for you!" came the familiar treacly reply, in a deep soothing timbre laced with sarcasm, and just a slight pinch of fondness, maybe.
'Huh, what is that supposed to mean?'
"You too, Rosy! Hope you get lots of good rest!" Blake replied cheerfully, and ended the hours-long call with a simple click.
And they both truly slept well, one cuddled up in his dorm bed, and the other lying right next to him, gently carding through his hair.
Curiosity usually killed the cat, but if Blake peeked a little, no one but him had to know.
His pillow was, in fact, quite comfortably warm that night.
5. He can't believe he's back here again. He's been making midnight trips recently, courtesy of his strange sleep patterns, and he always makes his way to this dorm. Wykull is concerned anytime he hears the doors shut at ungodly hours into the night, but Blake just chalks it up to a content creator's sleep schedule, and that works like a blessed charm every time.
Blake does sometimes find an additional packet of melatonin gummies on his nightstand, but he's sure that's just Wy being an amazing best friend and a roommate.
He's now sitting at the obnoxiously conspicuous stationery corner, soft, gloved hands skimming the colourful shades of pinky-red paper, eye-catching glitter pens, chaotic piles of love-themed stickers and an unassuming black journal on the nightstand.
Blake noticed an unusual lack of floral stickers in the little pile, usually spilling out in a meadow of disarray, so he notes for himself to bring some next time he's back.
He ventures around the room, examining every part as if it were his own, making sure to put everything back in its original place. Well, almost everything. Blake finds a spare pillowcase, sprayed with the familiar vetiver scent, almost as if waiting just for him, so he doesn't hesitate, takes a gentle whiff and swiftly packs it with him.
'No one will notice such a trifle missing, will they?'
The next thing he observes is the cluttered wardrobe.
The drawers are a mess as well, wrinkled clothes thrown anywhere but their place of origin, their silent cries spilling in a hectic rainbow tornado. Blake can't be helped, so he allows himself one measly drawer. He can organise just one and skillfully pretend nothing ever happened, like it was a random cleaning impulse into the night, or a kind cleaner came by and took pity upon the turmoil. It was nothing.
So he'd let it remain meaning nothing.
He'd prolong ignoring this as long as he could, just so he could have something.
Even if it meant ignoring everything else.
He was good at that; he's been told, so why not try a little longer?
At heart, Blake King was a very simple person; he liked art, architecture, Minecraft, shades of light blue, azalea babas, and his best friend— Wykull. He enjoyed cooking, watching cute animal compilation videos, and secretly buying overly soft blankets to cuddle in after a difficult day.
He always lived quietly, comfortably, selflessly, picking the correct options in life, giving everyone a second chance, keeping all of his personal issues to himself. He chooses to be good every day, always a considerate step towards unadulterated kindness.
He does all of this just to keep up the cheery persona. Just to find himself in every little piece of yesterday, to glue together the pages of past regrets, to write exciting new stories of tomorrow, all in that dear sparkly blue glittery ink. In that paltry crown doodle above his signature.
That's just who he is. Who he was. Who he will be.
He's always been sure of it.
But as he fastidiously flips the pages in the journal, reading the all-too-familiar curved font, he learns things about himself he didn't know before. Or perhaps never took care to notice.
Maybe the blue of his life was never as blue as he thought. It's an alarming thought, and it feels like the walls agree as they gently look over Blake's appalled countenance, silence filled with anticipation— permeating, asking.
He keeps rereading one page; maybe it deeply resonates with him, maybe it's the eerily recognisable font, or maybe it's the fact that someone sees him better than himself, that truly keeps his eyes glued to the page.
"He's never oblivious; he just lets people think so because it spares him the pain of explaining all of the things he's left hidden for a reason.
He thinks it's simple, choosing to be good, and that it's easy to ignore it, or look past him. Many people do, but in everyone being there, he is mistaken for thinking so.
There is something more about him. I want to know it, to love it, to hold it in my scarred palms for as long as he lets me. To look into his true sunlit face, to burn out into oblivion, as long as it means Blake King is the Sun, and I'm the cherry blossom begging for his slightest sunny caress.
I want to see him in ways no one's ever taken care to look, to break through the perfect façade, and hold the fragile, flawed fragments of his soul, mending them with my love and care.
I want to be his, and his truly, until the last cell in my body keeps his name like a wordless oath."
Blake rips the page out, uncaring of the subsequent consequences. The cerise ink is stained in a few spots, his newly bandaged palms harshly gripping the piece of paper, hastily shoving it in his bag, ready to reread it every day until he has it memorised by heart.
He reverently closes the journal and turns off the lights.
As he exits the door carefully, he hears a faint shuffle. Convinced he's just imagining things, he stalks away as faint breaths accompany his every timid step.
+1 It's a maddening Friday morning. The kind that's a recipe for disaster, a prologue for an explosion of chaos, the formidable calm before the storm. Blake feels a catastrophe brewing in his bones, slowly creeping in through the blinds. He senses it approaching swiftly, so he tries his best to get this day over with as quickly as possible.
Wykull is already gone, a flurry of swift, uncontrollable movements as he rushed to his early-morning lecture. Something about 'colour block telepathy'? Possibly anything involving guessing which material the professor will choose to rant about today, quite an unfortunate turn of events. His wager is on polished granite or andesite, based on the former tedious lecture on igneous rocks, traumatic memories, truly.
Yet, as Blake sees Wykull leaving the building, he's joyfully walking alongside the exhausted barista from earlier, Saffurno maybe?— and smiling— carefree, easy, overjoyed. Good for him.
The sight paints a small smile on Blake's lips, humming softly as he makes his breakfast, unhurried, since his lessons are in the afternoon, entirely calm in his demeanour.
That's an entirely new one. He hasn't felt such serenity for months; it's like the background noise, the static-y whispery notes of a deep-timbered voice have calmed their loving serenades.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
'Maybe I'll go grab some coffee and do some errands while I'm at it.'
They're running out of cereal, and anyone forbid Blake doesn't get a generous spoonful of Lucky Charms every morning. He will wage war on Wykull's beloved yellow rubber duckie, no smacks spared.
To avoid this hapless predicament and refill the quickly dissipating breakfast joys, Blake steps out of the apartment, ready to briskly hop into the nearest grocery store.
He presses the elevator button gently, waits a little for it to come up, and timidly steps in. The ride goes smoothly and swiftly, floors passing by in a vibrant, dizzying flash, and he's almost out of the building, feels the exit steadily approaching.
However, before he could bask in the soft, airy breeze and the satisfying susurrus of falling leaves, the elevator suddenly stops to a halt, a floor above the reception.
The voices steadily sneak their way back. His heart rate picks up; the air acquires a few notes of awaiting apprehension, new giddy anticipation, and upon further notice, those all-too-familiar rich notes of vetiver.
He knows the confrontation is near. He knows he can't escape it no longer, can't blissfully ignore the implications, can't hide his feelings behind a sheer wall made of perfumed pink envelopes and soft white bandages.
Blake still doesn't feel fully ready to step out of his own little ignorant bubble, but as the elevator doors leisurely begin to open, and he catches sight of that raven hair he's grown to adore, he realises perhaps it won't be so dreadful.
Roswo, the figure of his affections, steps beside him, all smooth edges and nervous smiles. Turns out, he's as anxious as Blake, if not more. Thank Minecraft.
"Hey," Blake says softly, admiring the man next to him, finally seeing him wholly, without a mask of shadows or behind a swift escape.
"Hi," Roswo responds similarly, rosy pink blush creeping on his cheeks. He isn't as self-assured in person; Blake can see the slight tremor in his fingertips.
"So, how did you—?" No matter, though; enough of trite meetings and overused tropes. He needs to know how this started, how it evolved, how he's found himself standing in an elevator with his stalker, only slightly nervous, desiring just for a second to hold his steely grey gaze.
"I have eyes everywhere, B. But in truth, I only have eyes for you," comes the familiar quip, clichéd and cloyingly genuine. Blake hates that such a cheap line still makes his heart skip a beat.
"Crimson red?" He asks, having already known the answer all too well. 414.
"Awe, so you did read them all!" His eyes light up, almost imperceptibly, but Blake can feel the admiration dripping from his words. He feels intent to catch it, even if unwilling to admit something so monumental.
'Please write more, I'd read them all if it meant I could get closer to you.' Was what Blake wanted to say, but talking is hard, and he's cluelessly fond of Roswo in ways he can't communicate yet, so he settles on:
"Oh please, reading 530 envelopes? You'd murder a whole rainforest just to write cringe pickups?" instead.
"I'd do anything to get closer to you." Those argent eyes settle on his dark brown ones. Blake thinks that spectacular view will be stamped on his eyelids every night before he falls asleep.
"How close? Like that one time you pet my hair in my sleep?" Blake quips, remembering the feel of cloth-like bandages stroking his hair, the sweet whispers of admiration, too heavy for them to acknowledge out loud, left dangling in the air.
He remembers the warmth, the comfort, the safety, the love he was wrapped up in, as Roswo fetched him a blanket when he started shivering. Blake's only regret was not doing something reckless, like grabbing his hand and pulling him closer, letting him stay the night.
"Oh please, I'll do worse." Roswo slowly regains his smooth demeanour, probably seeing the awe-struck expression on his face. But before Blake can steer the topic further or avoid confrontation, Roswo cuts him off.
"Also, you're not so innocent yourself, Blakey." He smirks cheekily, staring right through him as if reading his deepest secrets. There's no hiding it now; even the petal pink blush slowly creeping up Blake's neck isn't helping his case.
"What are you talking about?"
"When countless things mysteriously vanish, and your covers have a soft scent you recognise all too well— but not from your own room; it's a cause for concern, isn't it? Traces of warm vanilla, if I recall correctly." Roswo notes fondly, gradually breaking down the walls of shame Blake masterfully built block by block.
"That was one time." Blake finally relents with a deep sigh and a pointed look at the elevator buttons.
"You sorted all my socks based on ascending colour order."
There's no point denying it now; the wardrobe was a disaster. Even in a pitch-black room, anyone would notice the hectic tornado of tormented socks. There was no other choice. Not for him.
"Yeah cause they were all over the drawer, and their cries could be heard throughout the whole city," Blake notes with a faint smile forming on his lips.
"Alright, alright, you have a point." Roswo backs off, smiling, approaching just a little bit closer, basking in the comfortable warmth between them.
"Thank you for stating the obvious," Blake responds noncommittally, but he can't shake off his perception of their closeness.
An anxious stretch of silence passes. The elevator has been standing on the ground floor for fifteen minutes already, almost mocking their poor timing and lack of communication skills, but neither dares to step out. Maybe it's the underlying buzzing of anxiety, or the mutual understanding that this moment is far too monumental to walk away from. Lucky Charms can wait, for now.
"What's your shampoo? I couldn't find the exact match, and I searched all the stores here." Roswo finally breaks the dry spell, unable to bear the suffocating silence any longer.
"Oh yeah, I order online. Would you like a bottle?"
"Does it come with you washing my hair?" comes the awaited smooth reply, in that warm, deeper timbre. This time it's almost reverent, as if Blake washing his hair would be a dream come true.
"You know, for knowing so many pickup lines, you kinda suck at flirting." he huffs out a laugh, needing to break the tension somehow.
"Oh please, like I didn't see you swooning over 333. Multiple times." Roswo rolls his eyes and smiles directly at Blake. The sinus tachycardia really makes sense, especially seeing Roswo be so content with himself.
"You used azalea babas, how could I not?" Blake sincerely smiles in return, gazing into those lovingly limned moonlit eyes.
Another stretch of silence passes; the people must be exasperated with their lengthy elevator shenanigans— but this one is different. It isn't as cloyingly strangling, so filled with foreshadowed doom or a thunderstorm brewing beneath his eyelashes. This one is conclusive, dancing with jolts of finality, a live-wire of opened doors and overspilled feelings.
This quietude lets Blake King take his mask off for the very first time. Put down his proverbial crown, and with it, break those poorly concealed walls of anxiety, to finally quench his curiosity.
To let the curious cat free, to give him answers without the promise of a gilded noose around his neck.
He takes it. Slowly, timidly, with immense resolution lighting up the flawed fragments of his fragile soul.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in—
He reaches for the sacred page crumpled in his pocket, hands trembling uncontrollably, unwraps the paper with utmost care, and finally, gingerly holds it out to Roswo.
"Do you really believe all of this?" Blake asks, pernicious hope written all over his open countenance, dangerously sincere and delicate.
The page gets passed to Roswo, recognition shining briefly on his face, a soft smile overtaking his features as he rereads the newest, clandestine entry to his charcoal journal.
He reverently folds the paper back, gently opens Blake's hand, places the love letter in his palm, and carefully closes his fingers around it, all while earnestly gazing into his eyes. To others, it might seem strange: the layered admiration, the reciprocal stalking, the cringe and corny and so unsettlingly heartfelt messages spilt on cheap paper and expensive feelings, but to them, it all makes perfect sense.
"B, all of the entries I write are solely dedicated to you. Of course I think you're the greatest thing that's happened to me; you know better than to doubt that." Roswo worshipfully takes Blake's hands into his own and intertwines their fingers.
"But what if I'm not ready or—"
"I've waited this long, and I can wait longer; there's no rush." The reassurances come easily; months of indirectly orbiting around each other were enough. There's no more space for a slow waltz when they've barreled into each other like lightning and thunder, precariously inseparable.
A beautiful mess of chaos, spontaneously bad decisions and overly sentimental glittery fonts.
"Are you sure?" The last dregs of leaden burdens are falling off Blake's heart. He deserves to be happy, on his own terms, even in a messed-up way. He knows that. Even so, his hands are still slightly shaking in Roswo's clasp, and he needs to hear it again.
"I've never been sure of anything more, and if you don't believe me, then you need to reread those 531 letters you have," Roswo flashes that dazzling smile again, and Blake suddenly feels like Selene's beloved Endymion, all wrapped up in his endless, loving comfort.
"531?" He only remembers 530, the last one being the amaranth envelope with an oxblood rose doodle, now lovingly folded in his confidential drawer.
"Check your pocket." Roswo winks and waits patiently for Blake's reaction.
He pulls out the newest letter, a soothing tone of lavender, with their initials in the corner and a singular question mark sticker on top. Opening the envelope, he finds a concise line written in loopy cursive writing. Sparkly pink pen, undoubtedly.
It reads words that make Blake's head spin delightfully, and his heart rate skyrocket to outer space and then back.
"Beloved Blake King,
may I have the privilege of being your boyfriend?"
Roswo looks uncertain for just a second, and Blake darkly basks in it, knowing he's reduced his arrogant stalker into an unsure blubber.
He doesn't hesitate for long, though, as he brings his lips to Roswo's cheek and whispers a solid 'yes' against his ear before he kisses him properly. Softly. Reverently. Pouring out all the secrets he's been hiding, laying down his crown and walls, letting his emotions free, not alone anymore, to deal with them later.
Light blue blends seamlessly with pastel pink, and the passive-aggressive noises of other tenants are blocked by innocuously dear lavender hearts floating all around them.
As Blake and Roswo head out of the elevator, eventually— give them a moment; their hands are fondly intertwined and souls interwoven by an unbreakable string.
They're heading to get coffee for their first date, a strange order of events, but is anyone really surprised? They've taken almost all of the steps backwards. All with coloured papers and surreptitious glances, their future is just beginning to bloom.
And as they walk side by side, through the cherry blossom petals and razzling sunshine, only little tidbits of their giddy conversation can be heard from here.
"How did you stay for so long?"
"I rented an apartment near yours, you know."
"You still have the keys?"
"Yeah, you know I do."
"Great, let's go later. <3"
—
+2 Safe to say, Wykull did not sleep well that night; send my guy some NyQuil :(, he's worried sick for his missing roommate--no messages answered, not even left on read.
After a few minutes, Safurn— with a little blue heart and a planet emoji nickname, don't tell him—sends him a picture of Roswo's celebration message, a photo of his and Blake's hands tangled on top of white soft bedsheets.
After that, Wykull sleeps with a content smile on his face. No NyQuil needed. <3